- 


f/3 


X- 


©   It    IE 


THE 


WORKS 


OF 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON,   LL.  D. 


WITH  AH 


ESSAY   ON  HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS, 


BY 


ARTHUR  MURPHY,   ESQ. 


SECOND    COMPLETE    AMERICAN    EDITION. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 


I. 


NEW-YORK: 
ALEXANDER  V.  BLAKE,  PUBLISHER. 

SOLD  BY  COLLINS,  KEESE  &  CO.,  NEW  YORK;   OTIS,  BROADERS  &  CO.,  BOSTON, 
THOMAS,  COWPERTHWAIT  &  CO.,  PHILADELPHIA. 

1844. 


SfacK 
Annex 


AN    ESSAY 

ON 

THE    LIFE    AND    GENIUS     u* 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON.    LL.  D. 


WHEN  the  works  of  a  great  writer,  who  has  be- 
queathed to  posterity  a  lasting  legacy,  are  pre- 
sented to  the  world,  it  is  naturally  expected,  that 
some  account  of  his  life  should  accompany  the 
edition.  The  reader  wishes  to  know  as  much  as 
possible  of  the  author.  The  circumstances  that 
attended  him,  the  features  of  his  private  charac- 
ter, his  conversation,  and  the  means  by  which 
he  rose  to  eminence,  becomes  the  favourite  ob- 
jects of  inquiry.  Curiosity  is  excited;  and  the 
admirer  of  his  works  is  eager  to  know  his  pri- 
vate opinions,  his  course  of  study,  the  particu- 
larities of  his  conduct,  and,  above  all,  whether 
he  pursued  the  wisdom  which  he  recommends, 
and  practised  the  virtue  which  his  writings  in- 
spire. A  principle  of  gratitude  is  awakened  in 
every  generous  mind.  For  the  entertainment 
and  instruction  which  genius  and  diligence  have 
provided  for  the  world,  men  of  refined  and  sensi- 
ble tempers  are  ready  to  pay  their  tribute  of 
praise,  and  even  to  form  a  posthumous  friend- 
ship with  the  author. 

In  reviewing  the  life  of  such  a  writer,  there  is, 
besides,  a  rule  of  justice  to  which  the  public  have 
an  undoubted  claim.  Fond  admiration  and  par- 
tial friendship  should  not  be  suffered  to  represent 
his  virtues  with  exaggeration ;  nor  should  ma- 
lignity be  allowed,  under  a  specious  disguise,  to 
magnify  mere  defects,  the  usual  failings  of  hu- 
man nature,  into*  vice  or  gross  deformity.  The 
lights  and  shades  of  the  character  should  be 
given  ;  and,  if  this  be  done  with  a  strict  regard  to 
truth,  a  just  estimate  of  Dr.  Johnson  will  afford 
a  le_sson,  perhaps  as  valuable  as  the  moral  doc- 
trine that  speaks  with  energy  in  every  page  of 
his  works. 

The  present  writer  enjoyed  the  conversation 
and  friendship  of  that  excellent  man  more  than 
thirty  years.  He  thought  it  an  honour  to  be  so 
connected,  and  to  this  hour  he  reflects  on  his  loss 
with  regret:  but  regret,  he  knows  has  secret 
bribes,  by  which  the  judgment  may  be  influ- 
enced, and  partial  affection  may  be  carried  be- 
yond the  bounds  of  truth.  In  the  present  case, 
however,  nntb-ng  needs  to  be  disguised,  and  ex- 
aggerated praise  is  unnecessary.  It  is  an  ob- 
servation of  the  younger  Pliny,  'in  his  Epistle  to 
his  friend  Tacitus,  that  history  ought  never  to 
magnify  matters  of  fact,  because  worthy  actions 
(a) 


require  nothing  but  the  truth.  Nam  nee  hiitoria 
debet  egredi  veritatem,  et  honeste  factis  veritas  siiffi- 
cit.  This  rule  the  present  biographer  promises 
shall  guide  his  pen  throughout  the  following  nar  • 
rative. 

It  may  be  said,  the  death  of  Dr.  Johnson  kept 
the  public  mind  in  agitation  beyond  all  former 
example.  No  literary  character  ever  excited  so 
much  attention ;  and,  when  the  press  has  teemed 
with  anecdotes,  apophthegms,  essays,  and  publi- 
cations of  every  kind,  what  occasion  now  for  a 
new  tract  on  the  same  threadbare  subject?  The 
plain  truth  shall  be  the  answer.  The  proprie- 
tors of  Johnson's  Works  thought  the  life,  which 
they  prefixed  to  their  former  edition,  too  unweildy 
for  republication.  The  prodigious  variety  of  fo- 
reign matter,  introduced  into  that  performance, 
seemed  to  overload  the  memory  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
and  in  the  account  of  his  own  life  to  leave  him 
hardly  visible.  They  wished  to  have  a  more 
concise,  and,  for  that  reason,  perhaps  a  more  sa- 
tisfactory account,  such  as  may  exhibit  a  just 
picture  of  the  man,  and  keep  him  the  principai 
figure  in  the  foreground  of  his  own  picture. 
To  comply  with  that  request  is  the  design  o" 
this  essay,  which  the  writer  undertakes  with  a 
trembling  hand.  He  has  no  discoveries,  no  se- 
cret anecdotes,  no  occasional  controversy,  no 
sudden  flashes  of  wit  and  humour,  no  private 
conversation,  and  no  new  facts  to  embellish  his 
work.  Every  thing  has  been  gleaned.  Dr. 
Johnson  said  of  himself,  "  I  am  not  uncandid 
nor  severe :  I  sometimes  say  more  than  I  mean, 
in  jest,  and  people  are  apt  to  think  me  serious."* 
The  exercise  of  that  privilege  which  is  enjoyed 
by  every  man  in  society,  has  not  been  allowed 
to  him.  His  fame  has  given  importance  even  to 
trifles ;  and  the  zeal  of  his  friends  has  brought 
every  thing  to  light.  What  should  be  related, 
and  what  should  not,  has  been  published  with- 
out distinction.  Dicenda  tacenda  locuti!  Every 
thing  that  fell  from  him  has  been  caught  with 
eagerness  by  his  admirers,  who,  as  he  says  in 
one  of  his  letters,  have  acted  with  the  diligence 
of  spies  upon  his  conduct.  To  some  of  them 
the  following  lines,  in  Mallet's  Poem,  on  verbal 
criticism,  are  not  inapplicable  : 


*Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson,  vol.  ii.  p.  465.  4to.  edir 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


"  Such  that  grave  bird  in  Northern  seas  is  found, 
Whose  name  a  Dutchman  only  knows  to  souiid ; 
Where'er  the  king  of  fish  moves  OH  before. 
This  humble  friend  attends  from  shore  to  shore; 
With  eye  still  earnest,  and  with  bill  inclined, 
He  picks  up  what  his  patron  left  behind, 
With  those  choice  cates  his  palate  to  revile, 
And  is  the  careful  Tibbald  of  a  Whale." 

After  so  many  essays  and  volumes  of  Johnsoni- 
ana,  what  remains  for  the  present  writer  ?  Per- 
haps, what  has  not  been  attempted ;  a  short,  yet 
full — a  faithful,  yet  temperate,  history  of  Dr. 
Johnson. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON  was  born  atLitchfield,  Sep- 
tember 7,  1709,  O.  S.*  His  father  Michael 
Johnson  was  a  bookseller  in  that  city;  a  man 
of  large  athletic  make,  and  violent  passions; 
wrong-headed,  positive,  and  at  times  afflicted 
with  a  degree  of  melancholy,  little  short  of  rrfad- 
ness.  His  mother  was  sister  to  Dr.  Ford,  a 
practising  physician,  and  father  of  Cornelius 
Ford,  generally  known  by  the  name  of  PARSON 
FORD,  the  same  who  is  represented  near  the 
punch-bowl  in  Hogarth's  Midnight  Modern 
Conversation.  In  the  life  of  Fenton,  Johnson 
says,  that  "  his  abilities,  instead  of  furnishing 
convivial  merriment  to  the  voluptuous  and  disso- 
lute, might  have  enabled  him  to  excel  among  the 
virtuous  and  the  wise."  Being  chaplair;  to  the 
Earl  of  Chesterfield,  he  wished  to  attend  that 
nobleman  on  his  embassy  to  the  Hague.  Col- 
lej  Gibber  has  recorded  the  anecdote.  "You 
should  go,"  said  the  witty  peer,  "if  to  your  many 
vices  you  would  add  one  more,"  "  Pray,  my 
Lord,  what  is  that?"  "  Hypocrisy,  my  dear  Doc- 
tor." Johnson  had  a  younger  brother  named 
Nathaniel,  who  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven 
or  twenty-eight  Michael  Johnson,  the  father, 
was  chosen  in  the  year  1718,  under  bailiff  of 
Litchfield;  and  in  the  year  1725  he  served  the 
office  of  the  senior  bailiff  He  had  a  brother  of 
the  name  of  Andrew,  who,  for  some  years,  kept 
the  ring  at  Smithfield,  appropriated  to  wrestlers 
and  boxers.  Our  author  used  to  say,  that  he  was 
never  thrown  or  conquered.  Michael,  the  fa- 
ther, died  December  1731,  at  the  age  of  seventy- 
six  ;  his  mother  at  eighty-nine,  of  a  gradual  de- 
cay, in  the  year  1759.  Of  the  family  nothing 
more  can  be  related  worthy  of  notice.  Johnson 
did  not  delight  in  talking  of  his  relations. 
"There  is  little  pleasure,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Piozzi, 
"in  relating  the  anecdotes  of  beggary." 

Johnson  derived  from  his  parents,  or  from  an 
unwholesome  nurse,  the  distemper  called  the 
king's  evil.  The  Jacobites  at  that  time  believed 
in  the  efficacy  of  the  royal  touch ;  and  accord- 
ingly Mrs.  Johnson  presented  her  son,  when  two 
years  old,  before  GLueen  Anne,  who,  for  the  first 
time,  performed  that  office,  and  communicated 
to  her  young  patient  all  the  healing  virtue  in  her 
power.  He  was  afterwards  cut  for  that  scrophu- 
lous  humour,  and  the  under  part  of  his  face  was 
seamed  and  disfigured  by  the  operation.  It  is 
supposed  that  this  disease  deprived  him  of  the 
sight  of  his  left  eye,  and  also  impaired  his  hear- 
ing. At  eight  years  old  he  was  placed  under 
Mr.  Hawkins,  at  the  Free-school  in  Litchfield, 


*This  appears  in  a  note  to  Johnson's  Diary,  prefixed  to 
the  first  of  his  prayers.  After  the  alteration" of  the  style, 
he  kept  his  birth-day  on  the  18th  of  September,  and  it  is 
accordingly  marked  September,  7-18. 


where  he  was  not  remarkable  for  diligence  01 
regular  application.  Whatever  he  read,  his  te- 
nacious memory  made  his  own.  In  the  fields 
with  his  school-fellows,  he  talked  more  to  him- 
self than  with  his  companions.  In  1725,  when 
he  was  about  sixteen  years  old,  he  went  on  a 
visit  to  his  cousin  C6rnelius  Ford,  who  detained 
him  for  some  months,  and  in- the  mean  time  as- 
sisted him  in  the  classics.  The  general  direc- 
tion for  his  studies,  which  he  then  received,  he 
related  to  Mrs.  Piozzi.  "Obtain,"  says  Ford, 
"some  general  principles  of  every  science:  he 
who  can  talk  only  on  one  subject,  or  act  only  in 
one  department,  is  seldom  wanted,  and  perhaps 
never  wished  for;  while  the  man  of  general 
knowledge  can  often  benefit,  and  always  please." 
This  advice  Johnson  seems  to  have  pursued  with 
a  good  inclination.  His  reading  was  ahvays  de- 
sultory, seldom  resting  on  any  particular  author, 
but  rambling  from  one  book  to  another,  and,  by 
hasty  snatches,  hoarding  up  a  variety  of  know- 
ledge. It  may  be  proper  in  this  place  to  men- 
tion another  general  rule  laid  down  by  Ford  for 
Johnson's  future  conduct:  "You  will  make  your 
way  the  more  easily  in  the  world,  as  you  are  con- 
tented to  dispute  no  man's  claim  to  conversation 
excellence:  they  will,  therefore,  more  willingly 
allow  your  pretensions  as  a  writer."  "  But," 
says  Mrs.  Piozzi,  "  the  features  of  peculiarity, 
which  mark  a  character  to  all  succeeding  gene- 
rations, are  slow  in  coming  to  their  growth." 
That  ingenious  lady  adds,  with  her  usual  viva- 
city, "  Can  one,  on  such  an  occasion,  forbear  re- 
collecting the  predictions  of  Boileau's  father, 
who  said,  stroking  the  head  of  the  young  satirist, 
'  this  little  man  has  too  much  wit,  but  he  will  ne-. 
ver  speak  ill  of  any  one?'" 

On  Johnson's  return  from  Cornelius  Ford, 
Mr.  Hunter,  then  master  of  the  Free-school  at 
Litchfield,  refused  to  receive  him  again  on  that 
foundation.  At  this  distance  of  time,  what  his 
reasons  were,  it  is  vain  to  inquire  ;  but  to  refuse 
assistance  to  a  lad  of  promising  o-cnius  must  be 
pronounced  harsh  and  illiberal,  ft  did  not,  how- 
ever stop  the  progress  of  the  young  student's 
education.  He  was  placed  at  another  school, 
at  Stourbridge  in  Worcestershire,  under  the 
care  of  Mr.  Wentworth.  Having  gone  through 
the  rudiments  of  classic  literature,  lie  returned 
to  his  father's  house,  and  was  probably  intended 
for  the  trade  of  a  bookseller.  He  has  been  heard 
to  say  that  he  could  bind  a  book.  At  the  end 
of  two  years,  being  then  about  nineteen,  he  went 
to  assist  the  studies  of  a  young  gentleman  of  the 
name  of  Corbett,  to  the  University  of  Oxford ; 
and  on  the  31st  of  October,  1728,  both  were  en- 
tered of  Pembroke  College ;  Corbett,  as  a  gentle- 
man-commoner, and  Johnson  as  a  commoner. 
The  college  tutor,  Mr.  Jordan,  was  a  man  of  no 
genius  ;  and  Johnson,  it  seems,  showed  an  early 
contempt  of  mean  abilities,  in  one  or  two  in- 
stances behaving  with  insolence  to  that  gentle- 
man. Of  his  general  conduct  at  the  university 
there  are  no  particulars  that  merit  attention,  ex- 
cept the  translation  of  Pope's  Messiah,  which 
was  a  college  exercise  imposed  upon  him  as  a 
task,  by  Mr.  Jordan.  Corbett  left  the  university 
in  about  two  years,  and  Johnson's  salary  ceased. 
He  was  by  consequence  straitened  in  his  circum- 
stances: but  he  still  remained  at  college.  Mr 
Jordan  the  tutor,  went  off  to  a  living;  and  was 
succeeded  by  Dr.  Adams,  who  afterwards  be 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


ill 


came  head  of  the  college,  and  was  esteemed 
through  life  for  his  learning,  his  talents,  and  his 
amiable  character.  Johnson  grew  more  regular 
in  his  attendance.  Ethics,  theology,  and  classic 
literature,  were  his  favourite  studies.  He  disco- 
vered, notwithstanding,  early  symptoms  of  that 
wandering  disposition  of  mind,  which  adhered 
to  him  to  the  end  of  his  life.  His  reading  was 
by  fits  and  starts,  undirected  to  any  particular 
science.  General  philology,  agreeably  to  his 
cousin  Ford's  advice,  was  the  object  of  his  am- 
bition. He  received,  at  that  time,  an  early  im- 
pression of  piety,  and  a  taste  for  the  best  authors, 
ancient  and  modern.  It  may,  notwithstanding, 
be  questioned  whether,%xcept  his  Bible,  he  ever 
read  a  book  entirely  through.  Late  in  life,  if  any 
man  praised  a  book,  in  his  presence,  he  was  sure 
to  ask,  "Did  youread  it  through?"  If  the  answer 
was  in  the  affirmative,  he  did  not  seem  willing  to 
believe  it.  He  continued  at  the  university  till  the 
want  of  pecuniary  supplies  obliged  him  to  quit 
the  place.  He  obtained,  however,  the  assistance 
of  a  friend,  and  returning  in  a  short  time,  was 
able  to  complete  a  residence  of  three  years.  The 
history  of  his  exploits,  at  Oxford,  he  used  to  say, 
was  best  known  to  Dr.  Taylor  and  Dr.  Adams. 
Wonders  are  told  of  his  memory,  and,  indeed, 
all  who  knew  him  late  in  life,  can  witness  that 
he  retained  that  faculty  in  the  greatest  vigour. 

From  the  university  Johnson  returned  to 
Litchfield.  His  father  died  soon  after,  Decem- 
ber 1731 ;  and  the  whole  receipt  out  of  his  ef- 
fects, as  appeared  by  a  memorandum  in  the  son's 
hand-writing,  dated  15th  June,  1732,  was  no 
more  than  twenty  pounds.*  In  this  exigence, 
determined  that  poverty  should  neither  depress 
his  spirit  nor  warp  his  integrity,  he  became  un- 
der-master of  a  grammar-school  at  Market-Bos- 
worth  in  Leicestershire.  That  resource,  how- 
ever, did  not  last  long.  Disgusted  by  the  pride 
of  Sir  Wolstan  Dixie,  the  patron  of  that  little 
seminary,  he  left  the  place  in  discontent,  and 
ever  after  spoke  of  it  with  abhorrence.  In  1733 
he  went  on  a  visit  to  Mr.  Hector,  who  had  been 
;iis  school-fellow,  and  was  then  a  surgeon  at 
Birmingham,  lodging  at  the  house  of  Warren,  a 
bookseller.  At  that  place  Johnson  translated  a 
voyage  to  Abyssinia,  written  by  Jerome  Lobo, 
a  Portuguese  missionary.  This  was  the  first 
literary  work  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Johnson.  His 
friend  Hector  was  occasionally  his  amanuensis. 
The  work  was,  probably,  undertaken  at  the  de- 
sire of  Warren,  the  bookseller,  and  was  printed 
at  Birmingham  ;  but  it  appears  in  the  Literary 
Magazine,  or  History  of  the  Works  of  the 
Learned,  for  March  1735,  that  it  was  published 
by  Bettesworth  and  Hitch,  Paternoster-row.  It 
contains  a  narrative  of  the  endeavours  of  a  com- 
pany of  missionaries  to  convert  the  people  of 
Abyssinia  to  the  Church  of  Rome.  In  the  pre- 
face to  this  work  Johnson  observes,  "  that  the 
Portuguese  traveller,  contrary  to  the  general 
view  of  his  countrymen,  has  amused  his  readers 
with  no  romantic  absurdities,  or  incredible  fic- 


*The  entry  of  this  is  remarkable,  for  his  early  resolu- 
tion to  preserve  through  life  a  fair  and  upright  character. 
"1732,  Junii  15.  Undecim  aureos  dcposui,  quo  die, 
quidquid  ante  matris  fumis  (quod  serum  sit  precor)  de 
paternis  l>onis  sperare  licet,  viginti  scilicet  libras,  accepi. 
Usque  adeo  mini  mea  fortuna  fingenda  cst  interea,  et  ne 
paupertate  vires  animi  languescaut,  ne  in  flagitia  egestas 
ndigat,  cavendum." 


tion.  He  appears,  by  his  modest  and  unaffected 
narration,  to  have  described  things  as  he  saw 
them ;  to  have  copied  nature  from  the  life  ;  and 
to  have  consulted  his  senses,  not  his  imagination. 
He  meets  with  no  basilisks,  that  destroy  with 
their  eyes;  his  crocodiles  devour  their  prey,  with- 
out tears  ;  and  his  cataracts  fall  from  the  rock, 
without  deafening  the  neighbouring  inhabitants. 
The  reader  will  here  find  no  regions  cursed  with 
irremediable  barrenness,  or  blessed  with  spon- 
taneous fecundity ;  no  perpetual  gloom,  or  un- 
ceasing sunshine:  nor  are  the  nations,  here  de- 
scribed, either  void  of  all  sense  of  humanity,  or 
consummate  in  all  private  and  social  virtues  : 
here  are  no  Hottentots  without  religion,  polity, 
or  articulate  language ;  no  Chinese  perfectly  po- 
lite, and  completely  skilled  in  all  sciences :  he 
will  discover,  what  will  always  be  discovered  by 
a  diligent  and  impartial  inquirer,  that,  wnerever 
human  nature  is  to  be  found,  there  is  a  mixture 
of  vice  and  virtue,  a  contest  of  passion  and  rea- 
son ;  and  that  the  Creator  doth  not  appear  partial 
in  his  distributions,  but  has  balanced,  in  most 
countries,  their  particular  inconveniences  by  par- 
ticular favours." We  have  here  an  early  spe- 
cimen of  Johnson's  mann  er ;  the  vein  of  think- 
ing and  the  frame  of  the  sentences  are  "mani- 
festly his:  we  see  the  infant  Hercules.  The 
translation  of  Lobo's  Narrative  has  been  re- 
printed lately  in  a  separate  volume,  with  some 
other  tracts  of  Dr.  Johnson's,  and  therefore 
forms  no  part  of  this  edition ;  but  a  compendious 
account  of  so  interesting  a  work  as  Father  Lo- 
bo's discovery  of  the  head  of  the  Nile  will  not,  it 
is  imagined,  be  unacceptable  to  the  reader. 

Father  Lobo,  the  Portuguese  Missionary,  em- 
barked, in  1622,  in  the  same  fleet  with  the 
Count  Vidigueira,  who  was  appointed,  by  the 
king  of  Portugal,  Viceroy  of  the  Indies.  They 
arrived  atGoa;  and,  in  January  1624,  Father 
Lobo  set  out  on  the  mission  to  Abyssinia.  Two 
of  the  Jesuits,  sent  on  the  same  commission,  were 
murdered  in  their  attempt  to  penetrate  into  that 
empire.  Lobo  had  better  success ;  he  sur- 
mounted all  difficulties,  and  made  his  way  into 
the  heart  of  the  country.  Then  follows  a  de- 
scription of  Abyssinia,  formerly  the  largest  em- 
pire of  which  we  have  an  account  in  history.  It 
extended  from  the  Red  Sea  to  the  kingdom  of 
Congo,  and  from  Egypt  to  the  Indian  Sea,  con- 
taining no  less  than  forty  provinces.  At  the 
time  of  Lobo's  mission,  it  was  not  much  larger 
than  Spain,  consisting  then  but  of  five  kingdoms, 
of  which  part  was  entirely  subject  to  the  Em- 
peror, and  part  paid  him  a  tribute,  as  an  ac- 
knowledgment. The  provinces  were  inhabited 
by  Moors,  Pagans,  Jews,  and  Christians.  The 
last  was,  in  Lobo's  time,  the  established  and 
reigning  religion.  The  diversity  of  people  and 
religion  is  the  reason  why  the  kingdom  was  un- 
der different  forms  of  government,  with  laws 
and  customs  extremely  various.  Some  of  the 
people  neither  sowed  their  lands,  nor  improved 
them  by  any  kind  of  culture,  living  upon  milk 
and  flesh,  and,  like  the  Arabs,  encamping  with- 
out any  settled  habitation.  In  some  places 
they  practised  no  rites  of  worship,  though  they 
believed  that,  in  the  regions  above,  there  dwells 
a  Being  that  governs  the  world.  This  Deity 
they  call  in  their  language  Out.  The  Christi- 
anity professed  by  the  people  in  some  parts,  is 
corrupted  with  superstitious  errors,  and  here- 


IV 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


si^s,  and  so  mingled  with  ceremonies  borrowed 
from  the  Jews,  that  little,  besides  the  name  of 
Christianity,  is  to  be  found  among  them.  The 
Abyssins  cannot  properly  be  said  to  have  either 
cities  or  houses ;  they  live  in  tents  or  cottages 
made  of  straw  or  clay,  very  rarely  building  with 
stone.  Their  villages  or  towns  consist  of  these 
huts ;  yet  even  of  such  villages  they  have  but 
few;  because  the  grandees,  the  viceroys,  and  the 
emperor  himself,  are  always  in  camp,  that  they 
may  be  prepared,  upon  the  most  sudden  alarm, 
to  meet  every  emergence,  in  a  country  which  is 
engaged  every  year  either  in  foreign  wars  or  in- 
testine commotions.  Ethiopia  produces  very 
near  the  same  kinds  of  provision  as  Portugal, 
though,  by  the  extreme  laziness  of  the  inhabit- 
ants, in  a  much  less  quantity.  What  the  an- 
cients imagined  of  the  torrid  zone  being  a  part 
of  the  world  uninhabitable,  is  so  far  from  being 
true,  that  the  climate  is  very  temperate.  The 
blacks  have  better  features  than  in  other  coun- 
tries, and  are  not  without  wit  and  ingenuity. 
Their  apprehension  is  quick,  and  their  judgment 
sound.  There  are  in  the  climate  two  harvests 
in  the  year  :  one  in  winter,  which  lasts  through 
the  months  of  July,  August  and  September; 
the  other  in  the  Spring.  They  have,  in  the 
greatest  plenty,  raisins,  peaches,  pomegranates, 
sugar-canes,  and  some  figs.  Most  of  these  are 
ripe  about  Lent,  which  the  Abyssins  keep  with 
great  strictness.  The  animals  of  the  country 
are  the  lion,  the  elephant,  the  rhinoceros,  the  uni- 
corn, horses,  mules,  oxen,  and  cows  without 
number.  They  have  a  very  particular  custom, 
which  obliges  every  man,  that  has  a  thousand 
c;ows,  to  save  every  year  one  day's  milk  of  all 
his  herd,  and  make  a  bath  with  it  for  his  rela- 
tions. This  they  do  so  many  days  in  each  year, 
as  they  have  thousands  of  cattle ;  so  that,  to  ex- 
press how  rich  a  man  is,  they  tell  you  he  bathes 
so  many  times. 

"  Of  the  river  Nile,  which  has  furnished  so 
much  controversy,  we  have  a  full  and  clear  de- 
scription. It  is  called  by  the  natives,  Abavi, 
the  Father  of  Water.  It  rises  in  Sacala,  a  pro- 
vince of  the  kingdom  of  Goiama,  the  most  fer- 
tile and  agreeable  part  of  the  Abyssinian  do- 
minions. On  the  Eastern  side  of  the  country, 
on  the  declivity  of  a  mountain,  whose  descent  is 
so  easy,  that  it  seems  a  beautiful  plain,  is  that 
source  of  the  Nile,  which  has  been  sought  after 
at  so  much  expense  and  labour.  This  spring, 
or  rather  these  two  springs,  are  two  holes,  each 
about  two  feet  diameter,  a  stone's  cast  distant 
from  each  other.  One  of  them  is  about  five 
feet  and  a  half  in  depth.  Lobo  was  not  able  to 
sink  his  plummet  lower,  perhaps,  because  it  was 
stopped  by  roots,  the  whole  place  being  full  of 
trees.  A  line  often  feet  did  not  reach  the  bot- 
tom of  the  other.  These  springs  are  supposed 
by  the  Abyssins  to  be  the  vents  of  a  great  sub- 
terraneous lake.  At  a  small  distance  to  the 
South,  is  a  village  called  Guix,  through  which 
you  ascend  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  where 
there  is  a  little  hill,  which  the  idolatrous  Agaci 
hold  in  great  veneration.  Their  priest  calls 
them  together  to  this  place  once  a  year :  and 
every  one  sacrifices  a  cow,  or  more,  according 
to  the  different  degrees  of  wealth  and  devotion 
Hence  we  have  sufficient  proof,  that  these  na- 
tions always  paid  adoration  to  the  Deity  of  this 
famous  rivor. 


"  As  to  the  course  of  the  Nile,  its  waters,  af- 
ter the  first  rise,  run  towards  the  East,  about  the 
length  of  a  musket-shot:  then,  turning  north- 
ward, continue  hidden  in  the  grass  and  weedu 
for  about  a  quarter  of  a  league,  when  they  re- 
appear amongst  a  quantity  of  rocks.  The  Nile 
from  its  source  proceeds  with  so  inconsiderable 
a  current,  that  it  is  in  danger  of  being  dried  up 
by  the  hot  season  ;  but  soon  receiving  an  increase 
from  the  Gemma,  the  Keltu,  the  Bransa,  and  the 
other  smaller  rivers,  it  expands  to  such  a  breadth 
in  the  plains  of  Boad,  which  is  not  above  three 
days'  journey  from  its  source,  that  a  musket- 
ball  will  scarcely  fly  from  one  bank  to  the  other. 
Here  it  begins  to  run  northward,  winding,  how- 
ever, a  little  to  the  East  for  the  space  of  nine  or 
ten  leagues,  and  then  enters  the  so-much-talkcd- 
of  Lake  of  Dambia,  flowing  with  such  violent 
rapidity,  that  its  waters  may  be  distinguished 
through  the  whole  passage,  which  is  no  less  than 
six  leagues.  Here  begins  the  greatness  of  the 
Nile.  Fifteen  miles  further,  in  the  land  of  Alata, 
it  rushes  precipitately  from  the  top  of  a  high  rock, 
and  forms  one  of  the  most  beautiful  waterfalls 
in  the  world.  Lobo  says,  he  passed  under  it 
without  being  wet,  and  resting  himself,  for  the 
sake  of  the  coolness,  was  charmed  with  a  thou- 
sand delightful  rainbows,  which  the  sunbeams 
painted  on  the  water,  in  all  their  shining  and 
lively  colours.*  The  fall  of  this  mighty  stream, 
from  so  great  a  height,  makes  a  noise  that  may 
be  heard  at  a  considerable  distance ;  but  it  was 
not  found,  that  the  neighbouring  inhabitants 
were  deaf.  After  the  cataract,  the  Nile  collects 
its  scattered  stream  among  the  rocks,  which  are 
so  near  each  other,  that  in  Lobo's  time,  a  bridge 
of  beams,  on  which  the  whole  imperial  army 
passed,  was  laid  over  them.  Sultan  Sequed  has 
since  built  a  stone  bridge  of  one  arch,  in  the 
same  place,  for  which  purpose  he  procured  ma 
sons  from  India.  Here  the  river  alters  its  course, 
and  passes  through  various  kingdoms,  such  as 
Amhara,  Olaca,  Choaa,  Damot,  and  the  king 
dom  of  Goiama,  and,  after  various  windings, 
returns  within  a  short  day's  journey  of  its  spring. 
To  pursue  it  through  all  its  mazes,  and  accom 
pany  it  round  the  kingdom  of  Goiama,  is  a  jour- 
ney of  twenty-nine  days.  From  Abyssinia,  the 
river  passes  into  the  countries  of  Fazulo  and 
Ombarca,  two  vast  regions  little  known,  inha- 
bited by  nations  entirely  different  from  the  Abys- 
sins. Their  hair,  like  that  of  the  other  blacks  in 
those  regions,  is  short  and  curled.  In  the  year 
1615,  Rassela  Christos,  Lieutenant-General  to 
Sultan  Sequed,  entered  those  kingdoms  in  a  hos- 
tile manner ;  but,  not  being  able  to  get  intelli- 
gence, returned  without  attempting  any  thing. 
As  the  empire  of  Abyssinia  terminates  at  these 
descents,  Lobo  followed  the  course  of  the  Nile 
no  farther,  leaving  it  to  range  ovei  barbarous 
kingdoms,  and  convey  wealth  and  plenty  into 
JEgypt,  which  owes  to  the  annual  inundations 


*  This,  Mr.  Bruce,  the  late  traveller,  avers  to  he  a  down- 
right falsehood.  He  says,  a  deep  pool  of  water  reaches  to 
the  very  foot  of  the  rock;  and  allowing  that  there  was  a 
peat  or  bench  (which  there  is  not)  in  the  middle  of  the 
pool,  it  is  absolutely  impossible,  by  any  exertion  of  human 
strength,  to  have  arrived  at  it.  But  it  may  be  isked,  can 
Mr.  Bruce  say,  what  was  the  face  of  the  country  io  tho 
year  1622,  when  Lobo  saw  the  magnificent  sight  which  lie 
has  described?  Mr.  Bruce's  pool  of  water  may  have  been 
formed  since ;  and  Lobo,  perhaps,  was  content  to  sit  dowu 
without  a  bench. 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


of  this  river  its  envied  fertility.*  Lobo  knows 
nothing  uf  the  Nile  in  the  rest  of  its  passage, 
except  that  it  receives  great  increase  from  many 
other  rivers,  has  several  cataracts  like  that  al- 
ready described,  and  that  few  fish  are  to  be 
found  in  it ;  that  scarcity  is  to  be  attributed  to 
the  river  horse  and  the  crocodile,  which  destroy 
the  weaker  inhabitants  of  the  river.  Something, 
likewise,  must  be  imputed  to  the  cataracts,  where 
fish  cannot  fall  without  being  killed.  Lobo  adds, 
that  neither  he,  nor  any  with  whom  he  conversed 
about  the  crocodile,  ever  saw  him  weep ;  and 
therefore  all  that  hath  been  said  about  his  tears 
must  be  ranked  among  the  fables  invented  for 
the  amusement  of  children. 

As  to  the  causes  of  the  inundations  of  the 
Nile,  Lobo  observes,  that  many  an  idle  hypothe- 
sis has  been  framed.  Some  theorists  ascribe  it 
to  the  high  winds,  that  stop  the  current,  and 
force  the  water  above  its  banks.  Others  pre- 
tend a  subterraneous  communication  between 
the  Ocean  and  the  Nile,  and  that  the  sea,  when 
violently  agitated,  swells  the  river.  Many  are 
of  opinion,  that  this  mighty  flood  proceeds  from 
the  melting  of  the  snow  on  the  mountains  of 
Ethiopia ;  but  so  much  snow  and  such  prodigious 
heat  are  never  met  with  in  the  same  region. 
Lobo  never  saw  snow  in  Abyssinia,  except  on 
Mount  Semen  in  the  kingdom  of  Tigre,  very 
remote  from  the  Nile ;  and  on  Namara,  which 
is,  indeed,  not  far  distant,  but  where  there  never 
falls  snow  enough  to  wet,  when  dissolved,  the 
foot  of  the  mountain.  To  the  immense  labours 
of  the  Portuguese,  mankind  is  indebted  for  the 
knowledge  of  the  real  cause  of  these  inundations, 
so  great  and  so  regular.  By  them  we  are  in- 
formed, that  Abyssinia,  where  the  Nile  rises,  is 
full  of  mountains,  and  in  its  natural  situation,  is 
much  higher  than  Egypt ;  that  in  the  winter,  from 
June  to  September,  no  day  is  without  rain ;  that 
the  Nile  receives  in  its  course,  all  the  rivers, 
brooks,  and  torrents,  that  fall  from  those  moun- 
tains, and,  by  necessary  consequence,  swelling 
above  its  banks,  fills  the  plains  of  Egypt  with 
inundations,  which  come  regularly  about  the 
month  of  July,  or  three  weeks  after  the  begin- 
ning of  the  rainy  season  in  Ethiopia.  The  dif- 
ferent degrees  of  this  flood  are  such  certain  indi- 
cations of  the  fruitfulness  or  sterility  of  the  ensu- 
ingyear,  thatit  is  publiclyproclaimedatCairohow 
much  the  water  hath  gained  during  the  night." 

Such  is  the  account  of  the  Nile  and  its  inun- 
dations, which  it  is  hoped  will  not  be  deemed  an 
improper  or  tedious  digression,  especially  as  the 
whole  is  an  extract  from  Johnson's  translation. 
He  is  all  the  time  the  actor  in  the  scene,  and  in 
his  own  words  relates  the  story.  Having  finish- 
ed this  work,  he  returnsd,  in  February  1734,  to 
his  native  city,  and,  in  the  month  of  August  fol- 
lowing, published  proposals  for  printing  by  sub- 
scription the  Latin  Poems  of  Politian,  with  the 
History  of  Latin  Poetry,  from  the  Era  of  Pe- 
trarch, to  the  time  of  Politian;  and  also  the 
life  of  Politian,  to  be  added  by  the  Editor, 
Samuel  Johnson.  The  book  to  be  printed 
in  thirty  octavo  sheets,  price  five  shillings. 
It  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  project  failed  for 


*  After  comparing  this  description  with  that  lately  given 
by  Mr.  Bruce,  the  reader  will  judge  whether  Lobo  is  to 
lose  t!iB  honour  of  having  been  at  the  head  of  the  Nile 
near  two  centuries  before  any  other  European  traveller. 


want  of  encouragement.  Johnson,  it  seems, 
differed  from  Boileau,  Voltaire,  and  D'Alembert, 
who  had  taken  upon  them  to  proscribe  all  mo- 
dern efforts  to  write  with  elegance  in  a  dead 
language.  For  a  decision  pronounced  in  so 
high  a  tone,  no  good  reason  can  be  assigned. 
The  interests  of  learning  require  that  the  dic- 
tion of  Greece  and  Rome  should  be  cultivated 
with  care;  and  he  who  can  write  a  language 
with  correctness,  will  be  most  likely  to  under- 
stand its  idiom,  its  grammar,  and  its  peculiar 
graces  of  style.  What  man  of  taste  would  will- 
ingly forego  the  pleasure  of  reading  Vida,  Fra.- 
castorius,  Sannazaro,  Strada,  and  others,  down 
to  the  late  elegant  productions  of  Bishop  Lowth? 
The  history  which  Johnson  proposed  to  himself 
would,  beyond  all  question,  have  been  a  valuable* 
addition  to  the  history  of  letters ;  but  his  project 
failed.  His  next  expedient  was  to  offer  his  as 
sistance  to  Cave,  the  original  projector  of  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine.  For  this  purpose  he 
sent  his  proposals  in  a  letter,  offering,  on  rea  • 
sonable  terms,  occasionally  to  fill  some  pages  • 
with  poems  and  inscriptions  never  printed  be- 
fore ;  with  fugitive  pieces  that  deserved  to  be  re- 
vived, and  critical  remarks  on  authors  ancient 
and  modern.  Cave  agreed  to  retain  him  as  a 
correspondent  and  contributor  to  the  Magazine. 
What  the  conditions  were  cannot  now  be 
known ;  but  certainly  they  were  not  sufficient 
to  hinder  Johnson  from  casting  his  eyes  about 
him  in  quest  of  other  employment.  According- 
ly, in  1735,  he  made  overtures  to  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Budworth,  Master  of  a  Grammar-school  at 
Brerewood,  in  Staffordshire,  to  become  his  as- 
sistant. This  proposition  did  not  succeed.  Mr. 
Budworth  apprehended,  that  the  involuntary 
motions,  to  which  Johnson's  nerves  were  sub- 
ject, might  make  him  an  object  of  ridicule  with 
his  scholars,  and,  by  consequence,  lessen  their 
respect  for  their  master.  Another  mode  of  ad- 
vancing himself  presented  itself  about  this  time. 
Mrs.  Porter,  the  widow  of  a  mercer  in  Birming- 
ham, admired  his  talents.  It  is  said  that  she  had 
about  eight  hundred  pounds;  and  that  sum  to  a 
person  in  Johnson's  circumstances  was  an  afflu- 
ent fortune.  A  marriage  took  place,  and  to  turn 
his  wife's  money  to  the  best  advantage,  he  prc 
jected  the  scheme  of  an  academy  for  education. 
Gilbert  Walmsley,  at  that  time  Registrar  of  the 
Ecclesiastical  Court  of  the  Bishop  of  Litchfield, 
was  distinguished  by  his  erudition,  and  the  po- 
liteness of  his  manners.  He  was  the  friend  of 
Johnson,  and,  by  his  weight  and  influence  en 
deavoured  to  promote  his  interest.  The  cele- 
brated Garrick,  whose  father,  Captain  Garrick, 
lived  at  Litchfield,  was  placed  in  the  new  semi- 
nary of  education,  by  that  gentleman's  advice. — 
Garrick  was  then  about  eighteen  years  old.  An 
accession  of  seven  or  eight  pupils  was  the  most 
that  could  be  obtained,  though  notice  was  given 
by  a  public  advertisement,!  that  at  Edial,  near 
Litchfield,  in  Staffordshire,  young  gentlemen  are 
boarded  and  taught  the  Latin  and  Greek  Lan- 
guages, by  Samuel  Johnson. 

The  undertaking  proved  abortive.  Johnson 
having  now  abandoned  all  hopes  of  promoting 
his  fortune  in  the  country,  determined  to  become 
an  adventurer  in  the  world  at  large.  His  young 
pupil,  Garrick,  had  formed  the  same  resolution  ; 

I         t  See  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  1736,  p.  413 


VI 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


and,  accordingly,  in  March,  1737,  they  arrived 
in  London  together.  Two  such  candidates  for 
fame,  perhaps  never  before  that  day  entered 
ihe  metropolis  together.  Their  stock  of  money 
wus  soon  exhausted.  In  his  visionary  project 
of  an  academy,  Johnson  had  probably  wasted 
his  wife's  substance ;  and  Garrick's  father  had 
little  more  than  his  half-pay.  The  two  fellow- 
travellers  had  the  world  before  them,  and  each 
was  to  choose  his  road  to  fortune  and  to  fame. 
They  brought  with  them  genius,  and  powers  of 
mind,  peculiarly  formed  by  nature  for  the  differ- 
ent vocations  to  which  each  of  them  felt  himself 
inclined.  They  acted  from  the  impulse  of  young 
minds,  even  then  meditating  great  things,  and 
with  courage  anticipating  success.  Their  friend 
Mr.  Walmsley,  by  a  letter  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Col- 
son,  who,  it  seems,  was  a  great  mathematician, 
exerted  his  good  offices  in  their  favour.  He  gave 
notice  of  their  intended- 'journey.  "Davy  Gar- 
rick,"  he  said,  "will  be  with  you  next  week; 
and  Johnson,  to  try  his  fate  with  a  tragedy,  and 
to  get  himself  employed  in  some  translation 
either  from  the  Latin  or  French.  Johnson  is  a 
very  good  scholar  and  a  poet,  and  I  have  great 
hopes  will  turn  out  a  fine  tragedy  writer.  If  it 
should  be  in  your  way,  I  doubt  not  but  you  will 
be  ready  to  recommend  and  assist  your  country- 
men." Of  Mr.  Walmsley's  merit,  and  the  ex- 
cellence of  his  character,  Johnson  has  left  a 
beautiful  testimonial  at  the  end  of  the  Life  of 
Edward  Smith.  It  is  reasonable  to  conclude, 
that  a  mathematician,  absorbed  in  abstract  spe- 
culations, was  not  able  to  find  a  sphere  of  action 
for  two  men  who  were  to  be  the  architects  of 
their  own  fortune.  In  three  or  four  years  after- 
wards Garrick  came  forth,  with  talents  that  as- 
tonished the  public.  He  began  his  career  at 
Goodman's-fields,  and  there,  monstratus  fatis 
Vespasianus!  he  chose  a  lucrative  profession, 
and  consequently  soon  emerged  from  all  his  dif- 
ficulties. Johnson  was  left  to  toil  in  the  hum- 
ble walks  of  literature.  A  tragedy,  as  appears 
by  Walmsley's  letter,  was  the  whole  of  his  stock. 
This,  most  probably,  was  IRENE  ;  but,  if  then 
finished,  it  was  doomed  to  wait  fora  more  happy 
period.  It  was  offered  to  Fleetwood,  and  reject- 
ed. Johnson  looked  round  him  for  employment. 
Having,  while  he  remained  in  the  country,  cor- 
responded with  Cave,  under  a  feigned  name,  he 
new  thought  it  time  to  make  himself  known  to 
a  man  whom  he  considered  as  a  patron  of  litera- 
ture. Cave  had  announced,  by  public  advertise- 
ment, a  prize  of  fifty  pounds  for  the  beet  poem  on 
Life,  Death,  Judgment,  Heaven,  and  Hell ;  and 
this  circumstance  diffused  an  idea  of  his  libe- 
rality. Johnson  became  connected  with  him  in 
business,  and  in  a  close  and  intimate  acquaint- 
ance. Of  Cave's  character  it  is  unnecessary  to 
say  any  thing  in  this  place,  as  Johnson  was  af- 
terwards the  biographer  of  his  first  and  most  use- 
ful patron.  To  be  engaged  in  the  translation  of 
some  important  book  was  still  the  object  which 
Johnson  had  in  view.  For  this  purpose  he  pro- 
posed tn  give  the  History  of  the  Council  of  Trent, 
with  copious  notes,  then  lately  added  to  a  French 
edition.  Twelve  sheets  of  this  work  were  print- 
ed, for  which  Johnson  received  forty-nine 
pounds,  as  appears  by  his  receipt  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Mr.  Nichols,  the  compiler  of  that  enter- 
taining and  useful  work,  the  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine. Johnson's  translation  was  never  com- 


pleted :  a  like  design  was  offered  to  the  public, 
under  the  patronage  of  Dr.  Zachary  Pearce; 
and  by  that  contention  both  attempts  were  frus- 
trated. Johnson  had  been  commended  by  tope 
for  the  translation  of  the  Messiah  into  Latin 
verse;  but  he  knew  no  approach  to  so  eminent  a 
man.  With  one,  however,  who  was  connected 
with  Pope,  he  became  acquainted  at  St.  John's 
Gate;  and  that  person  was  no  other  than  the 
well-known  Richard  Savage,  whose  life  was  af- 
terwards written  by  Johnson,  with  great  ele- 
gance, and  a  depth  of  moral  reflection.  Savage 
was  a  man  of  considerable  talents.  His  ad- 
dress, his  various  accomplishments,  and,  above 
all,  the  peculiarity  of  his  'misfortunes,  recom 
mended  him  to  Johnson's  notice.  They  be- 
came united  in  the  closest  intimacy.  Both  had 
great  parts,  and  they  were  equally  under  the 
pressure  of  want.  Sympathy  joined  them  in  a 
league  of  friendship.  Johnson  has  been  often 
heard  to  relate,  that  he  and  Savage  walked 
round  Grosvenor-square  till  four  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  in  the  course  of  their  conversation  reform- 
ing the  world,  dethroning  princes,  establishing 
new  forms  of  government,  and  giving  laws  to 
the  several  states  of  Europe;  till,  fatigued  at 
length  with  their  legislative  office,  they  began  to 
feel  the  want  of  refreshment,  but  could  not  mus- 
ter up  more  than  fourpence-halfpenny.  Sa 
vage,  it  is  true,  had  many  vices :  but  vice  could 
never  strike  its  roots  in  a  mind  like  Johnson's, 
seasoned  early  with  religion,  and  the  principles  of 
moral  rectitude.  His  first  prayer  was  composed 
in  the  year  1738.  He  had  not  at  that  time  re- 
nounced the  use  of  wine ;  and,  no  doubt,  occa- 
sionally enjoyed  his  friend  and  his  bottle.  The 
love  of  late  hours,  which  followed  him  through 
life,  was,  perhaps,  originally  contracted  in  com- 
pany with  Savage.  However  that  may  be,  theii 
connexion  was  not  of  long  duration.  In  the 
year  1738,  Savage  was  reduced  to  the  last  dis- 
tress. Mr.  Pope,  in  a  letter  to  him,  expressed 
his  concern  for  "the  miserable  withdrawing  of 
his  pension  after  the  death  of  the  Q,ueen;"  and 
gave  him  hopes  that,  "  in  a  short  time,  he  should 
find  himself  supplied  with  a  competence,  with 
out  any  dependence  on  those  little  creatures 
whom  we  are  pleased  to  call  the  Great.  The 
scheme  proposed  to  him  was,  that  he  should  re- 
tire to  Swansea  in  Wales,  and  receive  an  allow- 
ance of  fifty  pounds  a  year,  to  be  raised  by  sub- 
scription ;  Pope  was  to  pay  twenty  pounds.  This 
plan,  though  finally  established,  took  more  than 
a  year  before  it  was  carried  into  execution.  In 
the  mean  time,  the  intended  retreat  of  Savage 
called  to  Johnson's  mind  the  third  Satire  of  Ju- 
venal in  which  that  poet  takes  leave  of  a  friend, 
who  was  withdrawing  himself  from  all  the  vices 
of  Rome.  Struck  with  this  idea,  he  wrote  that 
well-known  poem,  called  London.  The  first 
lines  manifestly  point  to  Savage. 

''Though  grief  and  fondness  in  my  breast  rebel 
When  injured  Thales  bills  the  town  farewell; 
Yet  still  my  calmer  thoughts  his  choice  commend , 
I  praise  the  hermit,  but  regret  the  friend  , 
Resolved  at  length,  from  Vice  and  London  far 
To  breathe  in  distant  fields  a  purer  air  ; 
And  fixed  on  Cambria's  solitary  shore, 
Give  to  St.  David  one  true  Briton  more.' 

Johnson  at  that  time  lodged  at  Greenwicru 
He  there  fixes  the  scene,  und  takes  leave  of  his 
friend;  who,  he  says  in  his  Life,  parted  from 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


vu 


him  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  The  poem,  when 
finished,  was  offered  to  Cave.  It  happened, 
however,  that  the  late  Mr.  Dodsley  was  the 
purchaser,  at  the  price  of  ten  guineas.  It  was 
published  in  1738;  and  Pope,  we  are  told,  said, 
"  The  author,  whoever  he  is,  will  not  be  long 
concealed :"  alluding  to  the  passage  in  Terence, 
Ubi,  u&i  est,  diu  celari  non  potest.  Notwithstand- 
ing that  prediction,  it  does  not  appear  that,  be- 
sides the  copy-money,  any  advantage  accrued 
to  the  author  of  a  poem,  written  with  the  ele- 
gance and  energy  of  Pope.  Johnson,  in  Au- 
gust 1738,  went,  with  all  the  fame  of  his  poetry, 
to  offer  himself  a  candidate  for  the  mastership  of 
the  school  at  Appleby,  in  Leicestershire.  The 
statutes  of  the  place  required,  that  the  person 
chosen  should  be  a  Master  of  Arts.  To  remove 
this  objection,  the  then  Lord  Gower  was  induced 
to  write  to  a  friend,  in  order  to  obtain  for  John- 
son a  Master's  degree  in  the  University  of  Dub- 
lin, by  the  recommendation  of  Dr.  Swift.  The 
letter  was  printed  in  one  of  the  Magazines,  and 
was  as  follows : 

"Sm, 

"Mr.  Samuel  Johnson  (author  of  London,  a 
Satire,  and  some  other  poetical  pieces,)  is  a  na- 
tivj  of  this  county,  and  much  respected  by  some 
worthy  gentlemen  in  the  neighbourhood,  who 
are  trustees  of  a  charity-school,  now  vacant ;  the 
certain  salary  of  which  is  sixty  pounds  per  year, 
of  which  they  are  desirous  to  make  him  master  ; 
but  unfortunately  he  is  not  capable  of  receiving 
their  bounty,  which  would  make  him  happy  for 
life,  by  not  being  a  Master  of  Arts,  which,  by 
the  statutes  of  the  school,  the  master  of  it  must 
be. 

"Now,  these  gentlemen  do  me  the  honour  to 
think,  that  I  have  interest  enough  in  you,  to  pre- 
vail upon  you  to  write  to  Dean  Swift,  to  persuade 
die  University  of  Dublin  to  send  a  diploma  to 
me,  constituting  this  poor  man  Master  of  Arts 
in  their  University.  Theyhighly  extol  the  man's 
learning  and  probity,  and  will  not  be  persuaded, 
that  the  University  will  make  any  difficulty  of 
conferring  such  a  favour  upon  a  stranger,  if  he 
is  recommended  by  the  Dean.  They  say  he  is 
not  afraid  of  the  strictest  examination,  though 
he  is  of  so  long  a  journey;  and  yet  he  will  ven- 
ture it,  if  the  Dean  thinks  it  necessary,  choosing 
rather  to  die  upon  the  road,  than  to  be  starved 
to  death  in  translating  for  booksellers,  which 
has  been  his  only  subsistence  for  some  time 
past. 

"I  fear  there  is  more  difficulty  in  this  affair 
than  these  good-natured  gentlemen  apprehend, 
especially  as  their  election  cannot  be  delayed 
longer  than  the  llth  of  next  month.  If  you  see 
this  matter  in  the  same  light  that  it  appears  to 
me,  I  hope  you  will  burn  this,  and  pardon  me 
for  giving  you  so  much  trouble  about  an  imprac- 
ticable thing ;  but,  if  you  think  there  is  a  proba- 
bility of  obtaining  the  favour  asked,  I  am  sure 
your  humanity  and  propensity  to  relieve  merit 
in  distress  will  incline  you  to  serve  the  poor 
man,  without  my  adding  any  more  to  the  trou- 
ble 1  have  already  given  you,  than  assuring  you, 
that  I  am,  with  great  truth, 

"  Pir, 
"  Your  faithful  humble  servant, 

"GOWER." 

"  Trentbaiii  Aug.  Ut." 


This  scheme  miscarried.  There  is  reason  to 
think,  that  Swift  declined  to  meddle  in  the  busi- 
ness; and  to  that  circumstance  Johnson's  known 
dislike  of  Swift  has  been  often  imputed. 

ft  is  mortifying  to  pursue  a  man  of  merit 
through  all  his  difficulties ;  and  yet  this  narra- 
tive must  be,  through  many  following  years,  the 
history  of  Genius  and  "Virtue  struggling  with 
Adversity.  Having  lost  the  school  at  Appleby, 
Johnson  was  thrown  back  on  the  metropolis. 
Bred  to  no  profession,  without  relations,  friends 
or  interest,  he  was  condemned  to  drudgery  in 
the  service  of  Cave,  his  only  patron.  In  Novem 
her  1738  was  published  a  translation  of  Crou- 
saz's  Examen  of  Pope's  Essay  on  Man ;  "  con- 
taining a  succinct  View  of  the  System  of  the 
Fatalists,  and  a  Confutation  of  their  Opinions  ; 
with  an  Illustration  of  the  Doctrine  of  Free- 
Will;  and  an  Inquiry,  what  view  Mr.  Pope 
might  have  in  touching  upon  the  Leibnitzian 
Philosophy,  and  Fatalism.  By  Mr.  Crousaz, 
Professor  of  Philosophy,  and  Mathematics  at 
Lausanne."  This  translation  has  been  gene- 
rally thought  a  production  of  Johnson's  pen ; 
but  it  is  now  known,  that  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Carter 
has  acknowledged  it  to  be  one  of  her  early  per- 
formances. It  is  certain,  however,  that  John- 
son was  eager  to  promote  the  publication.  He 
considered  the  foreign  philosopher  as  a  man 
zealous  in  the  cause  of  religion ;  and  with  him 
he  was  willing  to  join  against  the  system  of  the 
Fatalists,  and  the  doctrine  of  Leibnitz.  It  is 
well  known  that  Warburton  wrote  a  vindication 
of  Mr.  Pope ,  but  there  is  reason  to  think  that 
Johnson  conceived  an  early  prejudice  against 
the  Essay  on  Man ;  and  what  once  took  root  in 
a  mind  like  his,  was  not  easily  eradicated.  His 
letter  to  Cave  on  this  subject  is  still  extant,  and 
may  well  justify  Sir  John  Hawkins,  who  inferred 
that  Johnson  was  the  translator  of  Crousaz. 
The  conclusion  of  the  letter  is  remarkable.  "1 
am  yours,  IMPRANSUS."  If  by  that  Latin  word 
was  meant  that  he  had  not  dined,  .because  he 
wanted  the  means,  who  can  read  it,  even  at  this 
hour,  without  an  aching  heart  ? 

With  a  mind  naturally  vigorous,  and  quick 
ened  by  necessity,  Johnson  formed  a  multiplici 
ty  of  projects  ;  but  most  of  them  proved  abortive. 
A  number  of  small  tracts  issued  from  his  pen 
with  wonderful  rapidity;  such  as  "M ARMOR 
NORFOLCIENSE  ;  or  an  Essay  on  an  ancient  pro- 
phetical Inscription,  in  Monkish  Rhyme,  dis- 
covered at  Lynn  in  Norfolk.  By  Probus  Britan- 
ntciw.''  This  was  a  pamphlet  against  Sir  Robert 
Walpole.  According  to  Sir  John  Hawkins,  a 
warrant  was  issued  to  apprehend  the  Author, 
who  retired  with  his  wife  to  an  obscure  lodging 
near  Lambeth  Marsh,  and  there  eluded  the 
search  of  the  messengers.  But  this  story  has 
no  foundation  in  truth.  Johnson  was  never 
known  to  mention  such  an  incident  in  his  life  ; 
and  Mr.  Steele  (late  of  the  Treasury)  caused 
diligent  search  to  be  made  at  the  proper  offices, 
and  no  trace  of  such  a  proceeding  could  be 
found.  In  the  same  year  (1739)  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  prohibited  the  representation  of  a 
tragedy,  called  GCSTAVUS  VASA,  by  Henry 
Brooke.  Under  the  mask  of  irony,  Johnson 
published  "A  Vindication  of  the  Licenser  fiom 
the  malicious  and  scandalous  Aspersions  of  Mr. 
Brooke."  Of  these  two  pieces  Sir  John  Haw- 
kins says,  "  they  have  neither  learning  nor  wit, 


vin 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


nor  a  single  ray  of  that  genius  which  has  since 
blazed  forth ;  but,  as  they  have  lately  been  re- 
printed, the  reader,  who  wishes  to  gratify  liis  cu- 
riosity, is  referred  to  the  fourteenth  volume  of 
Johnson's  works,  published  by  Stockdale.  The 
lives  of  Boerhaave,  Blake,  Barratier,  Father 
Paul,  and  others,  were  about  that  time,  printed 
in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine.  The  subscrip- 
tion of  fifty  pounds  a  year  for  Savage  was  com- 
pleted; and  m  July  1739,  Johnson  parted  with 
the  companion  of  his  midnight  hours  never  to 
see  him  more.  The  separation  was,  perhaps, 
an  advantage  to  him,  who  wanted  to  make  a 
right  use  of  his  time,  and  even  then  beheld  with 
self-reproach  the  waste  occasioned  by  dissipa- 
tion. His  abstinence  from  wine  and  strong  li- 
quors began  soon  after  the  departure  of  Savage. 
What  habits  he  contracted  in  the  course  of  that 
acquaintance  cannot  now  be  known.  The  am- 
bition of  excelling  in  conversation,  and  that 
pride  of  victory,  which,  at  times,  disgraced  a 
man  of  Johnson's  genius,  were,  perhaps,  native 
blemishes.  A  fierce  spirit  of  independence, 
even  in  the  midst  of  poverty,  may  be  seen  in 
Savage;  and,  if  not  thence  transfused  by  John- 
son into  his  own  manners,  it  may,  at  least,  be 
supposed  to  have  gained  strength  from  the  ex- 
ample before  him.  During  that  connexion  there 
was,  if  we  believe  Sir  John  Hawkins,  a  short 
separation  between  our  author  and  his  wife ; 
but  a  reconciliation  soon  took  place.  Johnson 
loved  her,  and  showed  his  affection  in  various 
modes  of  gallantry,  which  Garrick  used  to  render 
ridiculous  by  his  mimicry.  The  affectation  of 
soft  and  fashionable  airs  did  not  become  an  un- 
wieldy figure :  his  admiration  was  received  by 
the  wife  with  the  flutter  of  an  antiquated  co- 
quette ;  and  both,  it  is  well  known,  furnished 
matter  for  the  lively  genius  of  Garrick. 

It  is  a  mortifying  reflection,  that  Johnson, 
with  a  store  of  learning  and  extraordinary  ta- 
lents, was  not  able,  at  the  age  of  thirty,  to  force 
his  way  to  the  favour  of  the  public.  Slow  rises 
worth,  by  poverty  depress fd.  "He  was  still,"  as 
he  says  himself,  "to  provide  for  the  day  that  was 
passing  over  him."  He  saw  Cave  involved  in  a 
state  of  warfare  with  the  numerous  competitors, 
at  that  time  struggling  with  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine;  and  gratitude  for  such  supplies  as 
Johnson  received  dictated  a  Latin  Ode  on  the 
subject  of  that  contention.  The  first  lines, 

"  Urbane,  nullis  fesse  laboribus, 
Urbaue,  nullis  victe  calumniis," 

put  one  in  mind  of  Casimir's  Ode  to  Pope  Ur- 
ban: 

"  Urbane,  regura  miutime,  maxime 
Urbane  vatum." 

The  Polish  poet  was,  probably,  at  that  time  in 
the  hands  of  a  man  who  had  meditated  the  his- 
tory of  the  Latin  poets.  Guthrie  the  historian 
nad  from  July  1736  compossd  the  parliamentary 
speeches  for  the  Magazine ;  but,  from  the  begin- 
ning of  the  session  which  opened  on  the  19th  of 
November  1740,  Johnson  succeeded  to  that  de- 
partment, and  continued  it  from  that  time  to  the 
debate  on  spirituous  liquors,  which  happened  in 
the  House  of  Lords  in  February  1742-3.  The 
eloquence,  the  force  of  argument,  and  the  splen- 
dour of  language  displayed  in  the  several 


speeches,  are  well  known,  and  universally  nd 
mired.  The  whole  has  been  collected  in  two 
volumes  by  Mr.  Stockdale,  and  may  form  a  pro- 
per supplement  to  this  edition.  That  Johnson 
was  the  author  of  the  debates  during  that  period 
was  not  generally  known  ;  but  the  secret  tran- 
spired several  years  afterwards,  and  was  avowed 
by  himself  on  the  following  occasion:  Mr.  Wed- 
derburne  (now  Lord  Loughborough,)*  Dr.  John- 
son, Dr.  Francis,  (the  translator  of  Horace,)  the 
present  writer,  and  others,  dined  with  the  late 
Mr.  Foote.  An  important  debate  towards  the 
end  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole's  administration  be- 
ing mentioned,  Dr.  Francis  observed,  "  That 
Mr.  Pitt's  speech,  on  that  occasion,  was  the  best 
he  had  ever  read."  He  added,  "That  he  had 
employed  eight  years  of  his  life  in  the  study  of 
Demosthenes,  and  finished  a  translation  of  that 
celebrated  orator,  with  all  the  decorations  of 
style  and  language  within  the  reach  of  his  ca- 
pacity ;  but  he  had  met  with  nothing  equal  to 
the  speech  above-mentioned."  Many  of  the 
company  remembered  the  debate ;  and  some 
passages  were  cited,  with  the  approbation  and 
applause  of  all  present.  During  the  ardour  of 
conversation  Johnson'  remained  silent  As  soon 
as  the  warmth  of  praise  subsided,  he  opened 
with  these  words :  "  That  speech  I  wrote  in  a 
garret  in  Exeter-street."  The  company  was 
struck  with  astonishment.  After  staring  at  each 
other  in  silent  amaze,  Dr.  Francis  asked,  "How 
that  speech  could  be  written  by  him  ?"  "  Sir," 
said  Johnson,  "I  wrote  it  in  Exeter-street.  I 
never  had  been  in  the  gallery  of  the  House  of 
Commons  but  once.  Cave  had  interest  with 
the  door-keepers.  He,  and  the  persons  em- 
ployed under  him,  gained  admittance;  they 
brought  away  the  subject  of  discussion,  the 
names  of  the  speakers,  the  side  they  took, 
and  the  order  in  which  they  rose,  together 
with  notes  of  the  arguments  advanced  in  the 
course  of  the  debate.  The  whole  was  after 
wards  communicated  to  me,  and  I  composed  the 
speeches  in  the  form  which  they  now  have  in 
the  Parliamentary  Debates."  To  this  discovery 
Dr.  Francis  made  answer:  "Then,  Sir,  you  have 
exceeded  Demosthenes  himself;  for  to  say  that 
you  have  exceeded  Francis's  Demosthenes, 
would  be  saying  nothing."  The  rest  of  the 
company  bestowed  lavish  encomiums  on  John- 
son ;  one,  in  particular,  praised  his  impartiality  ; 
observing,  that  he  dealt  out  reason  and  elo- 
quence with  an  equal  hand  to  both  parties. 
"That  is  not  quite  true,"  said  Johnson;  "1 
saved  appearances  tolerably  well ;  but  I  took 
care  that  the  whig  dogs  should  not  have  the  best 
of  it"  The  sale  of  the  Magazine  was  greatly 
increased  by  the  Parliamentary  Debates,  which 
were  continued  by  Johnson  till  the  month  of 
March  1742-3.  From  that  time  the  Magazine 
was  conducted  by  Dr.  Hawkesworth. 

In  1743-4,  Osborne,  the  bookseller,  who  kept 
a  shop  in  Gray's-lnn,  purchased  the  Earl  of  Ox- 
ford's library,  at  the  price  of  thirteen  thousand 
pounds.  He  projected  a  catalogue  in  five  oc- 
tavo volumes,  at  five  shillings  each.  Johnson 
was  employed  in  that  painful  drudgery.  He 
was  likewise  to  collect  all  such  small  tracts  as 
were  in  any  degrees  worth  preserving  in  order 
to  reprint  and  publish  the  whole  in  a  collection 


•Afterwards  Earl  of  KosJin.    He  died  Jan.  i>  1805 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


called  "  The  Harleian  Miscellany/'  The  cata- 
logue was  completed:  and  the  Miscellany,  in 
1749,  was  published  in  eight  quarto  volumes. 
In  this  business  Johnson  was  a  day-labourer  for 
immediate  subsistence,  not  unlike  Gustavus 
Vasa,  working  in  the  mines  of  Dalecarlia.  What 
Wilcox,  a  bookseller  of  eminence  in  the  Strand, 
said  to  Johnson,  on  his  first  arrival  in  town,  was 
now  almost  confirmed.  He  lent  our  author  five 
guineas,  and  then  asked  him,  "How  do  you 
mean  to  earn  your  livelihood  in  this  town?"  "By 
my  literary  labours,"  was  the  answer.  Wil- 
cox, staring  at  him,  shook  his  head :  "  By  your 
literary  labours ! — You  had  better  buy  a  porter's 
knot."  Johnson  used  to  tell  this  anecdote  to 
Mr.  Nichols ;  but  he  said,  "  Wilcox  was  one  of 
my  best  friends,  and  he  meant  well."  In  fact, 
Johnson,  while  employed  in  Gray's-Inn,  may  be 
said  to  have  carried  a,  porter's  knot.  He  paused 
occasionally  to  peruse  the  book  that  came  to  his 
hand.  Osborne  thought  that  such  curiosity 
tended  to  nothing  but  delay,  and  objected  to  it 
with  all  the  pride  and  insolence  of  a  man  who 
knew  that  he  paid  daily  wages.  In  the  dispute 
that  of  course  ensued,  Osborne,  with  that  rough- 
ness which  was  natural  to  him,  enforced  his  ar- 
gument by  giving  the  lie.  Johnson  seized  a 
folio  and  knocked  the  bookseller  down.  This 
story  has  been  related  as  an  instance  of  John- 
son's ferocity ;  but  merit  cannot  always  take  the 
spurns  of  the  unworthy  with  a  patient  spirit* 

That  the  history  of  an  author  must  be  found 
in  his  works,  is,  in  general,  a  true  observation  ; 
and  was  never  more  apparent  than  in  the  pre- 
sent narrative.  Every  era  of  Johnson's  life  is 
fixed  by  his  writings.  In  1744,  he  published 
the  life  of  Savage ;  and  then  projected  a  new  edi- 
tion of  Shakspeare.  As  a  prelude  to  that  de- 
sign, he  published,  in  1745,  "  Miscellaneous  Ob- 
servations on  the  Tragedy  of  Macbeth,  with  Re- 
marks on  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer's  Edition ;"  to 
which  were  prefixed,  "  Proposals  for  a  new  Edi- 
tion of  Shakspeare,"  with  a  specimen.  Of  this 
pamphlet  Warburton,  in  the  Preface  to  Shaks- 
peare, has  given  his  opinion:  "As  to  all  those 
things,  which  have  been  published  under  the 
title  of  Essays,  Remarks,  Observations,  &c.  on 
Shakspeare,  if  you  except  some  critical  notes  on 
Macbeth,  given  as  a  specimen  of  a  projected  edi- 
tion, and  written,  as  appears,  by  a  man  of  parts 
and  genius,  the  rest  are  absolutely  below  a  se- 
rious notice."  But  the  attention  of  the  public 
was  not  excited  ;  there  was  no  friend  to  promote 
a  subscription ;  and  the  project  died,  to  revive  at 
a  future  day.  A  new  undertaking,  however, 
was  soon  after  proposed ;  namely,  an  English 
Dictionary  upon  an  enlarged  plan.  Several  of 
the  most  opulent  booksellers  had  meditated  a 
work  of  this  kind ;  and  the  agreement  was  soon 
adjusted  between  the  parties.  Emboldened  by 
this  connexion,  JohnsrtH  thought  of  a  better  ha- 
bitation than  he  had  hitherto  known.  He  had 
lodged  with  his  wife  in  courts  and  alleys  about 
the  Strand  ;  but  now,  for  the  purpose  of  carrying 
on  his  arduo'-'*-  undertaking,  and  to  be  nearer 
his  printer  and  fnend,  Mr.  Strahan,  he  ventured 
•  to  take  a  house  in  Gough-square,  Fleet-street. 


*Mr.  Boswell  says,  "The  simple  truth  I  had  from  John- 
non  himself.  'Sir,  he  was  impertinent  to  me,  an-1 1  boat 
nun;  bul  it  was  not  in  his  shop,  it  was  in  my  own  chain- 


He  was  told  that  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield  was 
a  friend  to  his  undertaking;  and  in  consequence 
of  that  intelligence,  h«  published,  in  1747,  The 
Plan  of  a  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language, 
addressed  to  the  Right  Honourable  Philip  Dormer, 
Earl  of  Chesterfield,  one  of  his  Majesty's  princi 
pal  Secretaries  of  State.  Mr.  Whitehead,  after 
wards  Poet  Laureat,  undertook  to  convey  the 
manuscript  to  his  Lordship:  the  consequence 
was  an  invitation  from  Lord  Chesterfield  to  the 
author.  A  stronger  contrast  of  characters  could 
not  be  brought  together ;  the  Nobleman,  cele- 
brated for  his  wit,  and  all  the  graces  of  polite 
behaviour;  the  Author,  conscious  of  his  own 
merit,  towering  in  idea  above  all  competition, 
versed  in  scholastic  logic,  but  a  stranger  to  the 
arts  of  polite  conversation,  uncouth,  vehement, 
and  vociferous.  The  coalition  was  too  unnatu- 
ral. Johnson  expected  a  Maecenas,  and  was 
disappointed.  No  patronage,  no  assistance  fol- 
lowed. Visits  were  repeated ;  but  the  reception 
was  not  cordial.  Johnson  one  day  was  left  a 
full  hour,  waiting  in  an  antichamber,  till  a  gen- 
tleman should  retire,  and  leave  his  lordship  at 
leisure.  This  was  the  famous  Colley  Gibber. 
Johnson  saw  him  go,  and  fired  with  indignation, 
rushed  out  of  the  house,  f  What  Lord  Ches- 
terfield thought  of  his  visiter  may  be  seen  in  a 
passage  in  one  of  that  Nobleman's  letters  to  his 
son.f  "There  is  a  man,  whose  moral  charac 
ter,  deep  learning,  and  superior  parts,  I  acknow- 
ledge, admire,  and  respect;  but  whom  it  is  so 
impossible  for  me  to  love,  that  I  am  almost  in  a 
fever  whenever  I  am  in  his  company.  His  figure 
(without  being  deformed)  seems  made  to  dis- 
grace or  ridicule  the  common  structure  of  the 
human  body.  His  legs  and  arms  are  never  in 
the  position  which,  according  to  the  situation  of 
his  body,  they  ought  to  be  in,  but  constantly 
employed  in  committing  acts  of  hostility  upon 
the  Graces.  He  throws  any  where,  but  dcwn 
his  throat,  whatever  he  means  to  drink:  and 
mangles  what  he  means  to  carve.  Inattentive 
to  all  the  regards  of  social  life,  he  mis-times  and 
mis-places  every  thing.  He  disputes  with  heat 
indiscriminately,  mindless  of  the  rank,  charac- 
ter, and  situation  of  those  with  whom  he  dis 
putes.  Absolutely  ignorant  of  the  several  gra- 
dations of  familiarity  and  respect,  he  is  exactly 
the  same  to  his  superiors,  his  equals,  and  his  in- 
feriors; and  therefore  by  a  necessary  conse- 
quence, is  absurd  to  two  of  the  three.  Is  it  pos- 
sible to  love  such  a  man  ?  No.  The  utmost  I 
can  do  for  him  is,  to  consider  him  a  respectable 
Hottentot."  Such  was  the  idea  entertained  by 
lord  Chesterfield.  After  the  incident  of  Colley 
Gibber,  Johnson  never- repeated  his  visits.  In 
his  high  and  decisive  tone,  he  has  been  often 
heard  to  say,  "Lord  Chesterfield  is  a  Wit 
among  Lords,  and  a  Lord  among  Wits." 

In  the  course  of  the  year  1747,  Garrick,  in 
conjunction  with  Lacy,  became  patentee  of 
Drury-Lane  playhouse.  For  the  opening  of 
the  theatre  at  the  usual  time,  Johnson  wrote 
for  his  friend  the  well-known  prologue,  which, 
to  say  no  more  of  it,  may  at  least  be  placed  on 
a  level  with  Pope's  to  the  tragedy  of  Cato.  The 
playhouse  being  now  under  Garrick's  direction. 


tDr.  Jolinson  denies  the  whole  of  this  story.     See  Bos 
well's  Life.  vol.  i.  p.  128.    Oct.  edit.  1804.    C. 
1  Letter  CCXII. 


^  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


Johnson  thought  the  opportunity  fair  to  think  of 
his  tragedy  of  Irene,  which  was  his  whole  stock 
on  his  first  arrival  in  town,  in  the  year  1737. 
That  play  was  according!}'  put  into  rehearsal  in 
January,  1749.  As  a  precursor  to  prepare  the 
way,  and  to  awaken  the  public  attention,  The 
Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  a  poem  in  imitation  of 
the  Tenth  Satire  of  Juvenal,  by  the  Author  of 
London,  was  published  in  the  same  month.  In 
the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  for  February,  1749, 
we  find  that  the  tragedy  of  Irene  was  acted  at 
Drury-Lane,  on  Monday,  February  the  6th,  and 
from  that  time,  without  interruption,  to  Monday, 
February,  the  20th  being  in  all  thirteen  nights. 
Since  that  time  it  has  not  been  exhibited  on  any 
stage.  Irene  may  be  added  to  some  other  plays 
in  our  language,  v/hich  have  lost  their  place 
in  the  theatre,  but  continue  to  please  in  the 
closet  During  the  representation  of  this  piece, 
Johnson  attended  every  night  behind  the  scenes. 
Conceiving  that  his  character  as  an  author  re- 
quired some  ornament  for  his  person,  he  chose 
upon  that  occasion  to  decorate  himself  with  a 
handsome  waistcoat,  and  a  gold-laced  hat  The 
late  Mr.  Topham  Beauclerc,  who  had  a  great 
deal  of  that  humour,  which  pleases  the  more  for 
seeming  undesigned,  used  to  give  a  pleasant  de- 
scription of  this  green-room  finery,  as  related  by 
the  author  himself ;  "But,"  said  Johnson,  with 
great  gravity,  "  I  soon  laid  aside  my  gold-laced 
hat,  lest  it  should  make  me  proud."  The  amount 
of  the  three  benefit  nights  for  the  tragedy  of 
Irene,  it  is  to  be  feared,  was  not  very  considera- 
ble, as  the  profit,  that  stimulating  motive,  never 
invited  the  author  to  another  dramatic  attempt. 
Some  years  afterwards,  when  the  present  writer 
was  intimate  with  Garrick,  and  knew  Johnson 
to  be  in  distress,  he  asked  the  manager  why  he 
did  not  produce  another  tragedy  for  his  Litch- 
field  friend  ?  Garriek's  answer  was  remarkable  : 
"When  Johnson  writes  tragedy,  declamation 
roars,  and  passion  sleeps:  when  Shakspeare 
wrote,  he  dipped  his  pen  in  his  own  heart" 

There  may,  perhaps,  be  a  degree  of  sameness 
in  this  regular  way  of  tracing  an  author  from 
one  work  to  another,  and  the  reader  may  feel  the 
effect  of  a  tedious  monotony :  but  in  the  life  of 
Johnson  there  are  no  other  landmarks.  He 
was  now  forty  years  old,  and  had  mixed  but  lit- 
tle with  the  world.  He  followed  no  profession, 
transacted  no  business,  and  was  a  stranger  to 
what  is  called  a  town  life.  We  are  now  arrived 
at  the  brightest  period  he  had  hitherto  known. 
His  name  broke  out  upon  mankind  with  a  de- 
gree of  lustre  that  promised  a  triumph  over  all  his 
difficulties.  The  Life  of  Savage  was  admired  as 
a  beautiful  and  instructive  piece  of  biography. 
The  two  imitations  of  Juvenal  were  thought  to 
rival  even  the  excellence  of  Pope ;  and  the  tra- 
gedy of  Irene,  though  uninteresting  on  the  stage, 
was  universally  admired  in  the  closet,  for  the 
propriety  of  the  sentiments,  the  richness  of  the 
language,  and  the  general  harmony  of  the  whole 
composition.  His  fame  was  widely  diffused; 
and  lie  had  made  his  agreement  with  the  book- 
sellers for  his  English  Dictionary  at  the  sum  of 
fifteen  hundred  guineas ;  a  part  of  which  was  to 
be,  from  time  to  time,  advanced  in  proportion  to 
the  progress  of  the  work.  This  was  a  certain 
fund  for  his  support,  without  being  obliged  to 
write  fugitive  pieces  for  the  petty  supplies  of  the 
day.  Accordingly  we  find  that,  in  1749,  he  esta- 


blished a  club,  consisting  of  ten  in  number  at 
Horseman's,  in  Ivy-Lane,  on  every  Tuesday 
evening.  This  is  the  first  scene  of  social  life  to 
which  Johnson  can  be  traced  out  of  his  own 
house.  The  members  of  this  little  society  were, 
Samuel  Johnson ;  Dr.  Salter  (father  of  the  late 
Master  of  the  Charter-House;)  Dr.  Hawker- 
worth  ;  Mr.  Ryland,  a  merchant ;  Mr.  Payne,  a 
bookseller,  in  Paternoster-row;  Mr.  Samuel 
Dyer,  alearned  young  man;  Dr.  Wm.  M'Ghie,  a 
Scotch  physician ;  Dr.  Edmund  Barker,  a  young 
physician  ;  Dr.  Bathurst,  another  young  physi- 
cian ;  and  Sir  John  Hawkins.  This  list  is  given 
by  Sir  John,  as  it  should  seem,  with  no  other 
view  than  to  draw  a  spiteful  and  malevolent  cha- 
racter of  almost  every  one  of  them.  Mr.  Dyer, 
whom  Sir  John  says  he  loved  with  the  affection 
of  a  brother,  meets  with  the  harshest  treatment, 
because  it  was  his  maxim,  that  to  live  in  peace 
with  mankind,  and  in  a  temper  to  do  good  offices, 
was  the  most  essential  part  of  our  duty.  That  no- 
tion of  moral  goodness  gave  umbrage  to  Sir  John 
Hawkins,  and  drew  down  upon  the  memory  of 
his  friend  the  bitterest  imputations.  Mr.  Dyer, 
however,  was  admired  and  loved  through  life. 
He  was  a  man  of  literature.  Johnson  loved  to 
enter  with  him  into  a  discussion  of  metaphysical, 
moral,  and  critical  subjects;  in  those  conflicts, 
exercising  his  talents,  and,  according  to  his  cus- 
tom, always  contending  for  victory.  Dr.  Ba- 
thurst was  the  person  on  whom  Johnson  fixed 
his  affection.  He  hardly  ever  spoke  of  him 
without  tears  in  his  eyes.  It  was  from  him,  who 
was  a  native  of  Jamaica,  that  Johnson  received 
into  his  service  Frank,*  the  black  servant,  whom, 
on  account  of  his  master,  he  valued  to  the  end 
of  his  life.  At  the  time  of  instituting  the  club  in 
Ivy-Lane,  Johnson  had  projected  the  Rambler. 
The  title  was  most  probably  suggested  by  the 
Wanderer;  a  poem  which  he  mentions  with  the 
warmest  praise,  in  the  Life  of  Savage.  With 
the  same  spirit  of  independence  with  which  he 
wished  to  live,  it  was  now  his  pride  to  write. 
He  communicated  his  plan  to  none  of  his  friends; 
he  desired  no  assistance,  relying  entirely  on  his 
own  fund,  and  the  protection  of  the  Divine  Be 
ing,  which  he  implored  in  a  solemn  form  oi 
prayer,  composed  by  himself  for  the  occasion. 
Having  formed  a  resolution  to  undertake  a  work 
that  might  be  of  use  and  honour  to  his  country, 
he  thought,  with  Milton,  that  this  was  not  to  be 
obtained  "  but  by  devout  prayer  to  that  Eternal 
Spirit  that  can  enrich  with  all  utterance  and 
knowledge,  and  send  out  his  seraphim  with  the 
hallowed  fire  of  his  altar,  to  touch  and  purify  the 
lips  of  whom  he  pleases." 

Having  invoked  the  special  protection  of  Hea- 
ven, and  by  that  act  of  piety  fortified  his  mind, 
he  began  the  great  work  of  the  Rambler.  The 
first  number  was  published  on  Tuesday,  March 
the  20th,  1750 ;  and  from«hat  time  was  continued 
regularly  every  Tuesday  and  Saturday,  for  the 
space  of  two  years,  when  it  finally  closed,  on 
Saturday,  March  14,  1752.  As  it  began  with 
motives  of  piety,  so  it  appears  that  the  same  reli- 
gious spirit  glowed  with  unabating  ardour  to  the 
last.  His  conclusion  is :  "  The  Essays  profess- 
edly serious,  if  I  have  been  able  to  execute  my 
own  intentions,  will  be  found  exactly  conforma- 
ble to  the  precepts  of  Christianity,  without  any 


*See  Gent.  May.  vol.  Jxxi.  p.  190. 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


XI 


accommodation  to  the  licentiousness  and  levity 
of  the  present  age.  I  therefore  look  back  on 
this  part  of  my  work  with  pleasure,  which  no 
man  shall  diminish  or  augment  I  shall  never 
envy  the  honours  which  wit  and  learning  obtain 
in  any  other  cause,  if  I  can  be  numbered  among 
the  writers  who  have  given  ardour  to  virtue,  and 
confidence  to  truth."  The  whole  number  of  Es- 
says amounted  to  two  hundred  arid  eight  Ad- 
dison's,  in  the  Spectator,  are  more  in  number, 
but  not  half  in  point  of  quantity :  Addison  was 
not  bound  to  publish  on  stated  days ;  he  could 
watch  the  ebb  and  flow  of  bis  genius,  and  send 
his  paper  to  the  press  when  his  own  taste  was 
satisfied.  Johnson's  case  was  fery  different 
lie  wrote  singly  and  alone.  In  the  whole  pro- 
gress of  the  work  he  did  not  receive  more  than 
ten  essays.  This  was  a  scanty  contribution. 
For  the  rest,  the  author  has  described  his  situa- 
tion. "He  that  condemns  himself  to  compose 
on  a  stated  day,  will  often  bring  to  bis  task  an 
attention  dissipated,  a  memory  embarrassed,  an 
imagination  overwhelmed,  a  mind  distracted 
with  anxieties,  a  body  languishing  with  disease : 
he  will  labour  on  a  barren  topic,  till  it  is  too  late 
to  change  it ;  or,  in  the  ardour  of  invention,  dif- 
fuse his  thoughts  into  wild  exuberance,  which 
the  pressing  hour  of  publication  cannot  suffer 
judgment  to  examine  or  reduce."  Of  this  excel- 
lent production,  the  number  sold  on  each  day 
did  not  amount  to  five  hundred :  of  course  the 
bookseller,  who  paid  the  author  four  guineas  a 
week,  did  not  carry  on  a  successful  trade.  His 
generosity  and  perseverance  deserve  to  be  com- 
mended ;  and  happily,  when  the  collection  ap- 
peared in  volumes,  were  amply  rewarded.  John- 
son lived  to  see  his  labours  flourish  in  a  tenth 
edition.  His  posterity,  as  an  ingenious  French 
writer  has  said  on  a  similar  occasion,  began  in 
his  lifetime. 

In  the  beginning  of  1750,  soon  after  the  Ram- 
bler was  set  on  foot,  Johnson  was  induced  by  the 
arts  of  a  vile  impostor  to  lend  his  assistance, 
during  a  temporary  delusion,  to  a  fraud  not  to 
be  paralleled  in  the  annals  of  literature.*  One 
Lauder,  a  native  of  Scotland,  who  had  been  a 
teacher  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  had  con- 
ceived a  mortal  antipathy  to  the  name  and  cha- 
racter of  Milton.  His  reason  was,  because  the 
prayer  of  Pamela,  in  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Arca- 
dia, was,  as  he  supposed,  maliciously  inserted 
by  the  great  poet  in  an  edition  of  the  Eikon 
Basilike,  in  order  to  fix  an  imputation  of  impiety 
on  the  memory  of  the  murdered  king.  Fired 
with  resentment,  and  willing  to  reap  the  profits 
of  a  gross  imposition,  this  man  collected  from 
several  Latin  poets,  such  as  Masenius  the  Je- 
suit, Staphorstius  a  Dutch  divine,  Beza,  and 
others,  all  such  passages  as  bore  any  kind  of 
resemblance  to  different  places  in  the  Paradise 
Lost ;  and  these  he  published  from  time  to  time, 
in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  with  occasional 
interpolations  of  lines,  which  he  himself  trans- 
lated from  Milton.  The  public  credulity  swal- 
lowed all  with  eagerness ;  and  Milton  was  sup- 
posed to  be  guilty  of  plagiarism  from  inferior 
modem  writers.  The  fraud  succeeded  so  well, 
that  Lauder  collected  the  whole  into  a  volume, 
and  advertised  it  under  the  title  of  "  An  Essay 


*  It  has  since  been  paralleled,  in  the  caso  of  the  Shaks- 
pcare  MSS.  by  a  yet  more  vile  impostor. 


on  Milton's  Use  and  Imitation  of  the  Moderns, 
in  his  Paradise  Lost ;  dedicated  to  the  Universi- 
ties of  Oxford  and  Cambridge."  While  the 
book  was  in  the  press,  the  proof-sheets  were 
shown  to  Johnson  at  the  Ivy-Lane  club,  by 
Payne,  the  bookseller,  who  was  one  of  the  mem- 
bers. No  man  in  that  Society  was  in  posses- 
sion pf  the  authors  from  whom  Lauder  professed 
to  make  his  extracts.  The  charge  was  believed, 
and  the  contriver  of  it  found  his  way  to  Johnson ; 
who  is  represented  by  Sir  John  Hawkins,  not 
indeed  as  an  accomplice  in  the  fraud,  but  through 
motives  of  malignity  to  Milton,  delighting  in  the 
detection,  and  exulting  that  the  poet's  reputation 
would  suffer  by  the  discovery.  More  malice  to 
a  deceased  fnend  cannot  well  be  imagined. 
Hawkins  adds,  "  that  he  wished  well  to  the  ar- 
gument must  be  inferred  from  the  preface,  which 
indubitably  was  written  by  him."  The  preface, 
it  is  well  known,  was  written  by  Johnson,  and 
for  that  reason  is  inserted  in  this  edition.  But 
if  Johnson  approved  of  the  argument,  it  was  no 
longer  than  while  he  believed  it  founded  in  truth. 
Let  us  advert  to  bis  own  words  in  that  very  pre- 
face. "Among  the  inquiries  to  which  the  ar- 
dour of  criticism  has  naturally  given  occasion, 
none  is  more  obscure  in  itself,  or  more  worthy  of 
rational  curiosity,  than  a  retrospection  of  the 
progress  of  this  mighty  genius  in  the  construc- 
tion of  his  work ;  a  view  of  the  fabric  gradually 
rising,  perhaps  from  small  beginnings,  till  its 
foundation  rests  in  the  centre,  and  its  turrets 
sparkle  in  the  skies ;  to  trace  back  the  structure, 
through  all  its  varieties,  to  the  simplicity  of  the 
first  plan  ;  to  find  what  was  projected,  whence 
the  scheme  was  taken,  how  it  was  improved,  by 
what  assistance  it  was  executed,  and  from  what 
stores  the  materials  were  collected ;  whether  its 
founder  dug  them  from  the  quarries  of  nature, 
or  demolished  other  buildings  to  embellish  his 
own."  These  were  the  motives  that  induced 
Johnson  to  assist  Lauder  with  a  preface :  and 
are  not  these  the  motives  of  a  critic  and  a  scho 
lar  ?  What  reader  of  taste,  what  man  of  real 
knowledge,  would  not  think  his  time  well  em- 
ployed in  an  inquiry  so  curious,  so  interesting, 
and  instructive?  If  Lauder' s  facts  were  really 
true,  who  would  not  be  glad,  without  the  small- 
est tincture  of  malevolence,  to  receive  real  in- 
formation? It  is  painful  to  be  thus  obliged  to 
vindicate  a  man  who,  in  his  heart,  towered  above 
the  petty  arts  of  fraud  and  imposition,  against  an 
injudicious  biographer,  who  undertook  to  be  his 
editor,  and  the  protector  of  his  memory.  Ano- 
ther writer,  Dr.  Towers,  in  an  Essay  on  the  Life 
and  Character  of  Dr.  Johnson,  seems  to  counte- 
nance this  calumny.  He  says,  "  It  can  hardly 
be  doubted,  but  that  Johnson's  aversion  to  Mil- 
ton's politics  was  the  cause  of  that  alacrity  with 
which  he  joined  with  Lauder  in  his  infamous  at- 
tack on  our  great  epic  poet,  and  which  induced 
him  to  assist  in  that  transaction."  These  words 
would  seem  to  describe  an  accomplice,  were  they 
not  immediately  followed  by  an  express  declara- 
tion, that  Johnson  was  unacquainted  with  the  im- 
posture. Dr.  Towers  adds,  "  It  seems  to  have 
been  by  way  of  making  some  compensation  to 
the  memory  of  Milton,  for  the  share  he  had  in 
the  attack  of  Lauder,  that  Johnson  wrote  the 
Prologue,  spoken  by  Garrick,  at  Drury-Lane 
Theatre,  1750,  on  the  performance  of  the  Masque 
of  Comus,  for  the  benefit  of  Milton's  grand 


Xll 

daughter."  Dr.  Towers  is  not  free  from  preju- 
dice; but,  as  Shakspeare  has  it,  "he  begets  a 
temperance,  to  give  it  smoothness."  He  is, 
therefore,  entitled  to  a  dispassionate  answer. 
When  Johnson  wrote  the  prologue,  it  does  not 
appear  that  he  was  aware  of  the  malignant  ar- 
tifices practised  by  Lauder.  In  the  postscript 
to  Johnson's  preface,  a  subscription  is  proposed, 
for  relieving  the  grand-daughter  of  the  author 
of  Paradise  Lost.  Dr.  Towers  will  agree  that 
this  shows  Johnson's  alacrity  in  doing  good. 
That  alacrity  showed  itself  again  in  the  letter 
pnnted  in  the  European  Magazine,  January, 
1785,  and  there  said  to  have  appeared  originally 
in  the  General  Advertiser,  4th  April,  1750,  by 
which  the  public  were  invited  to  embrace  the 
opportunity  of  paying  a  just  regard  to  the  illus- 
trious dead,  united  with  the  pleasure  of  doing 
good  to  the  living.  The  letter  adds,  "  to  assist 
industrious  indigence,  struggling  with  distress, 
and  debilitated  by  age,  is  a  display  of  virtue,  and 
an  acquisition  of  happiness  and  honour.  Who- 
ever, therefore,  would  be  thought  capable  of 
pleasure  in  reading  the  works  of  our  incompara- 
ble Milton,  and  not  so  destitute  of  gratitude  as 
to  refuse  to  lay  out  a  trifle,  in  a  rational  and  ele- 
gant entertainment,  for  the  benefit  of  his  living 
remains,  for  the  exercise  of  their  own  virtue,  the 
increase  of  their  reputation,  and  the  conscious- 
ness of  doing  good,  should  appear  at  Drury- 
Lane  Theatre,  to-morrow,  April  5,  when  COMUS 
will  be  performed  for  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Eliza- 
beth Foster,  grand-daughter  to  the  author,  and 
the  only  surviving  branch  of  his  family.  Nota 
bene,  there  will  be  a  new  prologue  on  the  oc- 
casion, written  by  the  author  of  Irene,  and 
spoken  by  Mr.  Garrick."  The  man  who  had 
thus  exerted  himself  to  serve  the  grand-daughter, 
cannot  be  supposed  to  have  entertained  personal 
malice  to  the  grand-father.  It  is  true,  that  the 
malevolence  of  Lauder,  as  well  as  the  impostures 
of  Archibald  Bower,  were  fully  detected  by  the 
labours,  in  the  cause  of  truth,  of  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Douglas,  the  late  Lord  Bishop  of  Salisbury. 

— "  Diram  qui  contudit  Hydram, 
Notaque  fatali  portenta  labore  subegit." 

But  the  pamphlet,  entitled,  "  Milton  vindicated 
from  the  charge  of  Plagiarism  brought  against 
him  by  Mr.  Lauder,  and  Lauder  himself  con- 
victed of  several  Forgeries  and  gross  Imposi- 
tions on  the  Public,  by  John  Douglas,  M.  A. 
Rector  of  Eaton  Constantine,  Salop,"  was  not 
published  till  the  year  1751.  In  that  work,  p. 
77,  Dr.  Douglas  says,  "It  is  to  be  hoped,  nay, 
it  is  expected,  that  the  elegant  and  nervous  wri- 
ter, whose  judicious  sentiments  and  inimitable 
style  point  out  the  author  of  Lauder's  preface 
and  postscript,  will  no  longer  allow  A  MAN  to 
plume  himself  with  his  feathers,  who  appears  so 
little  to  have  deserved  his  assistance,  an  assist- 
ance which  I  am  persuaded  would  never  have 
been  communicated,  had  there  been  the  least 
suspicion  of  those  facts,  which  I  have  been  the 
instrument  of  conveying  to  the  world."  We 
have  here  a  contemporary  testimony  to  the  in- 
tegrity of  Dr.  Johnson  throughout  the  whole  of 
that  vile  transaction.  What  was  the  consequence 
of  the  requisition  made  by  Dr.  Douglas  ?  John- 
son, whose  ruling  passion  may  be  said  to  be  the 
love  of  truth,  convinced  Lauder,  that  it  would 
be  more  for  his  interest  to  make  a  full  confession 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


of  his  guilt,  than  to  stand  forth  the  convicted 
champion  of  a  lie  ;  and  for  this  purpose  he  drew 
up,  in  the  strongest  terms,  a  recantation,  in  a 
Letter  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Douglass,  which  Lauder 
signed,  and  published  in  the  year  1751.  That 
piece  will  remain  a  lasting  memorial  of  the  ab- 
horrence with  which  Johnson  beheld  a  violation 
of  truth.  Mr.  Nichols,  whose  attachment  to 
his  illustrious  friend  was  unwearied,  showed 
him,  in  1780,  a  book  called  "  Remarks  on  John- 
son's Life  of  Milton,"  in  which  the  affair  of 
Lauder  was  renewed  with  virulence,  and  a  po- 
etical scale  in  the  Literary  Magazine,  1758,  (when 
Johnson  had  ceased  to  write  in  that  collection) 
was  urged  as  an  additional  proof  of  deliberate 
malice.  He  read  the  libellous  passage  with  at- 
tention, and  instantly  wrote  on  the  margin:  "  In 
the  business  of  Lauder  I  was  deceived,  partly  by 
thinking  the  man  too  frantic  to  be  fraudulent. 
Of  the  poetical  scale  quoted  from  the  Magazine  I 
am  not  the  author.  I  fancy  it  was  put  in  alter  I 
had  quitted  that  work ;  for  I  not  only  did  not 
write  it,  but  I  do  not  remember  it."  As  a  critic 
and  a  scholar,  Johnson  was  willing  to  receive 
what  numbers,  at  the  time,  believed  to  be  true 
information :  when  he  found  that  the  whole 
was  a  forgery,  he  renounced  all  connexion  with 
the  author. 

In  March  1752,  _he  felt  a  severe  stroke  of  af- 
fliction in  the  death  of  his  wife.  The  last  num 
ber  of  the  Rambler,  as  already  mentioned,  was 
on  the  14th  of  that  month.  The  loss  of  Mrs. 
Johnson  was  then  approaching,  and  probably 
was  the  cause  that  put  an  end  to  those  admira- 
ble periodical  essays.  It  appears  that  she  died 
on  the  28th  of  March :  in  a  memorandum,  at 
the  foot  of  the  Prayers  and  Meditations,  that  is 
called  her  Dying  Day.  She  was  buried  at 
Bromley,  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Hawkesworth. 
Johnson  placed  a  Latin  inscription  on  her  tomb, 
in  which  he  celebrated  her  beauty.  With  the 
singularity  of  his  prayers  for  his  deceased  wife, 
from  that  time  to  the  end  of  his  days,  the  world 
is  sufficiently  acquainted.  On  Easter-day,  22d 
April,  1 764,  his  memorandum  says  :  "  Thought 
on  Tetty,  poor  dear  Tetty  ;  with  my  eyes  full. 
Went  to  church.  After  sermon  I  recommended 
Tetty  in  a  prayer  by  herself;  and  my  father, 
mother,  brother,  and  Bathurst,  in  another.  I 
did  it  only  once,  so  far  as  it  might  be  lawful 
for  me."  In  a  prayer,  January  23,  1759,  the 
day  on  which  his  mother  was  buried,  he  com- 
mends, as  far  as  may  be  lawful,  her  soul  to  God, 
imploring  for  her  whatever  is  most  beneficial  to 
her  in  her  present  state.  In  this  habit  he  per- 
severed to  the  end  of  his  days.  The  Rev.  Mr. 
Strahan,  the  editor  of  the  Prayers  and  Medita- 
tions, observes,  "That  Johnson,  on  some  occa- 
sions, prays  that  the  Almighty  may  have  had  mercy 
on  his  wife  and  Mr.  Thrale ;  evidently  supposing 
their  sentence  to  have  been  already  passed  in  the 
Divine  Mind ;  and  by  consequence,  proving, 
that  he  had  no  belief  in  a  state  of  purgatory,  and 
no  reason  for  praying  for  the  dead  that  could  im- 
peach the  sincerity  of  his  profession  as  a  Pro- 
testant." Mr.  Strahan  adds,  "That,  in  praving 
for  the  regretted  tenants  of  the  grave,  Johnson 
conformed  to  a  practice  which  has  been  retained 
by  many  learned  members  of  the  Established 
Church,  though  the  Liturgy  no  longer  admits  it. 
If  where  the  tree  falleth,  there  it  shall  be  ;  if  our 
state,  at  the  close  of  life,  is  to  be  the  measure  of 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


our  final  sentence,  then  prayers  for  the  dead,  be- 
ing visibly  fruitless,  can  be  regarded  only  as  the 
vain  oblations  of  superstition.  But  of  all  super- 
stitions this,  perhaps,  is  one  of  the  least  unamia- 
ble,  and  most  incident  to  a  good  mind.  If  our 
sensations  of  kindness  be  intense,  those,  whom 
we  have  revered  and  loved,  death  cannot  wholly 
seclude  from  our  concern.  It  is  true,  for  the  rea- 
son just  mentioned,  such  evidences  of  our  sur- 
viving affection  may  be  thought  ill-judged  ;  but 
surely  they  are  generous,  and  some  natural  ten- 
derness is  due  even  to  a  superstition,  which  thus 
originates  in  piety  and  benevolence."  These 
sentences,  extracted  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Strahan's 
preface,  if  they  are  not  a  full  justification,  are, 
at  least,  a  beautiful  apology.  It  will  not  be  im- 
proper to  add  what  Johnson  himself  has  said  on 
the  subject.  Being  asked  by  Mr.  Boswell,* 
what  he  thought  of  purgatory  as  believed  by  the 
Roman  Catholics  ?  His  answer  was,  "  It  is  a 
very  harmless  doctrine.  They  are  of  opinion, 
that  the  generality  of  mankind  are  neither  so  ob- 
stinately wicked  as  to  deserve  everlasting  pu- 
nishment ;  nor  so  good  as  to  merit  being  admit- 
ted into  the  society  of  blessed  spirits  ;  and,  there- 
fore, that  God  is  graciously  pleased  to  allow  a 
middle  state,  where  they  may  be  purified  by  cer- 
tain degrees  of  suffering.  You  see  there  is  no- 
thing unreasonable  in  this ;  and  if  it  be  once  es- 
tablished that  there  are  souls  in  purgatory,  it  is 
as  proper  to  pray  for  them,  as  for  our  brethren 
of  mankind  who  are  yet  in  this  life."  This  was 
Dr.  Johnson's  guess  into  futurity ;  and  to  guess 
is  the  utmost  that  man  can  do.  "  Shadows, 
clouds,  and  darkness,  rest  upon  it." 

Mrs.  Johnson  left  a  daughter,  Lucy  Porter, 
by  her  first  husband.  She  had  contracted  a 
friendship  with  Mrs.  Anne  Williams,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Zachary  Williams,  a  physician  of  emi- 
nence in  South  Wales,  who  had  devoted  more 
than  thirty  years  of  a  long  life  to  the  study  of  the 
longitude,  and  was  thought  to  have  made  great 
advances  towards  that  important  discovery. 
His  letters  to  Lord  Halifax,  and  the  Lords  of 
the  Admiralty,  partly  corrected  and  partly  writ- 
ten by  Dr.  Johnson,  are  still  extant  in  the  hands 
of  Mr.  Nichols.j  We  there  find  Dr.  Williams, 
in  the  eighty-third  year  of  his  age,  stating,  that 
he  had  prepared  an  instrument,  which  might  be 
called  an  epitome  or  miniature  of  the  terraque- 
ous globe,  showing,  with  the  assistance  of  tables 
constructed  by  himself,  the  variations  of  the 
magnetic  needle,  and  ascertaining  the  longitude 
for  the  safety  of  navigation.  It  appears  that 
this  scheme  had  been  referred  to  Sir  Isaac  New- 
ton ;  but  that  great  philosopher  excusing  himself 
on  account  of  his  advanced  age,  all  applications 
were  useless  till  1751,  when  the  subject  was  re- 
ferred, by  order  of  Lord  Anson,  to  Dr.  Bradley, 
the  celebrated  professor  of  astronomy.  His  re- 
port was  unfavourable,^  though  it  allows  that  a 
considerable  progress  had  been  made.  Dr. 
Williams,  after  all  his  labour  and  expense,  died 
in  a  short  time  after,  a  melancholy  instance  of 
unrewarded  merit.  His  daughter  possessed  un- 
common talents,  and,  though  blind,  had  an  ala- 
crity of  mind  that  made  her  conversation  agree- 
able, and  even  desirable.  To  relieve  and  ap- 


*  Life  of  Johnson,  vol.  i.  p.  328.  4to  edition. 

(See  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  Nov.  and  Dec.  1787. 

1  See  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  1787,  p.  1042. 


X1U 

pease  melancholy  reflections,  Johnson  took  her 
home  to  his  house  in  Gough-square.  In  1755, 
Garrick  gave  her  a  benefit-play,  which  produced 
two  hundred  pounds.  In  1766,  she  published, 
by  subscription,  a  quarto  volume  of  Miscella- 
nies, and  increased  her  little  stock  to  three  hun- 
dred pounds.  That  fund,  with  Johnson's  pro- 
tection, supported  her  through  the  remainder  of 
her  life. 

During  the  two  years  in  which  the  Rambler 
was  carried  on,  the  Dictionary  proceeded  by  slow 
degrees.  In  May  1752,  having  composed  a 
prayer  preparatory  to  his  return  from  tears  and 
sorrow  to  the  duties  of  life,  he  resumed  his  grand 
design,  and  went  on  with  vigour,  giving,  how- 
ever, occasional  assistance  to  his  friend  Dr. 
Hawkesworth  in  the  Adventurer,  which  began 
soon  after  the  Rambler  was  laid  aside.  Some 
of  the  most  valuable  essays  in  that  collection 
were  from  the  pen  of  Johnson.  The  Dictionary 
was  completed  towards  the  end  of  1754 ;  and, 
Cave  being  then  no  more,  it  was  a  mortification 
to  the  author  of  that  noble  addition  to  our  lan- 
guage, that  his  old  friend  did  not  live  to  see  the 
triumph  of  his  labours.  In  May  1755,  that 
great  work  was  published.  Johnson  was  de- 
sirous that  it  should  come  from  one  who  had  ob- 
tained  academical  honours ;  and  for  that  pur 
pose  his  friend,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Wharton,  ob  • 
tained  for  him,  in  the  preceding  month  of  Feb- 
ruary, a  diploma  for  a  master's  degree  from  the 
University  of  Oxford.  Garrick,  on  the  publi- 
cation of  the  Dictionary,  wrote  the  following 
lines ; 

"  Talk  of  war  with  a  Briton,  he'll  boldly  advance, 
That  one  English  soldier  can  beat  ten  of  France, 
Would  we  alter  the  boast,  from  the  sword  to  the  pen, 
Our  odds  are  still  greater,  still  greater  our  men. 
In  the  deep  mines  of  science,  though  Frenchmen  may 

toil,  [Boyle  J 

Can  their  strength  be  compared  to  Locke,  Newton,  or 
Let  them  rally  their  heroes,  seud  forth  all  their  powers, 
Their  versemen  and  prosemen,  then  match  them  with 

ours. 

First  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  like  gods  in  the  fight 
Have  put  their  whole  drama  and  epic  to  Sight. 
In  satires,  epistles,  and  odes  would  they  cope  t 
Their  numbers  retreat  before  Dryden  and  Pope. 
And  Johnson  well  arm'd,  like  a  hero  of  yore, 
Has  beat  forty  French,  and  will  beat  forty  more," 

It  is,  perhaps,  needless  to  mention,  that  Forty 
was  the  number  of  the  French  academy,  at  the 
time  when  their  Dictionary  was  published  to  set- 
tle their  language. 

In  the  course  of  the  winter  preceding  this  grand 
publication,  the  late  Earl  of  Chesterfield  gave 
two  essays  in  the  periodical  paper  called  The 
World,  dated  November  28,  and  December  5, 
1754,  to  prepare  the  public  for  so  important  a 
work.  The  original  plan,  addressed  to  his 
Lordship  in  the  year  1747,  is  there  mentioned  in 
terms  of  the  highest  praise  ;  and  this  was  under- 
stood, at  the  time,  to  be  a  courtly  way  of  soli- 
citing a  dedication  of  the  Dictionary  to  himself. 
Johnson  treated  this  civility  with  disdain.  He 
said  to  Garrick  and  others,  "I  have  sailed  a 
long  and  painful  voyage  round  the  world  of  the 
English  language,  and  does  he  now  send  out  two 
cock-boats  to  tow  me  into  harbour?"  He  had 
said,  in  the  last  number  of  the  Ramblor,  that 
"having  laboured  to  maintain  the  dignity  of 
virtue,  I  will  not  now  degrade  it  by  the  mean- 
ness of  dedication."  Such  a  man,  when  he  had 


XIV 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


finished  his  Dictionary,  "  not,"  as  he  says  him- 
self, "  in  the  soft  obscurities  of  retirement,  or 
under  the  shelter  of  academic  bowers,  but  amidst 
inconvenience  and  distraction,  in  sickness  and 
in  sorrow,  and  without  the  patronage  of  the 
Great,"  was  not  likely  to  be  caught  by  the  lure 
thrown  out  by  Lord  Chesterfield.  He  had  in 
vain  sought  the  patronage  of  that  nobleman; 
and  his  pride,  exasperated  by  disappointment, 
drew  from  him  the  following  letter,  dated  in  the 
month  of  February,  1755. 

"  To  the  Right  Hem.  the  Earl  of  CHESTERFIELD. 
"  MY  LORD, 

"  I  have  been  lately  informed,  by  the  proprie- 
tors of  The  World,  that  two  papers,  in  which 
my  Dictionary  is  recommended  to  the  public, 
were  written  by  your  Lordship.  To  be  so  dis- 
tinguished, is  an  honour  which,  being  very  little 
accustomed  to  favours  from  the  great,  I  know 
not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to  ac- 
knowledge. 

"  When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I 
first  visited  your  Lordship,  I  was  overpowered, 
like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the  enchantment  of 
your  address,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish, 
that  I  might  boast  myself  le  vainqueur  du  vain- 
queur  de  la  terre  ;  that  I  might  obtain  that  regard 
for  which  I  saw  the  world  contending.  But  I 
found  my  attendance  so  little  encouraged,  that 
neither  pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  to 
continue  it.  When  I  had  once  addressed  your 
Lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhausted  all  the  art 
of  pleasing,  which  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scho- 
lar can  possess.  I  had  done  all  that  I  could ; 
and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all  ne- 
glected, be  it  ever  so  little. 

"  Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  now  passed 
since  I  waited  in  your  outward  room,  or  was  re- 
pulsed from  your  door;  during  which  time  I  have 
been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficulties  of 
which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought 
it  at  last  to  the  verge  of  publication,  without  one 
act  of  assistance,  one  word  of  encouragement, 
or  one  smile  of  favour.  Such  treatment  I  did 
not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a  patron  before. 

"The  Shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  acquainted 
with  Love,  and  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

"Is  not  a  patron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks 
with  unconcern  on  a  man  struggling  for  life  in 
the  water,  and,  when  he  has  reached  ground, 
encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice  which 
you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labours, 
had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind :  but  it  has 
been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot 
enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  impart 
it ;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it  I  hope 
it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to  confess  ob- 
ligations where  no  benefit  has  been  received  ;  or 
to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider 
me  as  owing  that  to  a  patron,  which  Providence 
has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myself. 

"Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with 
so  little  obligation  to  any  favourer  of  learning,  I 
shall  not  be  disappointed,  though  I  should  con- 
clude it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less  ;  for  I  have 
been  long  wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope,  in 
which  I  once  boasted  myself  with  so  much  ex- 
ultation, 

My  Lord,  your  Lordship's  most  humble, 
And  most  obedient  servant, 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON." 


It  is  said,  upon  good  authority,  that  Johnson 
once  received  from  Lord  Chesterfield  the  sum 
of  ten  pounds.  It  were  to  be  wished  that  the 
secret  had  never  transpired.  It  was  mean  to  re- 
ceive it,  and  meaner  to  give  it.  It  may  be  ima- 
gined, that  for  Johnson's  ferocity,  as  it  has  been 
called,  there  was  some  foundation  in  his  finances; 
and,  as  his  Dictionary  was  brought  to  a  conclu- 
sion, that  money  was  now  to  flow  in  upon  him. 
The  reverse  was  the  case.  For  his  subsistence, 
during  the  progress  of  the  work,  he  had  received 
at  different  times  the  amount  of  his  contract ;  and 
when  his  receipts  were  produced  to  him  at  a  ta- 
vern dinner,  given  by  the  booksellers,  it  appeared 
that  he  had  been  paid  a  hundred  pounds  and  up- 
wards more  than  his  due.  The  author  of  a 
book,  called  Lexiphanes*  written  by  a  Mr. 
Campbell,  a  Scotchman,  and  purser  of  a  man 
of  war,  endeavoured  to  blast  his  laurels,  but  in 
vain.  The  world  applauded,  and  Johnson  ne- 
ver replied.  "  Abuse,"  he  said,  "  is  often  of 
service :  there  is  nothing  so  dangerous  to  an 
author  as  silence  ;  his  name,  like  a  shuttlecock, 
must  be  beat  backward  and  forward,  or  it  falls 
to  the  ground."  Lexiphanes  professed  to  be  an 
imitation  of  the  pleasant  manner  of  Lucian  ;  but 
humour  was  not  the  talent  of  the  writer  of  Lexi- 
phanes. As  Dryden  says,  "  He  had  too  much 
horse-play  in  his  raillery." 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1754,  that  the  pre- 
sent writer  became  acquainted  with  Dr.  John- 
son. The  cause  of  his  first  visit  is  related  by 
Mrs.  Piozzi  nearly  in  the  following  manner: 
"  Mr.  Murphy  being  engaged  in  a  periodical 
paper,  the  Gray's-Inn  Journal,  was  at  a  friend's 
house  in  the  country,  and  not  being  disposed  to 
lose  pleasure  for  business,  wished  to  content  his 
bookseller  by  some  unstudied  essay.  He  there- 
fore took  up  a  French  Journal  LiltSraire,  and 
translating  something  he  liked,  sent  it  away  to 
town.  Time,  however  discovered  that  he  trans- 
lated from  the  French  a  Rambler,  which  had 
been  taken  from  the  English  without  acknow- 
ledgment. Upon  this  discovery,  Mr.  Murphy 
thought  it  right  to  make  his  excuses  to  Dr.  John- 
son. He  went  next  day,  and  found  him  covered 
with  soot,  like  a  chimney-sweeper,  in  a  little 
room,  as  if  he  had  been  acting  Lungs  in  the  Al- 
chymist,  making  (Ether.  This  being  told  by  Mr. 
Murphy  in  company,  '  Come,  come,'  said  Dr. 
Johnson,  'the  story  is  black  enough  ;  but  it  was 
a  happy  day  that  brought  you  first  to  my  house.'" 
After  this  first  visit,  the  author  of  this  narrative 
by  degrees  grew  intimate  with  Dr.  Johnson. 
The  first  striking  sentence,  that  he  heard  from 
him,  was  in  a  few  days  after  the  publication  of 
Lord  Bolingbroke's  posthumous  works.  Mr. 
Garrick  asked  him,  "If  he  had  seen  them?" 
"Yes,  I  have  seen  them."  "What  do  you 
think  of  them?"  "  Think  of  them!"  He  made 
a  long  pause,  and  then  replied :  "  Think  of 
them !  A  scoundrel  and  a  coward !  A  scoun- 
drel, who  spent  his  life  in  charging  a  gun  against 
Christianity  ;  and  a  coward,  who  was  afraid  of 
hearing  the  report  of  his  own  gun ;  but  left  half- 
a-crown  to  a  hungry  Scotchman  to  draw  the 
trigger  after  his  death."  His  mind,  at  this  time 
strained  and  over-laboured  by  constant  exertion, 


*  This  work  was  not  published  until  the  year  1767, 
when  Dr.  Johnson's  Dictionary  was  fully  established  in 
reputation.  C. 


S  OF  Dll.  JOIIA'SOJN*. 


culled  for  an  interval  of  repose  and  indolence. 
But  indolence  was  the  time  of  danger ;  it  was 
then  that  his  spirits,  not  employed  abroad,  turn- 
ed with  inward  hostility  against  himself.  His 
reflections  on  his  own  life  and  conduct  were  al- 
ways severe :  and,  wishing  to  be  immaculate, 
he  destroyed  his  own  peace  by  unnecessary 
scruples.  He  tells  us,  that  when  he  surveyed 
his  past  life,  he  discovered  nothing  but  a  barren 
waste  of  time,  with  some  disorders  of  body,  and 
disturbances  of  mind,  very  near  to  madness. 
His  life,  he  says,  from  his  earliest  youth,  was 
wasted  in  a  morning  bed ;  and  his  reigning  sin 
was  a  general  sluggishness,  to  which  he  was  al- 
ways inclined,  and  in  part  of  his  life,  almost 
compelled,  by  morbid  melancholy,  and  weari- 
ness of  mind.  This  was  his  constitutional  ma- 
lady ;  derived,  perhaps,  from  his  father,  who 
was,  at  times,  overcast  with  a  gloom  that  bor- 
dered on  insanity.  When  to  this  it  is  added, 
that  Johnson,  about  the  age  of  twenty,  drew  up 
a  description  of  his  infirmities,  for  Dr.  Swinfen, 
at  that  time  an  eminent  physician  in  Stafford- 
shire ;  and  received  an  answer  to  his  letter,  im- 
porting, that  the  symptoms  indicated  a  future 
privation  of  reason ;  who  can  wonder  that  he 
was  troubled  with  melancholy  and  dejection  of 
spirit?  An  apprehension  of  the  worst  calamity 
that  can  befall  human  nature  hung  over  him  all 
the  rest  of  his  life,  like  the  sword  of  the  tyrant 
suspended  over  his  guest.  In  his  sixtieth  year 
he  had  a  mind  to  write  the  history  of  his  melan- 
choly ;  but  he  desisted,  not  knowing,  whether 
it  would  not  too  much  disturb  him.  In  a  Latin 
Poem,  however,  to  which  he  has  prefixed  as  a 
tide,  FNnoI  EEAYTON,  he  has  left  a  picture  of 
himself,  drawn  with  as  much  truth,  and  as  firm 
a  hand,  as  can  be  seen  in  the  portraits  of  Ho- 
garth or  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  The  learned 
reader  will  find  the  original  Poem  in  this  vo- 
lume, and  it  is  hoped  that  a  translation,  or  rather 
imitation,  of  so  curious  a  piece  will  not  be  im- 
proper in  this  place. 

KNOW  YOURSELF. 

(AFTER  REVISING  AND  ENLARGING  THE  ENGLISH 
LEXICON  OR  DICTIONARY.) 

WHEN  Scaliger,  whole  years  of  labour  past, 
Beheld  his  Lexicon  complete  at  last, 
And  weary  of  his  task,  with  wond'ring  eyes, 
Saw  from  words  piled  on  words  a  fabric  rise, 
He  cursed  the  industry,  inertly  strong, 
In  creeping  toil  that  could  persist  so  long, 
And  if,  enraged  he  cried.  Heaven  meant  to  shed 
Its  keenest  vengeance  on  the  guilty  head. 
The  drudgery  of  words  the  dainn'd  would  know, 
Doooi'd  to  write  Lexicons  in  endless  wo.* 

Yes,  you  had  cause,  great  Genius,  to  repent ; 
"You  lost  good  days  that  might  be  better  spent ;" 
You  well  might  grudge  the  hours  of  liug'ring  pain, 
And  view  your  learned  labours  with  disdain. 
To  you  were  given  the  large  expanded  mind, 
The  flame  of  genius,  and  the  taste  refined 
'Twas  yours  on  eagle  wings  uluft  to  soar, 
And   amidst  rolling  worlds  the  Great   First   Cune  ex- 
plore ; 

To  fix  the  eras  of  recorded  time, 
And  live  in  every  age  and  every  clime  , 
Record  the  Chiefs,  who  propt  their  Country's  cause ; 
Who  founded  Empires,  and  established  Laws  ; 


*  See  Scaliger's  Epigram  on  this  subject,  communi- 
cated without  doubt  by  Dr.  Johnson,  Gent.  Mag.  1748, 
p.  8. 


To  learn  whate'er  the  Sage,  wit'i  virtue  fraught, 
Whate'erthe  Muse  of  moral  wisdom  taught. 
These  were  your  quarry  ;  these  to  you  were  known 
And  the  world's  ample  volume  was  your  own. 

Yet  warn'd  by  me,  ye  pigmy  Wits,  beware, 
Nor  with  immortal  Scaliger  com  pare. 
For  me,  though  his  example  strike  my  view 
Oh !  not  for  me  his  footsteps  to  pursue. 
Whether  first  Nature,  unpropitious,  cold, 
This  clay  compounded  in  a  ruder  mould  ; 
Or  the  slow  current,  loitering  at  my  heart, 
No  gleam  of  wit  or  fancy  can  impart ; 
Whate'er  the  cause,  from  me  no  numbers  flow 
No  visions  warm  me,  and  no  raptures  glow. 
A  mind  like  Scaliger's,  superior  still, 
No  grief  could  conquer,  no  misfortunes  chill. 
Though  for  the  maze  of  words  his  native  skies 
He  seem'd  to  quit,  'twas  but  again  to  rise  ; 
To  mount  once  more  to  the  bright  source  of  day, 
And  view  the  wonders  of  th'  ethereal  way. 
The  love  of  Fame  his  generous  bosom  fired  ; 
Each  Science  hail'd  him,  and  each  Muse  inspired 
For  him  the  Sons  of  Learning  trimm'd  the  bays, 
And  Nations  grew  harmonious  in  his  praise. 

My  task  perform'd,  and  all  my  labours  o'er, 
For  me  what  lot  has  Fortune  now  in  store  1 
The  listless  will  succeeds,  that  worst  disease, 
The  rack  of  indolence,  the  sluggish  ease. 
Care  grows  on  care,  and  o'er  my  aching  brain 
Black  melancholy  pours  her  morbid  train. 
No  kind  relief,  no  lenitive  at  hand, 
I  seek  at  midnight  clubs  the  social  band. 
But  midnight  clubs,  where  wit  with  noise  conspire*, 
Where  Comus  revels,  and  where  wine  inspires, 
Delight  no  more  :  I  seek  my  lonely  bed, 
And  call  on  Sleep  to  soothe  my  languid  head. 
But  Sleep  from  these  sad  lids  flies  far  away  ; 
I  mourn  all  night,  and  dread  the  coming  day. 
Exhausted,  tired,  I  throw  my  eyes  around, 
To  find  some  vacant  spot  on  classic  ground  ; 
And  soon,  vain  hope  !  I  form  a  grand  design  ; 
Languor  succeeds,  and  all  my  powers  decline 
If  Science  open  not  her  richest  vein, 
Without  materials  all  our  toil  is  vain. 
A  form  to  rugged  stone  when  Phidias  gives, 
Beneath  his  touch  a  new  creation  lives. 
Remove  his  marble,  and  his  genius  dies  ; 
With  nature,  then,  no  breathing  statue  vies. 

Whate'er  I  plan,  I  feel  my  powers  confined 
By  Fortune's  frown  and  penury  of  mind. 
I  boast  no  knowledge  glean'd  with  toil  and  strife, 
That  bright  reward  of  a  well-acted  life. 
I  view  myself,  while  Reason's  feeble  light 
Shoots  a  pale  glimmer  through  the  gloom  of  night, 
While  passions,  error,  phantoms  of  the  brain, 
And  vain  opinions,  fill  the  dark  domain  ; 
A  dreary  void,  where  fears  with  grief  combined 
Waste  all  within,  and  desolate  the  mind. 

What  then  remains  ?  Must  I  in  slow  decline 
To  mute  inglorious  ease  old  age  resign  ? 
Or,  bold  Ambition  kindling  in  my  breast, 
Attempt  some  arduous  task  ?  Or,  were  it  best, 
Brooding  o'er  Lexicons  to  pass  the  day, 
And  in  that  labour  drudge  my  life  away  ? 


Such  is  the  picture  for  which  Dr.  Johnson  sat 
to  himself.  He  gives  the  prominent  features 
of  his  character ;  his  lassitude,  his  morbid  me- 
lancholy, his  love  of  fame,  his  dejection,  his  ta- 
vern parties,  and  his  wandering  reveries,  Vacuat 
mala  somnia  mentis,  about  which  so  much  has 
been  written  ;  all  are  painted  in  miniature,  but 
in  vivid  colours,  by  his  own  hand.  His  idea  of 
writing  more  dictionaries  was  not  merely  said 
in  verse.  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  was  at  that  time 
an  eminent  printer,  and  well  acquainted  with 
Dr.  Johnson,  remember*  that  he  engaged  in  a 
Commercial  Dictionary,  and,  as  appears  by  the 
receipts  in  his  possession?  was  paid  his  price  for 
several  sheets  ;  but  he  soon  relinquished  the  un 
dertaking.  It  is  probable  that  he  found  himscJ'' 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


not  sufficiently  versed  in  that  branch  of  know- 
ledge. 

He  was  again  reduced  to  the  expedient  of 
short  compositions  for  the  supply  of  the  day. 
The  writer  of  this  narrative  has  now  before  him 
a  letter  in  Dr.  Johnson's  hand-writing,  which 
shows  the  distress  and  melancholy  situation  of 
the  man  who  had  written  the  Rambler,  and 
finished  the  great  work  of  his  Dictionary.  The 
letter  is  directed  to  Mr.  Richardson  (the  author 
of  Clarissa,)  and  is  as  follows : 

«  SIR, 

"I  am  obliged  to  entreat  your  assistance.  I 
am  now  under  an  arrest  for  five  pounds  eigh- 
teen shillings.  Mr.  Strahan,  from  whom  I  should 
have  received  the  neccessary  help  in  this  case,  is 
not  at  home  ;  and  I  am  afraid  of  not  finding  Mr. 
Millar.  If  you  will  be  so  c;ood  as  to  send  me 
this  sum,  I  will  very  gratefully  repay  you,  and 
add  it  to  all  former  obligations. 
"  I  am,  Sir, 

"  Your  most  obedient, 

"  and  most  humble  servant, 

"SAMUEL  JOHNSON." 
"  Gough-Square,  16  March." 

In  the  margin  of  this  letter  there  is  a  memo- 
randum in  these  words:  "March  16,  1756, 
Sent  six  guineas.  Witness,  Wm.  Richardson." 
For  the  honour  of  an  admired  writer  it  is  to  be 
regretted,  that  we  do  not  find  a  more  liberal  en- 
try. To  his  friend  in  distress  he  sent  eight  shil- 
lings more  than  was  wanted.  Had  an  incident 
of  this  kind  occurred  in  one  of  his  Romances, 
Richardson  would  have  known  how  to  grace 
his  hero ;  but  in  fictitious  scenes,  generosity  costs 
the  writer  nothing. 

About  this  time  Johnson  contributed  several 
papers  to  a  periodical  Miscellany,  called  "  The 
VISITOR,"  from  motives  which  are  highly  ho- 
nourable to  him,  a  compassionate  regard  for  the 
late  Mr.  Christopher  Smart  The  Criticism  on 
Pope's  Epitaphs  appeared  in  that  work.  In  a 
short  time  after  he  became  a  reviewer  in  the 
Literary  Magazine,  under  the  auspices  of  the 
late  Mr.  Newberry,  a  man  of  a  projecting  head, 
good  taste,  and  great  industry.  This  employ- 
ment engrossed  but  little  of  Johnson's  time 
He  resigned  himself  to  indolence,  took  no  exer- 
cise, rose  about  two,  and  then  received  the  visits 
of  his  friends.  Authors  long  since  forgotten, 
waited  on  him  as  their  oracle,  and  he  gave  re- 
sponses in  the  chair  of  criticism.  He  listened 
to  the  complaints,  the  schemes,  and  the  hopes 
and  fears,  of  a  crowd  of  inferior  writers,  "who." 
he  said,  in  the  words  of  Roger  Ascham,  "  lived, 
men  knew  not  how,  and  died  obscure,  men  marked 
not  when."  He  believed  that  he  could  give  a 
better  history  of  C4rub-street  than  any  man  liv- 
ing. His  house  was  filled  with  a  succession  of 
visitors  till  four  or  five  in  the  evening.  During 
the  whole  time  he  presided  at  his  tea-table.  Tea 
was  his  favourite  beverage ;  and,  when  the  late 
Jonas  Hanway  pronounced  his  anathema  against 
the  use  of  tea,  Johnson  rose  in  defence  of  his  ha- 
bitual practice,  declaring  himself  "  in  that  article 
a  hardened  sinner,  who  had  for  years  diluted  his 
meals  with  the  infusion  of  that  fascinating  plant ; 
whose  tea-kettle  had  no  time  to  cool :  who  with 
tea  solaced  the  midnight  hour,  and  with  tea  wel- 
comed the  morning." 


The  proposal  for  a  new  edition  of  Shakspeara, 
which  had  formerly  miscarried,  was  resumed  in 
the  year  175(5.  The  booksellers  readily  agreed 
to  his  terms;  and  subscription-tickets  were  is- 
sued out.  For  undertaking  this  work,  money, 
he  confessed  was  the  inciting  motive.  His  friends 
exerted  themselves  to  promote  his  interest;  and, 
in  the  mean  time,  he  engaged  in  a  new  periodi- 
cal production  called  "  The  Idler.''  The  first 
number  appeared  on  Saturday,  April  15,  1758; 
and  the  last,  April  5,  17GO.  The  profits  of  this 
work,  and  the  subscriptions  for  the  new  edition 
of  Shakspeare,  were  the  means  by  which  he 
supported  himself  for  four  or  five  years.  In 
1759  was  published  "  Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abys 
sinia."  His  translation  of  Lobo's  voyage  to 
Abyssinia  seems  to  have  pointed  out  that  coun- 
try for  the  scene  of  action ;  and  Rassila  Christos, 
the  General  of  Sultan  Segued,  mentioned  in  that 
work,  most  probably  suggested  the  name  of  the 
prince.  The  author  wanted  to  set  out  on  a  jour- 
ney to  Litchfield,  in  order  to  pay  the  last  offices 
of  filial  piety  to  his  mother,  who,  at  the  age  of 
ninety,  was  then  near  her  dissolution  ;  but  mo- 
ney was  necessary.  Mr.  Johnston,  a  booksel 
ler,  who  has  long  since  left  off  business,  gave 
one  hundred  pounds  for  the  copy.  With  this 
supply  Johnson  set  out  for  Litchfield  ;  but  did 
not  arrive  in  time  to  close  the  eyes  of  a  parent 
whom  he  loved.  He  attended  the  funeral, 
which,  as  appears  among  his  memorandums, 
was  on  the  23d  of  January,  1759. 

Johnson  now  found  it  necessary  to  retrench 
his  expenses.     He  gave  up  his  house  in  Gough 

Suare.  Mrs.  Williams  went  into  lodgings. 
e  retired  to  Gray's-Inn,  and  soon  removed  to 
chambers  in  the  Inner-Temple-lane,  where  he 
lived  in  poverty,  total  idleness,  and  the  pride  ot 
literature.  JV/agni  stat  nominis  umbra.  Mr. 
Fitzherbert  (the  father  of  Lord  St.  Helens,  the 
present  minister  at  Madrid,)  a  man  distin- 
guished through  life  for  his  benevolence  and 
other  amiable  qualities,  used  to  say,  that  he  paid 
a  morning  visit  to  Johnson,  intending  from  his 
chambers  to  send  a  letter  into  the  City  ;  but,  to 
his  great  surprise,  he  found  an  author  by  pro- 
fession without  pen,  ink,  or  paper.  The  late 
Dr.  Douglas,  bishop  of  Salisbury,  was  also 
among  those  who  endeavoured,  by  constant  at- 
tention, to  soothe  the  cares  of  a  mind  which  he 
knew  to  be  afflicted  with  gloomy  apprehensions. 
At  one  of  the  parties  made  at  his  house,  Bosco- 
vich,  the  Jesuit,  who  had  then  lately  introduced 
the  Newtonian  philosophy  at  Rome,  and,  after 
publishing  an  elegant  Latin  poem  on  the  sub- 
ject, was  made  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society, 
was  one  of  the  company  invited  to  meet  Dr. 
Johnson.  The  conversation  at  first  was  mostly 
in  French.  Johnson,  though  thoroughly  versed 
in  that  language,  and  a  professed  admirer  oi 
Boileau  and  La  Bruyero,  did  hot  understand  its 
pronunciation,  nor  could  he  spoak  it  himself 
with  propriety.  For  the  rest  of  the  evening  the 
talk  was  in  Latin.  Boscovich  had  a  ready 
current  flow  of  that  flimsy  phraseology  with 
which  a  priest  may  travel  through  Italy,  Spain, 
and  Germany.  Johnson  scorned  what  he  called 
colloquial  barbarisms.  It  was  his  pride  to  speak 
his  best.  He  went  on,  after  a  little  practice, 
with  as  much  facility  as  if  it  was  his  native 
tongue.  One  sentence  his  writer  well  remem- 
bers. Observing  that  Fontenelle  at  first  op. 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


posed  the  Newtonian  philosophy,  and  embraced 
it  afterwards,  his  words  were :  Fontenellus,  m 
fallor  in  extrem  senedute,  fuit  transfuga  ad 
castra  Jfeictoniana. 

We  have  now  travelled  through  that  part  of 
Dr.  Johnson's  life  which  was  a  perpetual  strug- 
gle with  difficulties.  Halcyon  days  are  now  to 
open  upon  him.  In  the  month  of  May  1762, 
his  Majesty,  to  reward  literary  merit,  signified 
his  pleasure  to  grant  to  Johnson  a  pension  of 
three  hundred  pounds  a  year.  The  Earl  of 
Bute  was  minister.  Lord  Loughborough,  who, 
perhaps,  was  originally  a  mover  in  the  business, 
had  authority  to  mention  it.  He  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  Johnson ;  but,  having  heard 
much  of  his  independent  spirit,  and  of  the 
downfall  of  Osborne  the  bookseller,  he  did  not 
know  but  his  benevolence  might  be  rewarded 
with  a  folio  on  his  head.  He  desired  the  au- 
thor of  these  memoirs  to  undertake  the  task. 
This  writer  thought  the  opportunity  of  doing  so 
much  good  the  most  happy  incident  in  his  life. 
He  went,  without  delay,  to  the  chambers  in 
the  Inner  Temple-lane,  which,  in  fact,  were  the 
abode  of  wretchedness.  By  slow  and  studied 
approaches  the  message  was  disclosed.  Johnson 
made  a  long  pause  :  he  asked  if  it  was  seriously 
intended  ?  He  fell  into  a  profound  meditation, 
and  his  own  definition  of  a  pensioner  occurred 
to  him.  He  was  told,  "That  he,  at  least,  did 
not  come  within  the  definition."  He  desired  to 
meet  next  day  and  dine  at  the  Mitre  Tavern. 
At  that  meeting  he  gave  up  all  his  scruples.  On 
the  following  day  Lord  Loughborough  conduct- 
ed him  to  the  Earl  of  Bute.  The  conversation 
that  passed  was  in  the  evening  related  to  this 
writer  by  Dr.  Johnson.  He  expressed  his 
sense  of  his  Majesty's  bounty,  and  thought 
himself  the  more  highly  honoured,  as  the  favour 
was  not  bestowed  on  him  for  having  dipped  his 
pen  in  faction.  "No,  Sir,"  said  Lord  Bute, 
"it  is  not  offered  to  you  for  having  dipped  your 
pen  in  faction,  nor  with  a  design  that  you  ever 
should."  Sir  John  Hawkins  will  have  it,  that 
after  this  interview,  Johnson  was  often  pressed 
to  wait  on  Lord  Bute  :  but  with  a  sullen  spirit 
refused  to  comply.  However  that  be,  Johnson 
was  never  heard  to  utter  a  disrespectful  word  of 
that  nobleman.  The  writer  of  this  essay  re- 
members a  circumstance  which  may  throw  some 
light  on  this  subject  The  late  Dr.  Rose,  of 
Chiswick,  whom  Johnson  loved  and  respected, 
contended  for  the  pre-eminence  of  the  Scotch 
writers  ;  and  Ferguson's  book  on  Civil  Society, 
then  on  the  eve  of  publication,  he  said,  would 
give  the  laurel  to  North  Britain.  "  Alas  !  what 
can  he  do  upon  that  subject  ?"  said  Johnson  : 
"Aristotle,  Polybius,  Grotius,  Puffendorf,  and 
Burlemaqui,  have  reaped  in  that  field  before 
him."  "  He  will  treat  it,"  said  Dr.  Rose,  "in 
a  new  mannner."  "  A  new  manner !  Buck- 
inger  had  no  hands,  and  he  wrote  his  name 
with  his  toes  at  Charing-cross,  for  half-a-crown- 
a-piece;  that  was  a  new  manner  of  writing!" 
Dr.  Rose  replied,  "  If  that  will  not,  satisfy  you, 
I  will  name  a  writer,  whom  you  must  allow  to 
be  the  best  in  the  kingdom."  "  Who  is  that  ?" 
"  The  Earl  of  Bute,  when  he  wrote  an  order  for 
your  pension."  "  There,  Sir,"  said  Johnson, 
"  you  have  me  in  the  toil :  to  Lord  Bute  I  must 
allow  whatever  praise  you  may  claim  for  him." 
Ingratitude  was  no  part  of  Johnson's  character, 
(c) 


Being  now  in  the  possession  of  a  regular  in- 
come, Johnson  left  his  chambers  in  the  Temple, 
and  once  more  became  master  of  a  house  in 
Johnson's-court,    Fleet-street.     Dr.  Levet,  his 
friend  and  physician  in  ordinary,*  paid  his  daily 
visits  with  assiduity  ;  made  tea  all  the  morning, 
talked  what  he  had  to  say,  and  did  not  expect 
an  answer.     Mrs.  Williams  had  her  apartment 
in   the  house,  and    entertained  her  benefactor 
with  more  enlarged  conversation.      Chemistry 
was  part  of   Johnson's  amusement     For  this 
love    of    experimental    philosophy,    Sir    John 
Hawkins   thinks   an    apology  necessary.     He 
tells  us,  with  great  gravity,  that  curiosity  was 
the  only  object  in  view ;    not  an  intention  to 
grow  suddenly  rich  by  the  philosopher's  stone, 
or  the  transmutation  of  metals.     To  enlarge  his 
circle,  Johnson   once  more  had  recourse  to  a 
literary  club.     This  was  at  the  Turk's  Head, 
in    Gerard-street,    Soho,  on    every    Tuesday 
evening  through    the    year.       The    members 
were,  besides  himself,  the  Right  Hon.  Edmund 
Burke,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Dr.  Nugent,  Dr. 
Goldsmith,    the  late   Mr.  Topham    Beauclerk, 
Mr.   Langton,    Mr.  Chamier,  Sir  John  Haw- 
kins, and  some  others.     Johnson's  affection  for 
Sir  Joshua  was  founded  on  a  long  acquaintance, 
and  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  virtues  and 
amiable  qualities  of  that  excellent  artist.     He 
delighted  in  the   conversation   of   Mr.  Burke. 
He  met  him  for  the  first  time  at  Mr.  Garrick's, 
several  years  ago.     On  the  next  day  he  said,  "  I 
suppose,  Murphy,  you  are  proud  of  your  coun- 
tryman.     CUM    TALIS   SIT    UTINAM   NOSTER    ES- 
SEX ?"  From  that  time  his  constant  observation 
was,  "That  a  man  of  sense  could  not  meet  Mr. 
Burke  by  accident,  under  a  gateway  to  avoid  a 
shower,  without  oeing  convinced  that  he   was 
the  first  man  in  England."     Johnson  felt  not 
only  kindness,    but  zeal    and  ardour    for  his 
friends.     He   did   every  thing  in  his  power  to 
advance  the  reputation  of  Dr.  Goldsmith.     He 
loved  him,  though  he  knew  his  failings,  and 
particularly  the  leaven  of  envy,  which  corroded 
:he  mind  of  that  elegant  writer,  and  made  him 
impatient,  without  disguise,   of  the  praises   be- 
stowed on  any  person  whatever.     Of  this  in- 
firmity, which  marked  Goldsmith's  character, 
Johnson  gave  a  remarkable  instance.     It  hap- 
pened that  he  went  with  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
ind  Goldsmith   to  see  the  Fantoccini,   which 
were  exhibited  some  years  ago  in  or  near  the 
Haymarket.      They  admired  the  curious   me- 
chanism by  which  the  puppets  were  made  to 
walk  the  stage,  draw  a  chair  to  the  table,  sit 
down,  write  a  letter,  and  perform  a  variety  of 
other  actions,  with  such  dexterity,  that  "  though 
Nature's  journeymen  made  the  men,  they  imi- 
tated humanity"    to    the    astonishment  of  the 
spectator.     The  entertainment  being  over,  the 
;hree  friends  retired  to  a  tavern.    Johnson  and 
Sir  Joshua  talked  with  pleasure  of  what  they 
lad  seen;   and  says. Johnson,  in  a  tone  of  ad- 
miration,  "How    the   little  fellow  brandished 
lis    spontoon  !"     "  There    is    nothing    in    it," 
replied  Goldsmith,  starting  up  with  impatience  ; 
'  give  me  a  spontoon ;  I  can  do  it  as  Avell  my- 
self." 

Enjoying  his  amusements  at  his  weekly  club, 
and  happy  in  a  state  of  independence,  Johnson 


•'  See  Johnson's  Epitaph  on  him. 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


gained  in  the  year  1765  another  resource,  which 
contributed  more  than  any  thing  else  to  exempt 
him  from  the  solicitudes  oflife.  He  was  intro- 
duced to  the  late  Mr.  Thrale  and  his  family. 
Mrs.  Piozzi  has  related  the  fact,  and  it  is  there- 
fore needless  to  repeat  it  in  this  place.  The 
author  of  this  narrative  looks  back  to  the  share 
he  had  in  that  business  with  self-congratulation, 
since  he  knows  the  tenderness  which  from  that 
time  soothed  Johnson's  cares  at  Streatham,  and 
prolonged  a  valuable  life.  The  subscribers  to 
Shakspeare  began  to  despair  of  ever  seeing  the 
promised  edition.  To  acquit  himself  of  this  ob- 
ligation, he  went  to  work  unwillingly,  but  pro- 
ceeded with  vigour.  In  the  month  of  October, 
1765,  Shakspeare  was  published;  and,  in  a  short 
time  after,  the  University  of  Dublin  sent  over  a 
diploma,  in  honourable  terms,  creating  him  a 
Doctor  of  Laws.  Oxford,  in  eight  or  ten  years 
afterwards,  followed  the  example ;  and  till  then 
Johnson  never  assumed  the  title  of  Doctor.  In 
1766  his  constitution  seemed  to  be  in  a  xapid  de- 
cline ;  and  that  morbid  melancholy  which  often 
clouded  his  understanding,  came  upon  him  with 
a  deeper  gloom  than  ever.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thrale 
paid  him  a  visit  in  this  situation,  and  found  him 
011  his  knees,  with  Dr.  Delap,  the  Rector  of 
Lewes,  in  Sussex,  beseeching  God  to  continue 
to  him  the  use  of  his  understanding.  Mr.  Thrale 
took  him  to  his  house  at  Streatham  ;  and  John- 
son from  that  time  became  a  constant  resident 
in  the  family.  He  went  occasionally  to  the  club 
in  Gerard-street;  but  his  head-quarters  were 
fixed  at  Streatham.  An  apartment  was  fitted 
up  for  him,  and  the  library  was  greatly  enlarged. 
Parties  were  constantly  invited  from  town ;  and 
Johnson  was  every  day  at  an  elegant  table,  with 
select  and  polished  company.  Whatever  could 
be  devised  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thrale  to  promote 
the  happiness,  and  establish  the  health  of  their 
guest,  was  studiously  performed  from  that  time 
to  the  end  of  Mr.  Thrale's  life.  Johnson  ac- 
companied the  family  in  all  their  summer  excur- 
sions to  Brighthelmstone,  to  Wales,  and  to  Paris. 
It  is  but  justice  to  Mr.  Thrale  to  say,  that  a 
more  ingenuous  frame  of  mind  no  man  possess- 
ed. His  education  at  Oxford  gave  him  the  ha- 
bits of  a  gentleman  ;  his  amiable  temper  recom- 
mended his  conversation  ;  and  the  goodness  of 
his  heart  made  him  a  sincere  friend.  That  he 
was  the  patron  of  Johnson  is  an  honour  to  his 
memory. 

In  petty  disputes  with  contemporary  writers, 
or  the  wits  of  the  age,  Johnson  was  seldom  en- 
tangled. A  single  incident  of  that  kind  may  not 
be  unworthy  of  notice,  since  it  happened  with  a 
man  of  great  celebrity  in  his  time.  A  number 
of  friends  dined  with  Garrick  on  a  Christmas- 
day.  Foote  was  then  in  Ireland.  It  was  said 
at  table,  that  the  modern  Aristophanes  (so 
Foote  was  called)  had  been  horse-whipped  by  a 
Dublin  apothecary,  for  mimicking  him  on  the 
stage.  "I  wonder,"  said  Garrick,  "that  any 
man  should  show  so  much  resentment  to  Foote ; 
he  has  a  patent  for  such  liberties  ;  nobody  ever 
thought  it  worth  his  while  to  quarrel  with  him  in 
London."  ''  I  am  glad,"  said  Johnson,  "  to  find 
that  the  man  is  rising  in  the  world."  The  ex- 
pression was  afterwards  reported  to  Foote ; 
who,  in  return,  gave  out,  that  he  would  produce 
the  Caliban  of  Literature  on  the  stage  Being 
informed  of  thia  design,  Johnson  sent  word  to 


Foote,  "  That  the  theatre  being  intended  for  the 
reformation  of  vice,  he  would  step  from  the 
boxes  on  the  stage,  and  correct  him  before  the 
audience."  Foote  knew  the  intrepidity  of  his 
antagonist,  and  abandoned  the  design.  No  ill- 
will  ensued.  Johnson  used  to  say,  "That,  for 
broad-faced  mirth,  Foote  had  not  his  equal." 

Dr.  Johnson's  fame  excited  the  curiosity  of  the 
King.  His  Majesty  expressed  a  desire  to  see  a 
man  of  whom  extraordinary  things  were  said. 
Accordingly,  the  librarian  at  Buckingham-house 
invited  Johnson  to  see  that  elegant  collection  of 
books,  at  the  same  time  giving  a  hint  of  what 
was  intended.  His  Majesty  entered  the  room ; 
and,  among  other  things,  asked  the  author,  "If 
he  meant  to  give  the  world  any  more  of  his 
compositions?"  Johnson  answered,  "That  he 
thought  he  had  written  enough."  "  And  I 
should  think  so  too,"  replied  his  Majesty,  "if 
you  had  not  written  so  well." 

Though  Johnson  thought  he  had  written 
enough,  his  genius,  even  in  spite  of  bodily  slug- 
gishness, could  not  lie  still.  In  1770  we  find 
him  entering  the  lists  as  a  political  writer.  The 
flame  of  discord  that  blazed  throughout  the  na- 
tion on  the  expulsion  of  Mr.  Wilkes,  and  the 
final  determination  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
that  Mr.  Luttrell  was  duly  elected,  by  206  votes 
against  1143,  spread  a  general  spirit  of  discon- 
tent. To  allay  the  tumult,  Dr.  Johnson  pub- 
lished The  False  Alarm.  Mrs.  Piozzi  informs 
us,  "That  this  pamphlet  was  written  at  her 
house,  between  eight  o'clock  on  Wednesday 
night  and  twelve  on  Thursday  night."  This 
celerity  has  appeared  wonderful  to  many,  and 
some  have  doubted  the  truth.  It  may,  how 
ever,  be  placed  within  the  bounds  of  probability. 
Johnson  has  observed  that  there  are  different 
methods  of  composition.  Virgil  was  used  to 
pour  out  a  great  number  of  verses  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  pass  the  day  in  retrenching  the  exube- 
rances, and  correcting  inaccuracies ;  and  it  was 
Pope's  'custom  to  write  his  first  thoughts  in  his 
first  words,  and  gradually  to  amplify,  decorate, 
rectify,  and  refine  them.  Others  employ  at 
once  memory  and  invention,  and  with  little  in- 
termediate use  of  the  pen,  form  and  polish  large 
masses  by  continued  meditation,  and  write  their 
productions  only,  when,  in  their  opinion,  they 
have  completed  them.  This  last  was  Johnson's 
method.  He  never  took  his  pen  in  hand  till  he 
had  well  weighed  his  subject,  and  grasped  in  his 
mind  the  sentiments,  the  train  of  argument,  a:id 
the  arrangement  of  the  whole.  As  he  often 
thought  aloud,  he  had,  perhaps,  talked  it  over  to 
himself.  This  may  account  for  that  rapidity 
with  which,  in  general,  he  despatched  his  sheets 
to  the  press,  without  being  at  the  trouble  of  a 
fair  copy.  Whatever  may  be  the  logic  or  elo- 
quence of  the  False  Alarm,  the  House  of  Com- 
mons ha-we  since  erased  the  resolution  from  the 
Journals.  But  whether  they  have  not  left  ma- 
terials for  a  future  controversy,  may  be  made  a 
question. 

In  1771,  he  published  another  tract,  on  the 
subject  of  Falkland  islands.  The  design  was 
to  show  the  impropriety  of  going  to  war  with 
Spain  for  an  island  thrown  aside  from  human 
use,  stormy  in  winter,  and  barren  in  summer. 
For  this  work  it  is  apparent  that  materials  were 
furnished  by  direction  of  the  minister. 

At  the  approach  of  the  general  election  in 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


xix 


1774,  he  wrote  a  short  discourse,  called  The 
Patriot ;  not  with  any  visible  application  to  Mr. 
Wilkes ;  but  to  teach  the  people  to  reject  the 
leaders  of  opposition,  who  called  themselves  pa- 
triots. In  1775  he  undertook  a  pamphlet  of 
more  importance,  namely,  Taxation  no  Tyran- 
ny, in  answer  to  the  Resolutions  and  Address 
of  the  American  Congress.  The  scope  of  the 
argument  was,  that  distant  colonies,  which  had 
in  their  assemblies  a  legislature  of  their  own, 
were,  notwithstanding,  liable  to  be  taxed  in  a 
British  Parliament,  where  they  had  neither 
peers  in  one  house,  nor  representatives  in  the 
other.  He  was  of  opinion,  that  this  country 
was  strong  enough  to  enforce  obedience.  "  When 
an  Englishman,"  he  says,  "is  told  that  the 
Americans  shoot  up  like  the  hydra,  he  naturally 
considers  how  the  hydra  was  destroyed."  The 
event  has  shown  how  much  he  and  the  minister 
of  that  day  were  mistaken. 

The  Account  of  the  Tour  to  the  Western 
Islands  of  Scotland,  which  was  undertaken  in 
the  autumn  of  1773,  in  company  with  Mr.  Bos- 
well,  was  not  published  till  some  time  in  the 
year  1775.  This  book  has  been  variously  re- 
ceived; by  some  extolled  for  the  elegance  of  the 
narrative,  and  the  depth  of  observation  on  life 
and  manners  ;  by  others,  as  much  condemned, 
as  a  work  of  avowed  hostility  to  the  Scotch  na- 
tion. The  praise  was,  beyond  all  question, 
fairly  deserved  ;  and  the  censure,  on  due  exami- 
nation, will  appear  hasty  and  ill-founded.  That 
Johnson  entertained  some  prejudices  against  the 
Scotch,  must  not  be  dissembled.  It  is  true,  as 
Mr.  Boswell  says,  "  that  he  thought  their  suc- 
cess in  England  exceeded  their  proportion  of 
real  merit,  and  he  could  not  but  see  in  them  that 
nationality  which  no  liberal-minded  Scotsman 
will  deny."  The  author  of  these  memoirs  well 
remembers,  that  Johnson  one  day  asked  him, 
"  Have  you  observed  the  difference  between 
your  own  country  impudence  and  Scotch  im- 
pudence ?"  The  answer  being  in  the  negative : 
"Then  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Johnson.  "The 
impudence  of  an  Irishman  is  the  impudence  of 
a  fly,  that  buzzes  about  you,  and  you  put  it 
away,  but  it  returns  again,  and  flutters  and 
teazes  you.  The  impudence  of  a  Scotsman  is 
the  impudence  of  a  leech,  that  fixes,  and  sucks 
your  blood."  Upon  another  occasion,  this 
writer  went  with  him  into  the  shop  of  Davis  the 
bookseller,  in  Russel-street,  Covent-garden. 
Davis  came  running  to  him  almost  out  of  breath 
with  joy :  "  The  Scots  gentleman  is  come,  Sir; 
his  principal  wish  is  to  see  you  ;  he  is  now  in 
the  back-parlour."  "Well,  well,  I'll  see  the 
gentleman,"  said  Johnson.  He  walked  towards 
the  room.  Mr.  Boswell  was  the  person.  This 
writer  followed  with  no  small  curiosity.  "  I 
find,"  said  Mr.  Boswell,  "  that  I  am  come  to 
London  at  a  bad  time,  when  great  popular  pre- 
judice has  gone  forth  against  us  North  Britons ; 
but  when  I  am  talking  to  you,  I  am  talking  to 
a  large  and  liberal  mind,  and  you  know  that  I 
cannot  help  coming  from  Scotland."  "  Sir," 
said  Johnson,  "no  more  can  the  rest  of  your 
countrymen."* 

He  had  other  reasons  that  helped  to  alienate 


*Mr.  Boswell's  account  of  this  introduction  is  very 
different  from  the  above.  See  his  Life  of  Johnson,  vol.  1. 
p.  360,  8vo.  Edit.  1804 


him  from  the  natives  of  Scotland.  Being  a  cor- 
dial well-wisher  to  the  constitution  in  Church 
and  State,  he  did  not  think  that  Calvin  and  John 
Knox  were  proper  founders  of  a  national  reli- 
gion. He  made,  however,  a  wide  distinction 
between  the  Dissenters  of  Scotland  and  the 
Separatists  of  England.  To  the  former  he  im- 
puted no  disaffection,  no  want  of  loyalty.  Their 
soldiers  and  their  officers  had  shed  their  blood 
with  zeal  and  courage  in  the  service  of  Great 
Britain ;  and  the  people,  he  used  to  say,  were 
content  with  their  own  established  modes  of 
worship,  without  wishing,  in  the  present  age,  to 
give  any  disturbance  to  the  Church  of  England. 
This  he  was  at  all  times  ready  to  admit ;  and 
therefore  declared,  that  whenever  he  found  a 
Scotchman  to  whom  an  Englishman  was  as  a 
Scotchman,  that  Scotchman  should  be  as  an  En- 
glishman to  him.  In  this,  surely,  there  was  no 
rancour,  no  malevolence.  The  Dissenters  on 
this  side  the  Tweed  appeared  to  him  in  a  dif 
ferent  light.  Their  religion,  he  frequently  said, 
was  too  worldly,  too  political,  too  restless  and 
ambitious.  The  doctrine  of  cashiering  kings, 
and  erecting  on  the  ruins  of  the  constitution  a 
new  form  of  government,  which  lately  issued 
from  their  pulpits,  he  always  thought  was,  under 
a  calm  disguise,  the  principle  that  lay  lurking  in 
their  hearts.  He  knew  that  a  wild  democracy 
had  overturned  Kings,  Lords,  and  Commons ; 
and  that  a  set  of  Republican  Fanatics,  who 
would  not  bow  at  the  name  of  Jesus,  had  taken 
possession  of  all  the  livings  and  all  the  parishes 
in  the  kingdom.  That  those  scenes  of  horror 
might  never  be  renewed,  was  the  ardent  wish 
of  Dr.  Johnson ;  and  though  he  apprehended 
no  danger  from  Scotland,  it  is  probable  that  his 
dislike  of  Calvinism  mingled  sometimes  with 
his'  reflections  on  the  natives  of  that  country. 
The  association  of  ideas  could  not  be  easily 
broken  ;  but  it  is  well  known  that  he  loved  and 
respected  many  gentlemen  from  that  part  of  the 
island.  Dr,  Robertson's  History  of  Scotland, 
and  Dr.  Beattie's  Essays,  were  subjects  of  his 
constant  praise.  Mr.  Boswell,  Dr.  Rose  of 
Chiswick,  Andrew  Millar,  Mr.  Hamilton,  the 
printer,  and  the  late  Mr.  Strahan,  were  among 
his  most  intimate  friends.  Many  others  might 
be  added  to  the  list  He  scorned  to  enter  Scot- 
land as  a  spy  ;  though  Ha%vkins,  his  biographer, 
and  the  professing  defender  of  his  fame,  allow- 
ed himself  leave  to  represent  him  in  that  igno- 
ble character.  He  went  into  Scotland,  to  survey 
men  and  manners.  Antiquities, "  fossils,  and 
minerals,  were  not  within  his  province.  He 
did  not  visit  that  country  to  settle  the  station  of 
Roman  camps,  or  the  spot  where  Galgacus 
fought  the  last  battle  for  public  liberty.  The 
people,  their  customs,  and  the  progress  of  litera- 
ture were  his  objects.  The  civilities  which  he 
received  in  the  course  of  his  tour  have  been  re- 
paid with  grateful  acknowledgment,  and  gene- 
rally, with  great  elegance  of  expression.  His 
crime  is,  that  he  found  the  country  bare  of  trees, 
and  he  has  stated  the  fact.  This,  Mr.  Boswell, 
in  his  Tour  to  the  Hebrides,  has  told  us,  was  re- 
sented by  his  countrymen  with  anger  inflamed  to 
rancour ;  but  he  admits  that  there  are  few  trees 
on  the  east  side  of  Scotland.  Mr.  Pennant,  in 
his  Tour,  says,  that  in  some  parts  of  the  eastern 
side  of  the  country,  he  saw  several  large  planta- 
tions of  pine  planted  by  gentlemen  near  their 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


seats  ;  and  in  this  respect  such  a  laudable  spirit 
prevails,  that,  in  another  half  century  it  never 
shall  be  said,  "  To  spy  the  nakedness  of  the  land 
are  you  come."  Johnson  could  not  wait  for  that 
half  century,  and  therefore  mentioned  things  as 
he  found  them.  If  in  any  thing  he  has  been 
mistaken,  he  has  made  a  fair  apology  in  the  last 
paragraph  of  his  book,  avowing  with  candour, 
"  That  he  may  have  been  surprised  by  modes  of 
life,  and  appearances  of  nature,  that  are  familiar 
to  men  of  wider  survey,  and  more  varied  con- 
versation. Novelty  and  ignorance  must  always 
be  reciprocal;  and  he  is  conscious  that  his 
thoughts  on  national  manners  are  the  thoughts 
of  one  who  has  seen  but  little." 

The  Poems  of  Ossian  made  a  part  of  John- 
son's inquiry  during  his  residence  in  Scotland 
and  the  Hebrides.  On  his  return  to  England, 
November,  1773,  a  storm  seemed  to  be  gathering 
over  his  head ;  but  the  cloud  never  burst,  and 
the  thunder  never  fell, — Ossian,  it  is  well  known, 
was  presented  to  the  public  as  a  translation 
from  the  Earse  ;  but  that  this  was  a  fraud,  John- 
son declared  without  hesitation.  "  The  Earse," 
he  says,  "  was  always  oral  only,  and  never  a 
written  language.  The  Welsh  and  the  Irish 
were  more  cultivated.  Iq  Earse  there  was  not 
in  the  world  a  single  manuscript  a  hundred 
years  old.  Martin,  who  in  the  last  century  pub- 
lished an  Account  of  the  Western  Islands,  men- 
tions Irish,  but  never  Earse  manuscripts,  to  be 
found  in  the  islands  in  his  time.  The  bards 
could  not  read ;  if  they  could,  they  might  proba- 
bly have  written,  But  the  bard  was  a  barbarian 
among  barbarians,  and,  knowing  nothing  him- 
self, lived  with  others  that  knew  no  more.  If 
there  is  a  manuscript  from  which  the  transla- 
tion was  made,  in  what  age  was  it  written,  and 
where  is  it  ?  If  it  was  collected  from  oral  recita- 
tion, it  could  only  he  in  detached  parts  and  scat- 
tered fragments  ;  the  whole  is  too  long  to  be  re- 
membered. Who  put  it  together  in  its  present 
form?"  For  these  and  such  like  reasons,  John- 
son calls  the  whole  an  imposture.  He  adds, 
"  The  editor,  or  author,  never  could  show  the 
original,  nor  can  it  be  shown  by  any  other.  To 
revenge  reasonable  incredulity,  by  refusing  evi- 
dence, is  a  degree  of  insolence  with  which  the 
world  is  not  yet  acquainted  ;  and  stubborn  auda- 
city is  the  last  refuge  of  guilt."  This  reasoning 
carries  with  it  great  weight.  It  roused  the  re- 
sentment of  Mr.  Macpherson.  He  sent  a  threat- 
ening letter  to  the  author;  and  Johnson  an- 
swered him  in  the  rough  phrase  of  stern  defiance. 
The  two  heroes  frowned  at  a  distance,  but  ne- 
ver came  to  action. 

In  the  year  1777,  the  misfortunes  of  Dr.  Docld 
excited  his  compassion.  He  wrote  a  speech  for 
that  unhappy  man,  when  called  up  to  receive 
judgment  of  death;  besides  two  petitions,  one 
to  the  King,  and  another  to  the  Q.ueen :  and  a 
sermon  to  be  preached  by  Dodd  to  the  convicts 
in  Newgate.  It  may  appear  trifling  to  add,  that 
about  the  same  time  he  wrote  a  prologue  to  the 
comedy  of  "A  Word  to  the  Wise,"  written  by 
Hugh  Kelly.  The  play,  some  years  before,  had 
been  damned  by  a  party  on  the  first  night.  It 
was  revived  for  the  benefit  of  the  author's  wi- 
dow. Mrs.  Piozzi  relates,  that  when  Johnson 
was  rallied  for  these  exertions,  so  close  to  one 
another,  his  answer  was,  "When  they  come  to 
me  with  a  dying  Parson,  and  a  dead  Stay-ma- 


ker, what  can  a  man  do?"  We  come  now  to  the 
last  of  his  literary  labours.  At  the  request  of 
the  Booksellers  he  undertook  the  Lives  of  the 
Poets.  The  first  publication  was  in  1779,  and 
the  whole  was  completed  in  1781.  In  a  memo- 
randum of  that  year  he  says,  some  time  in  M  arch 
he  finished  the  Lives  of  the  Poets,  which  he 
wrote  in  his  usual  way,  dilatorily  and  hastily, 
unwilling  to  work,  yet  working  with  vigour  and 
haste.  In  another  place,  he  hopes  they  are 
written  in  such  a  manner  as  may  tend  to  the 
promotion  of  piety.  That  the  history  of  so 
many  men,  who,  in  their  different  degrees,  made 
themselves  conspicuous  in  their  time,  was  not 
written  recently  after  their  deaths,  seems  to  be 
an  omission  that  does  no  honour  to  the  Republic 
of  Letters.  Their  contemporaries  in  general 
looked  on  with  calm  indifference,  and  suffered 
Wit  and  Genius  to  vanish  out  of  the  world  in 
total  silence,  unregarded,  and  unlamented.  Was 
there  no  friend  to  pay  the  tribute  of  a  tear  ?  No 
just  observer  of  life,  to  record  the  virtues  of  the 
deceased?  Was  even  Envy  silent?  It  seemed  to 
have  been  agreed,  that  if  an  author's  works  sur- 
vived, the  history  of  the  man  was  to  give  no 
moral  lesson  to  after  ages.  If  tradition  told  us 
that  Ben  Johnson  went  to  the  Devil  Tavern ; 
that  Shakspeare  stole  deer,  and  held  the  stirrup 
at  playhouse  doors;  that  Dryden  frequented 
Button's  Coffee-house;  curiosity  was  lulled 
asleep,  and  biography  forgot  the  best  part  of  her 
function,  which  is  to  instruct  mankind  by  ex- 
amples taken  from  the  school  of  life.  This  task 
remained  for  Dr.  Johnson,  when  years  had  roll- 
ed away;  when  the  channels  of  information 
were,  for  the  most  part,  choked  up,  and  little 
remained  besides  doubtful  anecdote,  uncertain 
tradition,  and  vague  report. 

"  Nunc  situs  informis  prcmit  et  deserta  Vetustas. 

The  value  of  Biography  has  been  better  un. 
derstood  in  other  ages,  and  in  other  countries 
Tacitus  informs  us,  that  to  record  the  lives  and 
characters  of  illustrious  men  was  the  practice  of 
the  Roman  authors,  in  the  early  periods  of  the 
Republic.  In  France  the  example  has  been  fol- 
lowed. Fontenelle,  D'Alcmbert,  and  Monsieur 
Thomas  have  left  models  in  this  kind  of  com- 
position. They  have  embalmed  the  dead.  But 
it  is  true,  that  they  had  incitements  and  advan- 
tages, even  at  a  distant  day,  which  could  not,  by 
any  diligence,  be  obtained  by  Dr.  Johnson. 
The  wits  of  France  had  ample  materials.  They 
lived  in  a  nation  of  critics,  who  had  at  heart  the 
honour  done  to  their  country  by  their  Poets, 
their  Heroes,  and  their  Philosophers.  They 
had,  besides,  an  Academy  of  Belles-Lettres,  where 
Genius  was  cultivated,  refined,  and  encouraged. 
They  had  the  tracts,  the  essays,  and  disserta- 
tions, which  remain  in  the  memoirs  of  the  Aca 
demy,  and  they  had  the  speeches  of  the  several 
members,  delivered  at  their  first  admission  to  a 
seat  in  that  learned  Assembly.  In  those  speech- 
es the  new  Academician  did  ample  justice  to 
the  memory  of  his  predecessor ;  and  though  his 
harangue  was  decorated  with  the  colours  of  elo- 
quence, and  was,  for  that  reason,  called  pane- 
gyric, yet  being  pronounced  before  qualified 
judges,  who  knew  the  talents,  the  conduct  ana 
morals  of  the  deceased,  the  speaker  could  not, 
with  propriety,  wander  into  the  regions  of  fie 


GENIUS  OP  DR.  JOHNSON. 


tion.  The  truth  was  known,  before  it  was 
adorned.  The  Academy  saw  the  marble  before 
the  artist  polished  it.  But  this  country  has  had 
no  Academy  of  Literature.  The  public  mind, 
for  centuries,  has  been  engrossed  by  party  and 
faction  ;  by  the  madness  of  many  far  the  gain  of  a 
few ;  by  civil  wars,  religious  dissensions,  trade 
and  commerce,  and  the  arts  of  accumulating 
wealth.  Amidst  such  attentions,  who  can  won- 
der that  cold  praise  has  been  often  the  only  re- 
ward of  merit?  In  this  country  Doctor  Nathaniel 
Hodges,  who,  like  the  good  bishop  of  Marseilles, 
drew  purer  breath  amidst  the  contagion  of  the 
plague  in  London,  and,  during  the  whole  time, 
continued  in  the  city,  administering  medical  as- 
sistance, was  suffered,  as  Johnson  used  to  re- 
late with  tears  in  his  eyes,  to  die  for  debt  in  a 
gaol.  In  this  country,  the  man  who  brought 
the  New  River  to  London  was  ruined  by  that 
noble  project ;  and  in  this  country,  Otway  died 
for  want  on  Tower  Hill;  Butler,  the  great  author 
of  Hudibras,  whose  name  can  only  die  with  the 
English  language,  was  left  to  languish  in  pover- 
ty, the  particulars  of  his  life  almost  unknown, 
and  scarce  a  vestige  of  him  left  except  his  immor- 
tal poem.  Had  there  been  an  Academy  of  Lite- 
rature, the  lives,  at  least,  of  those  celebrated  per- 
sons would  have  been  written  for  the  benefit  of 
posterity.  Swift,  it  seems,  had  the  idea  of  such 
an  institution,  and  proposed  it  to  Lord  Oxford  ; 
but  Whig  and  Tory  were  more  important  objects. 
It  is  needless  to  dissemble  that  Dr.  Johnson,  in 
the  Life  of  Roscommon,  talks  of  the  inutility 
of  such  a  project.  "  In  this  country,"  he  says, 
"  an  academy  could  be  expected  to  do  but  little. 
If  an  Academician's  place  were  profitable,  it 
would  be  given  by  interest ;  if  attendance  were 
gratuitous,  it  would  be  rarely  paid,  and  no  man 
would  endure  the  least  disgust.  Unanimity  is 
impossible,  and  debate  would  separate  the  as- 
sembly." To  this  it  may  be  sufficient  to  an- 
swer, that  the  Royal  Society  has  not  been  dis- 
solved by  sullen  disgust ;  and  the  modern  Aca- 
demy at  Somerset  House  has  already  performed 
much,  and  promises  more.  Unanimity  is  not 
necessary  to  such  an  assembly.  On  the  contra- 
ry, by  difference  of  opinions,  and  collision  of 
sentiment,  the  cause  of  literature  would  thrive 
and  flourish.  The  true  principles  of  criticism, 
the  secret  of  fine  writing,  the  investigation  of 
antiquities,  and  other  interesting  subjects,  might 
occasion  a  clash  of  opinion ;  but  in  that  conten- 
tion, Truth  Avould  receive  illustration,  and  the 
essays  of  the  several  members  would  supply  the 
memoirs  of  the  Academy.  "But,"  says  Dr. 
Johnson,  "  suppose  the  philological  decree  made 
and  promulgated,  what  would  be  its  authority? 
In  absolute  government  there  is  sometimes  a  ge- 
neral reverence  paid  to  all  that  has  the  sanction 
of  power,  the  countenance  of  greatness.  How 
little  this  is  the  state  of  our  country  needs  not  be 
told.  The  edicts  of  an  English  Academy  would 
probably  be  read  by  many,  only  that  they  may 
be  sure  to  disobey  them.  The  present  manners 
of  the  nation  would  deride  authority,  and  there- 
fore nothing  is  left,  but  that  every  writer  should 
criticise  himself."  This  surely  is  not  conclusive. 
It  is  by  the  standard  of  the  best  writers  that 
every  man  settles  for  himself  his  plan  of  legiti- 
mate composition ;  and  since  the  authority  of 
superior  genius  is  acknowledged,  that  authority, 
which  the  individual  obtains,  would  not  be  less- 


ened by  an  association  with  others  of  distin- 
guished ability.  It  may,  therefore,  be  inferred, 
that  an  Academy  of  Literature  would  be  an 
establishment  highly  useful,  and  an  honour  to 
Literature.  In  such  an  institution  profitable 
places  would  not  be  wanted.  Valis  avams  hand 
facile  est  animus;  and  the  minister,  who  shall 
find  leisure  from  party  and  factiou  to  carry  such 
a  scheme  into  execution,  will,  in  all  probability, 
be  respected  by  posterity  as  the  Maecenas  of 
letters. 

We  now  take  leave  of  Dr.  Johnson  as  an  au- 
thor. Four  volumes  of  his  Lives  of  the  Poets 
were  published  in  1778,  and  the  work  was  com- 
pleted in  1781.  Should  Biography  fall  again 
into  disuse,  there  will  not  always  be  a  Johnson 
to  look  back  through  a  century,  and  give  a  body 
of  critical  and  moral  instruction.  In  April  1781, 
he  lost  his  friend  Mr.  Thrale.  His  own  words, 
in  his  diary,  will  best  tell  that  melancholy  event. 
"  On  Wednesday  the  llth  of  April,  was  buried 
my  dear  friend  Mr.  Thrale,  who  died  on  Wed- 
nesday the  4th,  and  with  him  were  buried  many 
of  my  hopes  and  pleasures.  About  five,  I  think, 
on  Wednesday  morning  he  expired.  I  felt  al- 
most the  last  flutter  of  his  pulse,  and  looked  for 
the  last  time  upon  the  face,  that,  for  fifteen  years 
before,  had  never  been  turned  upon  me  but  with 
respect  and  benignity.  Farewell!  may  God, 
that  delighteth  in  mercy,  have  had  mercy  on 
thee!  I  had  constantly  prayed  for  him  before 
his  death.  The  decease  of  him,  from  whose 
friendship  I  had  obtained  many  opportunities  of 
amusement,  and  to  whom  I  turned  my  thoughts 
as  to  a  refuge  from  misfortunes,  has  left  me 
heavy.  But  my  business  is  with  myself."  From 
the  close  of  his  last  work,  the  malady  that  per- 
secuted him  through  life,  came  upon  him  with 
alarming  severity,  and  his  constitution  declined 
apace.  In  1782  his  old  friend  Level  expired 
without  warning,  and  without  a  groan.  Events 
like  these  reminded  Johnson  of  his  own  mor- 
tality. He  continued  his  visits  to  Mrs.  Thrale 
at  Streatham,  to  the  7th  day  of  October  1782, 
when  having  first  composed  a  prayer  for  the 
happiness  of  a  family  with  whom  he  had  for 
many  years  enjoyed  the  pleasures  and  comforts 
of  life,  he  removed  to  his  own  house  in  town. 
He  says  he  was  up  early  in  the  morning,  and 
read  fortuitously  in  the  Gospel,  which  was  his 
parting  use  of  the  library.  The  merit  of  the  fa- 
mily is  manifested  by  the  sense  he  had  of  it,  and 
we  see  his  heart  overflowing  with  gratitude. 
He  leaves  the  place  with  regret,  and  casts  a  lin- 
gering look  behind. 

The  few  remaining  occurrences  may  be  soon 
despatched.  In  the  month  of  June,  1783,  John- 
son had  a  paralytic  stroke,  which  affected  his 
speech  only.  He  wrote  to  Dr.  Taylor  of  West- 
minster ;  and  to  his  friend  Mr.  Allen,  the  printer, 
who  lived  at  the  next  door.  Dr.  Brocklesby  ar- 
rived in  a  short  time,  and  by  his  care,  and  that 
of  Dr.  Heberden,  Johnson  soon  recovered. 
During  his  illness  the  writer  of  this  narrative 
visited  him,  and  found  him  reading  Dr.  Wat- 
son's Chymistry.  Articulating  with  difficulty, 
he  said,  "  From  this  book  he  who  knows  no- 
thing may  learn  a  great  deal ;  and  he  who 
knows,  will  be  pleased  to  find  his  knowledge 
recalled  to  his  mind  in  a  manner  highly  pleas- 
ing." In  the  month  of  August  he  set  out  for 
Litchfield  on  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Lucy  Porter,  the 


\.\11 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


daughter  of  his  wife  by  her  first  husband ;  and 
in  his  way  back  paid  his  respects  to  Dr.  Adams 
at  Oxford.  Mrs.  Williams  died  at  his  house  in 
Bolt  Court,  in  the  month  of  September,  during 
his  absence.  This  was  another  shock  to  a  mind 
like  his,  ever  agitated  by  the  thpughts  of  futurity. 
The  contemplation  of  his  own  approaching  end 
was  constantly  before  his  eyes  ;  and  the  pros- 
pect of  death,  he  declared,  was  terrible.  For 
many  years,  when  he  was  not  disposed  to  enter 
into  the  conversation  going  forward,  whoever  sat 
near  his  chair,  might  hear  him  repeating  from 
Shakspeare, 

Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where ; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction  and  to  rot ; 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod,  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods 

And  from  Milton, 

Who  would  lose, 
For  fear  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being  ? 

By  the  death  of  Mrs.  Williams  he  was  left  in 
a  state  of  destitution,  with  nobody  but  Frank,  his 
black  servant,  to  soothe  his  anxious  moments. 
In  November  1783,  he  was  swelled  from  head 
to  foot  with  a  dropsy.  Dr.  Brocklesby,  with 
that  benevolence  with  which  he  always  assists 
his  friends,  paid  his  visits  with  assiduity.  The 
medicines  prescribed  were  so  efficacious,  that  in 
a  few  days  Johnson,  while  he  was  offering  up 
his  prayers  was  suddenly  obliged  to  rise,  and,  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  discharged  twenty  pints 
of  water. 

Johnson,  being  eased  of  his  dropsy,  began  to 
entertain  hopes  that  the  vigour  of  his  constitu- 
tion was  not  entirely  broken.  For  the  sake  of 
conversing  with  his  friends,  he  established  a 
conversation  club,  to  meet  on  every  Wednesday 
evening;  and  to  serve  a  man  whom  he  had 
known  in  Mr.  Thrale's  household  for  many 
years,  the  place  was  fixed  at  his  house  in  Essex- 
street,  near  the  Temple.  To  answer  the  malig- 
nant remarks  of  Sir  John  Hawkins  on  this  sub- 
ject, were  a  wretched  waste  of  time.  Profess- 
ing to  be  Johnson's  friend,  that  biographer  has 
raised  more  objections  to  his  character,  than  all 
the  enemies  to  that  excellent  man.  Sir  John 
had  a  root  of  bitterness  that  put  rancours  in  the 
vessel  of  his  peace.  Fielding,  he  says,  was  the 
inventor  of  a  cant  phrase,  Goodness  of  heart, 
which  means  little  more  than  the  virtue  of  a  horse 
or  a  dog:  He  should  have  known  that  kind  af- 
fections are  the  essence  of  virtue :  they  are  the 
will  of  God  implanted  in  our  nature,  to  aid  and 
strengthen  moral  obligation  ;  they  incite  to  ac- 
tion ;  a  sense  of  benevolence  is  no  less  neces- 
sary than  a  sense  of  duty.  Good  affections  are 
an  ornament  not  only  to  an  author,  but  to  his 
writings.  He  who  shows  himself  upon  a  cold 
scent  for  opportunities  to  bark  and  snarl  through- 
out a  volume  of  six  hundred  pages,  may,  if  he 
will,  pretend  to  moralize  ;  but  Goodness  of 
Heart,  or,  to  use  that  politer  phrase,  the  virtue 
of  a  horse  or  a  dog,  would  redound  more  to  his 
honour.  But  Sir  John  is  no  more  :  our  business 
is  with  Johnson.  The  members  of  his  club 
were  respectable  for  their  rank,  their  talents, 
and  their  literature.  They  attended  with  punc- 
tuality till  about  Midsummer  1784,  when,  with 


some  appearance  of  health,  Johnson  went  into 
Derbyshire,  and  thence  to  Litchfield.  While  he 
was  in  that  part  of  the  world,  his  friends  in  town 
were  labouring  for  his  benefit.  The  air  of  a 
more  southern  climate  they  thought  might  pro- 
long a  valuable  life.  But  a  pension  of  £300  a 
year  was  a  slender  fund  for  a  travelling  valetu- 
dinarian, and  it  was  not  then  known  that  he  had 
saved  a  moderate  sum  of  money.  Mr.  Boswell 
and  Sjr  Joshua  Reynolds  undertook  to  solicit 
the  patronage  of  the  Chancellor.  With  Lord 
Thurlpw,  while  he  was  at  the  bar,  Johnson  was 
well  acquainted.  He  was  often  heard  to  say, 
"  Thurlow  is  a  man  of  such  vigour  of  mind,  that 
I  never  knew  I  was  to  meet  him,  but — I  was  go- 
ing to  say,  I  was  afraid,  but  that  would  not  be 
true,  for  I  never  was  afraid  of  any  man  ;  but  I 
never  knew  that  I  was  to  meet  Thurlow,  but  I 
knew  I  had  something  to  encounter."  The 
Chancellor  undertook  to  recommend  Johnson's 
case ;  but  without  success.  To  protract  if  pos- 
sible the  days  of  a  man  whom  he  respected,  he 
offered  to  advance  the  sum  of  five  hundred 
pounds.  Being  informed  of  this  at  Litchfield, 
Johnson  wrote  the  following  letter: 

"My  Lord, 

"  After  a  long  and  not  inattentive  observation 
of  mankind,  the  generosity  of  your  Lordship's 
offer  raises  in  me  not  less  wonder  than  grati- 
tude. Bounty,  so  liberally  bestowed,  I  should 
gladly  receive  if  my  condition  made  it  necessary; 
for  to  such  a  mind  who  would  not  be  proud  to 
own  his  obligations  ?  But  it  has  pleased  God  to 
restore  me  to  so  great  a  measure  of  health,  that 
if  I  should  now  appropriate  so  much  of  a  fortune 
destined  to  do  good,  I  could  not  escape  from 
myself  the  charge  of  advancing  a  false  claim. 
My  journey  to  the  continent,  though  I  once 
thought  it  necessary,  was  never  much  encou- 
raged by  my  physicians;  and  I  was  very  desirous 
that  your  Lordship  should  be  told  it  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  as  an  event  very  uncertain  ;  for  if  I 
grew  much  better,  I  should  not  be  willing ;  if 
much  worse,  I  should  not  be  able  to  migrate. 
Your  Lordship  was  first  solicited  without  my 
knowledge ;  but  when  I  was  told  that  you  were 
pleased  to  honour  me  with  your  patronage,  I  did 
not  expect  to  hear  of  a  refusal ;  yet^as  1  have 
had  no  long  time  to  brood  hopes,  and  have  not 
rioted  in  imaginary  opulence,  this  cold  reception 
has  been  scarce  a  disappointment;  and  from 
your  Lordship's  kindness  I  have  received  a  be- 
nefit which  only  men  like  you  are  able  to  be- 
stow. I  shall  now  live  mihi  carior,  with  a  higher 
opinion  of  my  own  merit. 
I  am,  my  Lord, 

Your  Lordship's  most  obliged, 
most  grateful,  and  most  humble  sen-ant, 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

"  Sept.  1784." 

We  have  in  this  instance  the  exert'on  of  two 
congenial  minds:  one,  with  a  generous  impulse 
relieving  merit  in  distress  ;  and  the  other,  by 
gratitude  and  dignity  of  sentiment,  rising  to  an 
equal  elevation. 

It  seems,  however,  that  greatness  of  mind  is 
not  confined  to  greatness  of  rank.  Dr.  Brock- 
lesby was  not  content  to  assist  with  his  medical 
art ;  he  resolved  to  minister  to  his  patient's  mind, 
and  pluck  from  his  memory  the  sorrow  which  the 


GMsIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


xxiu 


late  refusal  from  a  high  quarter  might  occasion. 
To  enable  him  to  visit  the  south  of  France  in 
pursuit  of  health,  he  offered  from  his  own  funds 
an  annuity  of  one  hundred  pounds,  payable 
quarterly.  This  was  a  sweet  oblivious  antidote, 
but  it  was  not  accepted  for  the  reasons  assigned 
to  the  Chancellor.  The  proposal,  however,  will 
do  honour  to  Dr.  Brocklesby,  as  long  as  liberal 
sentiment  shall  be  ranked  among  the  social 
virtues. 

In  the  month  of  October,  1784,  we  find  Dr. 
Johnson  corresponding  with  Mr.  Nichols,  the 
intelligent  compiler  of  the  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine, and,  in  the  languor  of  sickness,  still  desir- 
ous to  contribute  all  in  his  power  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  science  and  useful  knowledge.  He 
says,  in  a  letter  to  that  gentleman,  dated  Litch- 
field,  October  20,  that  he  should  be  glad  to  give 
so  skilful  a  lover  of  antiquities  any  information. 
He  adds,  "  At  Ashburne,  where  I  had  very  lit- 
tle company,  I  had  the  luck  to  borrow  Mr.  Bow- 
yer's  Life,  a  book  so  full  of  contemporary  his- 
tory, that  a  literary  man  must  find  some  of  his 
old"  friends.  I  thought  that  I  could  now  and 
then  have  told  you  some  hints  worth  your  no- 
tice :  We  perhaps  may  talk  a  life  over.  I  hope 
we  shall  be  much  together.  You  must  now  be 
to  me  what  you  were  before,  and  what  dear  Mr. 
Allen  was  besides.  He  was  taken  unexpectedly 
away,  but  I  think  he  was  a  very  good  man.  I 
have  made  very  little  progress  in  recovery.  I 
am  very  weak,  and  very  sleepless ;  but  I  live  on 
and  hope." 

In  that  languid  condition  he  arrived,  on  the 
16th  of  November,  at  his  house  in  Bolt  Court, 
there  to  end  his  days.  He  laboured  with  the 
dropsy  and  an  asthma.  He  was  attended  by 
Dr.  Heberden,  Dr.  Warren,  Dr.  Brocklesby, 
Dr.  Butter,  and  Mr.  Cruikshank,  the  eminent 
surgeon.  Eternity  presented  to  his  mind  an 
awful  prospect,  and,  with  as  much  virtue  as  per- 
haps ever  is  the  lot  of  man,  he  shuddered  at  the 
thought  of  his  dissolution.  His  friends  awak- 
ened the  comfortable  reflection  of  a  well-spent 
life  ;  and,  as  his  end  drew  near,  they  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  him  composed,  and  even 
cheerful,  insomuch  that  he  was  able,  in  the 
course  of  his  restless  nights,  to  make  transla- 
tions of  Greek  epigrams  from  the  Anthologia  ; 
and  to  compose  a  Latin  epitaph  for  his  father, 
his  mother,  and  his  brother  Nathaniel.  He 
moditated,  at  the  same  time,  a  Latin  inscrip- 
tion to  the  memory  of  Garrick ;  but  his  vigour 
was  exhausted. 

His  love  of  literature  was  a  passion  that  stuck 
to  his  last  sand.  Seven  days  before  his  death 
he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  his  friend  Mr. 
Nichols : 

"  SIR, 

"  THE  late  learned  Mr.  Swinton,  of  Oxford, 
having  one  day  remarked  that  one  man,  mean- 
ing, I  suppose,  no  man  but  himself,  could  assign 
all  the  parts  of  the  Ancient  Universal  History 
to  their  proper  Authors,  at  the  request  of  Sir 
Robert  Chambers,  or  myself,  gave  the  account 
which  I  now  transmit  to  you  in  his  own  hand, 
being  willing  that  of  so  great  a  work  the  history 
should  be  known,  and  that  each  writer  should 
receive  his  due  proportion  of  praise  from  pos- 
terity. 

"I  recommend  to  you  to  preserve  this  scrap 


of  literary  intelligence  in  Mr.  Swinton's  own 
hand,  or  to  deposit  it  in  the  Museum,*  that  the 
veracity  of  this  account  may  never  be  doubted. 

"  I  am.  Sir, 
"  Your  most  humble  servant, 

SAM.  JOHNSON." 
Dec.  6,  1784. 

Mr.  Swinton. 

The  History  of  the  Carthaginians,  Numidians, 
Mauritinians,  Gaetulians,  Garamantes,  Mela- 
no-Gaetulians,  Nigritae,  Cyrenaica,  Manna- 
rica,  Regio  Syrtica,  Turks,  Tartars,  and  Mo- 
guls, Indians,  Chinese,  Dissertation  on  the 
peopling  of  America,  Dissertation  on  the  In 
dependency  of  the  Arabs. 
The  Cosmogony,  and  a  small  part  of  the  history 

immediately  following.     By  M.  Sale. 
To   the  Birth  of  Abraham.      Chiefly  by  Mr. 

Shelvock. 
History  of  the  Jews,  Gauls,  and  Spaniards.   By 

Mr.  F  Salmanazar. 

Xenophon's  Retreat.    By  the  same. 
History  of  the  Persians,  and  the  Constantino- 

politan  Empire.     By  Dr.  Campbell 
History  of  the  Romans.     By  Mr.  Bower,  f 

On  the  morning  of  Dec.  7,  f)i.  Johnson  re- 
quested to  see  Mr.  Nichols.  A  few  days  before, 
he  had  borrowed  some  of  the  early  volumes  of 
the  Magazine,  with  a  professed  intention  to 
point  out  the  pieces  which  he  had  written  in 
that  collection.  The  books  lay  on  the  table, 
with  many  leaves  doubled  down,  and  in  parti- 
ticular  those  which  contained  his  share  in  the 
Parliamentary  Debates.  Such  was  the  good- 
ness of  Johnson's  heart,  that  he  then  declared, 
that  "  those  debates  were  the  only  parts  of  hia 
writings  which  gave  him  any  compunction  : 
but  that  at  the  time  he  wrote  them  he  had  no 
conception  that  he  was  imposing  upon  the 
world,  though  they  were  frequently  written 
from  very  slender  materials,  and  often  from 
none  at  all,  the  mere  coinage  of  his  own  ima- 
gination." He  added,  "  that  he  never  wrote 
any  part  of  his  work  with  equal  velocity. 
Three  columns  of  the  Magazine  in  an  hour," 
he  said,  "  was  no  uncommon  effort  ;  which  was 
faster  than  most  persons  could  have  transcribed 
that  quantity.  In  one  day  in  particular,  and 
that  not  a  very  long  one,  he  wrote  twelve  pages, 
more  in  quantity  than  ever  he  wrote  at  any 
other  time,  except  in  the  Life  of  Savage,  of 
which  forty-eight  pages  in  octavo  were  the 
production  of  one  long  day,  including  a  part  of 
the  night" 

In  the  course  of  the  conversation  he  asked, 
whether  any  of  the  family  of  Faden  the  printer, 
were  living.  Being  told  that  the  geographer 
near  Charing-Cross  was  Faden's  son,  he  said, 
after  a  short  pause,  "  I  borrowed  a  guinea  of 
his  father  near  thirty  years  ago ;  be  so  good  as 
to  take  this,  and  pay  it  for  me." 


*  It  is  there  deposited.     J.  N. 

t  Before  this  authentic  communication,  Mr.  Nichols  had 
given,  in  the  volume  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for 
1731,  p.  370,  the  following  account  of  the  Universal  His- 
tory. The  proposals  were  published  October  6,  1729, 
and  the  authors  of  the  first  seven  volumes  were, 

Vol.  1.  Mr.  Sale,  translator  of  the  Koran  —II.  George 
Psalmanazar. — III.  George  Psalmanazar,  Archibald  Bow- 
er, Captain  Shelvock,  Dr.  Campbell. — IV.  The  same  as 
vol.  III.— V.  Mr.  Bower.— VI.  Mr.  Bower,  Rev.  John 
Swinton. — VII.  Mr.  Swinton,  Sir.  Bower 


XXIV 

Wishing  to  discharge  every  duty,  and  every 
obligation,  Johnson  recollected  another  debt  of 
ten  pounds  which  he  had  borrowed  from  his 
friend  Mr.  Hamilton  the  printer,  about  twenty 
years  before.  He  sent  the  money  to  Mr.  Ha- 
milton, at  his  house  in  Bedford-Row,  with  an 
apology  for  the  length  of  time.  The  Reverend 
Mr.  Strahan  was  the  bearer  of  the  message, 
about  four  or  five  days  before  Johnson  breathed 
his  last. 

Mr.  Sastress  (whom  Dr.  Johnson  esteemed 
and  mentioned  in  his  will)  entered  the  room 
during  his  illness.  Dn  Johnson,  as  soon  as  he 
saw  him,  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and,  in  a 
tone  of  lamentation,  called  out,  JAM  MORITU- 
Rtis  !  But  the  love  of  life  was  still  an  active 
principle.  Feeling  himself  swelled  with  the 
dropsy,  he  conceived  that  by  incisions  in  his 
legs,  the  water  might  be  discharged.  Mr/  Cruik- 
shank  apprehended  that  a  mortification  might 
be  the  consequence ;  but,  to  appease  a  distem- 
pered fancy,  he  gently  lanced  the  surface.  John- 
son cried  out,  "  Deeper,  deeper  !  I  want  length 
of  life,  and  you  are  afraid  of  giving  me  pain, 
which  I  do  not  value." 

On  the  8th  of  December,  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Strahan  drew  h^is  will,  by  which,  after  a  few 
legacies,  the  residue,  amounting  to  about  fifteen 
hundred  pounds,  was  bequeathed  to  Frank,  the 
black  servant,  formerly  consigned  to  the  testa- 
tor by  his  friend  Dr.  Bathurst. 

The  history  of  a  death-bed  is  painful.  Mr. 
Strahan  informs  us,  that  the  strength  of  religion 
prevailed  against  the  infirmity  of  nature  ;  and 
his  foreboding  dread  of  the  Divine  Justice  sub- 
sided into  a  pious  trust  and  humble  hope  of 
mercy  at  the  Throne  of  Grace.  On  Monday 
the  13th  day  of  December  (the  last  of  his  exist- 
ence on  this  side  the  grave,)  the  desire  of  life 
returned  with  all  its  former  vehemence.  He 
still  imagined,  that,  by  puncturing  his  legs  re-' 
lief  might  be  obtained.  At  eight  in  the  morn- 
ing he  tried  the  experiment,  but  no  water  fol- 
lowed. In  an  hour  or  two  after  he  fell  into 
a  doze,  and  about  seven  in  the  evening  expired 
without  a  groan. 

On  the  20th  of  the  month  his  remains,  with 
due  solemnities,  and  a  numerous  attendance  of 
his  friends,  were  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
near  the  foot  of  Shakspeare's  monument,  and 
close  to  the  grave  of  the  late  Mr.  Garrick.  The 
funeral  service  was  read  by  his  friend  Dr.  Tay- 
lor. 

A  black  marble  over  his  grave  has  the  follow- 
ing inscription  : 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON',  LL.  D. 

obiit  xni  die  Decembris, 

Anno  Domini 

MDCCLXXXIV. 

jEtatis  suae  LXXV. 

If  we  now  look  back,  as  from  an  eminence,  to 
view  the  scenes  of  life,  and  the  literary  labours 
in  which  Dr.  Johnson  was  engaged,  we  may  be 
able  to  delineate  the  features  of  the  man,  and  to 
fonn  an  estimate  of  his  genius. 

As  a  man,  Dr.  Johnson  stands  displayed  in 
open  daylight.  Nothing  remains  undiscovered. 
Whatev'er  he  said  is  known ;  and  without  al- 
lowing him  the  usual  privilege  of  hazarding 
sentiments,  and  advancing  positions,  for  mere 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFB»AND 


amusement,  or  the  pleasure  of  discussion,  Cri- 
ticism has  endeavoured  to  make  him  answerable 
for  what,  perhaps,  he  never  seriously  thought. 
His  diary,  which  has  been  printed,  discovers 
still  more.  We  have  before  us  the  very  heart 
of  the  man,  with  all  his  inward  consciousness. 
And  yet  neither  in  the  open  palhs  of  life,  nor  in 
his  secret  recesses,  has  any  one  vice  been  disco- 
vered. We  see  him  reviewing  every  year  of  his 
life,  and  severely  censuring  himself  for  not  keep- 
ing resolutions,  which  morbid  melancholy,  and 
other  bodily  infirmities,  rendered  impracticable. 
We  see  him  for  every  little  defect  imposing  on 
himself  voluntary  penance,  going  through  the 
day  with  only  one  cup  of  tea  without  milk,  and 
to  the  last,  amidst  paroxysms  and  remissions  of 
illness,  forming  plans  of  study  and  resolutions 
to  amend  his  life.*  Many  of  his  scruples  may 
be  called  weaknesses ;  but  they  are  the  weak- 
nesses of  a  good,  a  pious  and  most  excellent 
man. 

His  person,  it  is  well-known,  was  large  and 
unwieldy.  His  nerves  were  affected  by  that 
disorder,  for  which,  at  two  years  of  age,  he  was 
presented  to  the  royal  touch.  His  head  shook, 
and  involuntary  motions  made  it  uncertain  that 
his  legs  and  arms  would,  even  at  a  tea-table,  re- 
main in  their  proper  place.  A  person  of  Lord 
Chesterfield's  delicacy  might  in  his  company  be 
in  a  fever.  He  would  sometimes  of  his  own 
accord  do  things  inconsistent  with  the  establish- 
ed modes  of  behaviour.  Sitting  at  table  with 
the  celebrated  Mrs.  Cholmondeley,  who  exerted 
herself  to  circulate  the  subscription  for  Sbak- 
speare,  he  took  hold  of  her  hand  in  the  middle 
of  dinner,  and  held  it  close  to  his  eye,  wondering 
at  the  delicacy  and  whiteness,  till  with  a  smile 
she  asked,  "  Will  he  give  it  to  me  again  when 
he  has  done  with  it?"  The  exteriors  of  polite- 
ness did  not  belong  to  Johnson.  Even  that  ci- 
vility which  proceeds,  or  ought  to  proceed,  from 
the  mind,  was  sometimes  violated.  His  morbid 
melancholy  had  an  effect  on  his  temper;  his 
passions  were  irritable ;  and  the  pride  of  science, 
as  well  as  of  a  fierce,  independent  spirit,  in- 
flamed him  on  some  occasions  above  all  bounds 
of  moderation.  Though  not  in  the  shade  of 
academic  bowers,  he  led  a  scholastic  life ;  and 
the  habit  of  pronouncing  decisions  to  his  friends 
and  visitors  gave  him  a  dictatorial  manner, 
which  was  much  enforced  by  a  voice  naturally 
loud,  and  often  overstretched.  Metaphysical 
discussion,  moral  theory,  systems  of  religion, 
and  anecdotes  of  literature,  were  his  favourite 
topics.  General  history  had  little  of  his  regard. 
Biography  was  his  delight.  The  proper  study  of 
mankind  is  man.  Sooner  than  hear  of  the  Punic 
war,  he  would  be  rude  to  the  person  that  intro- 
duced the  subject. 

Johnson  was  born  a  logician ;  one  of  those, 
to  whom  only  books  of  logic  are  said  to  be  of 
use.  In  consequence  of  his  skill  in  that  art,  he 
loved  argumentation.  No  man  thought  more 
profoundly,  nor  with  such  acute  discernment. 
A  fallacy  could  not  stand  before  him ;  it  was 
sure  to  be  refuted  by  strength  of  reasoning,  and 
a  precision  both  in  idea  and  expression  almost 
unequalled.  When  he  chose  by  apt  illustration 
to  place  the  argument  of  his  adversary  in  a  lu 


*  On  the  subject  of  voluntary  penance,  Eee  the  Ram 
bier,  No.  CX. 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


dicr./us  light,  one  was  almost  inclined  to  think 
ridicule  the  test  of  truth.  He  was  surprised  to 
be  told,  bat  it  was  certainly  true,  that,  with  great 
powers  of  mind,  wit  and  humour  were  his  shin- 
ing talents.  T  he  often  argued  for  the  sake 
of  triumph  over  his  adversary,  cannot  be  dis- 
sembled. Dr.  Rose,  of  Chiswick,  has  been 
heard  to  tell  of  a  friend  of  his,  who  thanked  him 
for  introducing  him  to  Dr.  Johnson,  as  he  had 
been  convinced,  in  the  course  of  a  long  dispute, 
that  an  opinion,  which  he  had  embraced  as  a 
settled  truth,  was  no  better  than  a  vulgar  error. 
This  being  reported  to  Johnson,  "Nay,"  said 
he,  "do  not  let  him  be  thankful,  for  he  was  right, 
and  I  was  wrong."  Like  his  uncle  Andrew,  in 
the  ring  at  Smithfield,  Johnson,  in  a  circle  of 
disputants,  was  determined  neither  to  be  thrown 
nor  conquered.  Notwithstanding  all  his  piety, 
self-government,  or  the  command  of  his  pas- 
sions in  conversation,  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
among  his  attainments.  Whenever  he  thought 
the  contention  was  for  superiority,  he  has  been 
known  to  break  out  with  violence,  and  even  fe- 
rocity. When  the  fray  was  over,  he  generally 
softened  into  repentance,  and,  by  conciliating 
measures,  took  care  that  no  animosity  should  be 
left  rankling  in  the  breast  of  his  antagonist.  Of 
this  defect  he  seems  to  have  been  conscious.  In 
a  letter  to  Mrs.  Thrale,  he  says,  "Poor  Baretti ! 
do  not  quarrel  with  him ;  to  neglect  him  a  little 
will  be  sufficient.  He  means  only  to  be  frank 
and  manly,  and  independent,  and  perhaps,  as 
you  sav  a  little  wise.  To  be  frank,  he  thinks, 
is  to  be  cynical ;  and  to  be  independent,  is  to  be 
rude.  Forgive  him,  dearest  lady,  the  rather, 
because  of  his  misbehaviour  I  am  afraid  he 
learned  part  of  me.  I  hope  to  set  him  here- 
after a  better  example."  For  his  own  intolerant 
and  overbearing  spirit  he  apologized  by  observ- 
ing, that  it  had  done  some  good ;  obscenity  and 
impiety  were  repressed  in  his  company. 

It  was  late  in  life  before  he  had  the  habit  of 
mixing,  otherwise  than  occasionally,  with  polite 
company.  At  Mr.  Thrale's,  he  saw  a  constant 
succession  of  well-accomplisl^dvisitors.  In 
that  society  he  began  to  "'m^f?  the  rugged 
points  of  his  own  character.  T^^awthe  advan- 
tages of  mutual  civility,  and  endeavoured  to  profit 
by  the  models  before  him.  He  aimed  at  what 
has  been  called  by  Swift  the  lesser  morals,  and  by 
Cicero  minores  virtutes.  His  endeavour,  though 
new  and  late,  gave  pleasure  to  all  his  acquaint- 
ance. Men  were  glad  to  see  that  he  was  willing 
to  be  communicative  on  equal  terms  and  recipro- 
cal complaisance.  The  time  was  then  expect- 
ed when  he  was  to  cease  being  what  George 
Garrick,  brother  to  the  celebrated  actor,  called 
him  the  first  time  he  heard  him  converse,  "  A 
TREMENDOUS  COMPANION."  He  certainly  wished 
to  be  polite,  and  even  thought  himself  so ;  but 
his  civility  still  retained  something  uncouth  and 
harsh.  His  manners  took  a  milder  tone,  but  the 
endeavour  was  too  palpably  seen.  He  laboured 
even  in  trifles.  He  was  a  giant  gaining  a  pur- 
chase to  lift  a  feather. 

It  is  observed  by  the  younger  Pliny,  that  in 
the  confines  of  virtue  and  great  qualities  there 
are  generally  vices  of  an  opposite  nature.  In  Dr. 
Johnson  not  one  ingredient  can  take  the  name 
of  vice.  From  his  attainments  in  literature 
grew  the  pride  of  knowledge ;  and  from  his  pow- 
ers of  reasoning,  the  love  of  disputation  and  the 
(d) 


vainglory  of  superior  vigour.  His  piety,  in 
some  instances,  bordered  on  superstition.  He 
was  willing  to  believe  in  preternatural  agency, 
and  thought  it  not  more  strange  that  there 
should  be  evil  spirits  than  evil  men.  Even  the 
question  about  second  sight  held  him  in  sus- 
pense. "  Second  sight,"  Mr.  Pennant  tells  us, 
"  is  a  power  of  seeing  images  impressed  on  the 
organs  of  sight  by  the  power  of  fancy,  or  on  the 
fancy  by  the  disordered  spirits  operating  on  the 
mind.  It  is  the  faculty  of  seeing  spectres  or 
visions,  which  represent  an  event  actually  pass- 
ing at  a  distance,  or  likely  to  happen  at  a  future 
day.  In  J771,  a  gentleman,  the  last  who  was 
supposed  to  be  possessed  of  this  faculty,  had  a 
boat  at  sea  in  a  tempestuous  night,  and,  being 
anxious  for  his  freight,  suddenly  started  up,  and 
said  his  men  would  be  drowned,  for  he  had  seen 
them  pass  before  him  with  wet  garments  and 
dripping  locks.  The  event  corresponded  with 
his  disordered  fancy.  And  thus,"  continues 
Mr.  Pennant,  "  a  distempered  imagination, 
clouded  with  anxiety,  may  make  an  impression 
on  the  spirits;  as  persons,  restless  and  troubled 
with  indignation,  see  various  forms  and  figures 
while  they  lie  awake  in  bed."  This  is  what  Dr. 
Johnson  was  not  willing  to  reject.  He  wished 
for  some  positive  proof  of  communications  with 
another  world.  His  benevolence  embraced  the 
whole  race  of  man,  and  yet  was  tinctured  with 
particular  prejudices.  He  was  pleased  with 
the  minister  in  the  Isle  of  Sky,  and  loved  him  so 
much  that  he  began  to  wish  him  not  a  Presby- 
terian. To  that  body  of  Dissenters  his  zeal  for 
the  Established  Church  made  him  in  some  de- 
gree an  adversary  ;  and  his  attachment  to  a 
mixed  and  limited  Monarchy  led  him  to  declare 
open  war  against  what  he  called  a  sullen  Re- 
publican. He  would  rather  praise  a  man  of 
Oxford  than  of  Cambridge.  ,  He  disliked  a 
Whig,  and  loved  a  Tory.  These  were  the 
shades  of  his  character,  which  it  has  been  the 
business  of  certain  party-writers  to  represent  in 
the  darkest  colours. 

Since  virtue,  or  moral  goodness,  consists  in  a 
just  conformity  of  our  actions  to  the  relations  in 
which  we  stand  to  the  Supreme  Being  and  to 
our  fellow  creatures,  where  shall  we  find  a  man 
who  has  been,  or  endeavoured  to  be,  more  dili- 
gent in  the  discharge  of  those  essential  duties  ? 
His  first  prayer  was  composed  in  1738  ;  he  con- 
tinued those  fervent  ejaculations  of  piety  to  the 
end  of  his  life.  In  his  Meditations  we  see  him 
scrutinizing  himself  with  severity,  and  aiming 
at  perfection  unattainable  by  man.  His  duty  to 
his  neighbour  consisted  in  universal  benevolence, 
and  a  constant  aim  at  the  production  of  happi- 
ness. Who  was  more  sincere  and  steady  in  his 
friendships?  It  has  been  said  that  there  was  no 
real  affection  between  him  and  Garrick.  On 
the  part  of  the  latter,  there  might  be  some  cor- 
rosions of  jealousy.  The  character  of  PROS- 
PERO,  in  the  Rambler,  No.  200,  was,  beyond  all 
question,  occasioned  by  Garrick's  ostentatious 
display  of  furniture  and  Dresden  china.  It  was 
surely  fair  to  take  from  this  incident  a  hint  for  a 
moral  essay  ;  and  though  no  more  was  intended, 
Garrick,  we  are  told,  remembered  it  with  unea 
siness.  He  was  also  hurt  that  his  Litchfield 
friend  did  not  think  so  highly  of  his  dramatic 
art  as  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  fact  was, 
Johnson  could  not  see  the  passions  as  they  rose 


rxvi 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


and  chased  one  another  in  the  varied  features 
of  that  expressive  face ;  and  by  his  own  manner 
of  reciting  verses,  which  was  wonderfully  im- 
pressive, he  plainly  showed  that  he  thought 
there  was  too  much  of  artificial  tone  and  mea- 
sured cadence  in  the  declamation  of  the  theatre. 
The  present  writer  well  remembers  being  in 
conversation  with  Dr.  Johnson  near  the  side  of 
the  scenes  during  the  tragedy  of  King  Lear : 
when  Garrick  came  off  the  stage,  he  said, 
"  You  two  talk  so  loud  you  destroy  all  my  feel- 
ings." "Prithee,"  replied  Johnson,  "do  not 
talk  of  feelings,  Punch  has  no  feelings."  This 
seems  to  have  been  his  settled  opinion  ;  admi- 
rable as  Garrick's  imitation  of  nature  always 
was,  Johnson  thought  it  no  better  than  mere 
mimicry.  Yet  it  is  certain  that  he  esteemed  and 
loved  Garrick ;  that  he  dwelt  with  pleasure  on 
his  praise ;  and  used  to  declare,  that  he  deserved 
his  great  success,  because  on  all  applications 
for  charity  he  gave  more  than  was  asked.  Af- 
ter Garrick's  death  he  never  talked  of  him  with- 
out a  tear  in  his  eye.  He  offered,  if  Mrs.  Gar- 
rick would  desire  it  of  him,  to  be  the  editor  of 
his  works  and  the  historian  of  his  life.*  It  has 
been  mentioned,  that  on  his  death-bed  he 
thought  of  writing  a  Latin  inscription  to  the 
memory  of  his  friend.  Numbers  are  still  living 
who  know  these  facts,  and  still  remember  with 
gratitude  the  friendship  which  he  showed  to 
them  with  unaltered  affection  for  a  number  of 
years.  His  humanity  and  generosity,  in  pro- 
portion to  his  slender  income  were  unbounded. 
It  has  been  truly  said,  that  the  lame,  the  blind, 
and  the  sorrowful,  found  in  his  house  a  sure  re- 
treat A  strict  adherence  to  truth  he  considered 
as  a  sacred  obligation,  insomuch  that,  in  relating 
the  most  minute  anecdote,  he  would  not  allow 
himself  the  smallest  addition  to  embellish  his 
story.  The  late  Mr.  Tyers,  who  knew  Dr. 
Johnson  intimately,  observed,  "that  he  always 
talked  as  if  he  was  talking  upon  oath." 

After  a  long  acquaintance  with  this  excellent 
man,  and  an  attentive  retrospect  to  his  whole 
conduct,  such  is  the  light  in  which  he  appears 
to  the  writer  of  this  essay.  The  following  lines 
of  Horace  may  be  deemed  his  picture  in  mi- 
niature. 

Iracundior  est  paulo,  minus  aptus  acutii 

ffaribus  horum  hominum,  rideri  possit,  eo  quod 

ftusticius  tonso  toga  defluit,  et  male  laxus 

Inpede  calceus  hteret ;  at  est  bonus,  utmelior  vir 

If  on  alias  quisquam:  at  tibi  amicus,  at  ingenium  ingtnt, 

Inculto  latet  hoc  sub  carport. 

•'  Your  friend  is  passionate,  perhaps  unfit 
For  the  brisk  petulance  of  modern  wit. 
His  hair  ill-cut,  his  robe  that  awkward  flows, 
Or  his  large  shoes,  to  raillery  expose 
The  man  you  love ;  yet  is  he  not  posscss'd 
Of  virtues,  with  which  very  few  are  bless'd  ? 
While  underneath  this  rude,  uncouth  disguise, 
A  genius  of  extensive  knowledge  lies." 

FRANCIS'  Hon.  Book.  i.  Sat.  3. 

It  remains  to  give  a  review  of  Johnson's 
works ;  and  this,  it  is  imagined,  will  not  be  un- 
welcome to  the  reader. 


*  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  was  not  encouraged  in 
this  undertaking.  The  assistance,  however,  which  he 
gave  to  Davies,  in  writing  the  Life  of  Garrick,  has  been 
acknowledged  in  general  terms  by  that  writer,  and  from 
the  evidence  of  style,  appears  to  have  been  very  conside- 
rable. C. 


Like  Milton  and  Addison,  he  seems  to  have 
been  fond  of  his  Latin  poetry.  Those  compo- 
sitions show  that  he  was  an  early  scholar ;  but 
his  verses  have  not  the  grac9*Y.l  ease  that  gave 
so  much  suavity  to  the  poems  v  Addison.  The 
translation  of  the  Messiah  laoours  under  two 
disadvantages ;  it  is  first  to  be  compared  with 
Pope's  inimitable  performance,  and  afterwards 
with  the  Pollio  of  Virgil.  It  may  appear  trifling 
to  remark,  that  he  has  made  the  letter  o,  in  the 
word  Virgo,  long  and  short  in  the  same  line ; 
Virgo,  Virgo  parit.  But  the  translation  has 
great  merit,  and  some  admirable  lines.  In  the 
odes  there  is  a  sweet  flexibility,  particularly,  To 
his  worthy  friend  Dr.  Laurence;  on  himself  at 
the  theatre,  March  8,  1771  ;  the  Ode  in  the  Isle 
of  Sky ;  and  that  to  Mrs.  Thrale  from  the  same 
place. 

His  English  poetry  is  such  as  leaves  room  to 
think,  if  he  had  devoted  himself  to  the  Muses, 
that  he  would  have  been  the  rival  of  Pope.  His 
first  production  in  this  kind  was  London,  a  poem 
in  imitation  of  the  third  satire  of  Juvenal.  The 
vices  of  the  metropolis  are  placed  in  the  room  of 
ancient  manners.  The  author  had  heated  his 
mind  with  the  ardour  of  Juvenal,  and,  having 
the  skill  to  polish  his  numbers,  he  became  a  sharp 
accuser  of  the  times.  The  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes  is  an  imitation  of  the  tenth  Satire  of  the 
same  author.  Though  it  is  translated  by  Dry- 
den,  Johnson's  imitation  approaches  nearest  to 
the  spirit  of  the  original.  The  subject  is  taken 
from  the  Alcibiades  of  Plato  and  has  an  inter- 
mixture of  the  sentiments  of  Socrates  concerning 
the  object  of  prayers  offered  up  to  the  Deity.  The 
general  proposition  is,  that  good  and  evil  are  so 
little  understood  by  mankind,  that  their  wishes 
when  granted  are  always  destructive.  This  is 
exemplified  in  a  variety  of  instances,  such  as 
riches,  state  preferment,  eloquence,  military  glo- 
ry, long  life,  and  the  advantages  of  form  and 
beauty.  Juvenal's  conclusion  is  worthy  of  a 
Christian  poet,  and  such  a  pen  as  Johnson's. 
"  Let  us,"  he  says,  "  leave  it  to  the  gods  to  judge 
what  is  fittest  fiyrus.  Man  is  dearer  to  his  Cre- 
ator than  to  hi^B|£  If  we  must  pray  for  spe- 
cial favour,  let^Pre  for  a  sound  mind  in  a  sound 
body.  Let  us.  pray  for  fortitude,  that  we  may 
think  the  labours  of  Hercules  and  all  his  suffer- 
ings preferable  to  a  life  of  luxury  and  the  soft 
repose  of  Sardanapalus.  This  is  a  blessing 
within  the  reach  of  every  man  ;  this  we  can  give 
ourselves.  It  is  virtue,  and  virtue  only,  that  can 
make  us  happy."  In  the  translation  the  zeal  of 
the  Christian  conspired  with  the  warmth  and 
energy  of  the  poet ;  but  Juvenal  is  not  eclipsed. 
For  the  various  characters  in  the  original,  the 
reader  is  pleased,  in  the  English  poem,  to  meet 
with  Cardinal  VVolsey,  Buckingham  stabbed  by 
Felton,  Lord  Strafford,  Clarendon,  Charles  XII. 
of  Sweden  ;  and  for  Tully  and  Demosthenes, 
Lydiat,  Galileo,  and  Archbishop  Laud.  It  is 
owing  to  Johnson's  delight  in  biography  that  the 
name  of  Lydiat  is  called  forth  from  obscurity.  It 
may,  therefore,  not  be  useless  to  tell,  that  Lydiat 
was  a  learned  divine  and  mathematician  in  the 
beginning  of  the  last  century.  He  attacked  the 
doctrine  of  Aristotle  and  Scaliger,  and  wrote  a 
number  of  sermons  on  the  harmony  of  the  Evan- 
gelists. With  all  his  merit,  he  lay  in  the  prison 
of  Bocardo  at  Oxford,  till  Bishop  Usher,  Laud, 
and  others  paid  his  debts.  He  petitioned  Charles 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


XXVII 


I.  to  be  sent  to  Ethiopia  to  procure  manuscripts. 
Having  spoken  in  favour  of  monarchy  and  bi- 
shops, he  was  plundered  by  the  Puritans,  and 
twice  carried  away  a  prisoner  from  his  rectory. 
He  died  very  poor  in  1646. 

The  tragedy  of  Irene  is  founded  on  a  passage 
in  Knolies'  History  of  the  Turks ;  an  author 
highly  commended  in  the  Rambler,  No.  122. 
An  incident  in  the  Life  of  Mahomet  the  Great, 
first  Emperor  of  the  Turks,  is  the  hinge  on  which 
the  fable  is  made  to  move.  The  substance  of 
the  story  is  shortly  this.  In  1453  Mahomet  laid 
siege  to  Constantinople,  and  having  reduced  the 
place,  became  enamoured  of  a  fair  Greek,  whose 
name  was  Irene.  The  sultan  invited  her  to  em- 
brace the  law  of  the  Prophet,  and  to  grace  his 
throne.  Enraged  at  this  intended  marriage,  the 
Janizaries  formed  a  conspiracy  to  dethrone  the 
Emperor.  To  avert  the  impending  danger, 
Mahomet,  in  a  full  assembly  of  the  grandees, 
"catching  with  one  hand,"  as  Knolies  relates  it, 
"  the  fair  Greek  by  the  hair  of  her  head,  and 
drawing  his  falchion  with  the  other,  he,  at  one 
blow,  struck  off  her  head,  to  the  great  terror  of 
them  all ;  and,  having  so  done,  said  unto  them, 
Now,  by  this,  judge  whether  your  emperor  is 
able  to  bridle  his  affections  or  not."  The  story 
is  simple,  and  it  remained  for  the  author  to  am- 
plify it  with  proper  episodes,  and  giye  it  compli- 
cation and  variety.  The  catastrophe  is  changed, 
and  horror  gives  place  to  terror  and  pity.  But, 
after  all,  the  fable  is  cold  and  languid.  There 
is  not,  throughout  the  piece,  a  single  situation  to 
excite  curiosity,  and  raise  a  conflict  of  passions. 
The  diction  is  nervous,  rich,  and  elegant;  but 
splendid  language,  and  melodious  numbers,  will 
make  a  fine  poem,  not  a  tragedy.  The  senti- 


in  the  disasters  of  their  country ;  a  race  of  men, 
quibus  nidla  ex  honesto  spes. 

The  prologue  to  Irene  is  written  with  ele- 
gance, and,  in  a  peculiar  style,  shows  the  literary 
pride  and  lofty  spirit  of  the  author.  The  epilogue, 
we  are  told  in  a  late  publication  was  written  by 
Sir  William  Young.  This  is  a  new  discovery, 
but  by  no  means  probable.  When  the  append- 
ages to  a  dramatic  performance  are  not  assigned 
to  a  friend,  or  an  unknown  hand,  or  a  person  of 
fashion,  they  are  always  supposed  to  be  written 
by  the  author  of  the  play.  It  is  to  be  wished, 
however,  that  the  epilogue  in  question  could  be 
transferred  to  any  other  writer.  It  is  the  worst 
jeu  (Fesprit  that  ever  fell  from  Johnson's  pen.* 

An  account  of  the  various  pieces  contained  in 
this  edition,  such  as  miscellaneous  tracts,  and 
philological  dissertations,  would  lead  beyond  the 
intended  limits  of  this  essay.  It  will  suffice  to 
say,  that  they  are  the  productions  of  a  man  who 
never  wanted  decorations  of  language,  and  al- 
ways taught  his  readers  to  think.  The  life  of 
the  late  king  of  Prussia,  as  far  as  it  extends,  is  a 
model  of  the  biographical  style.  The  review  of 
the  Origin  of  Evil  was,  perhaps,  written  with  as- 
perity ;  but  the  angry  epitaph  which  it  provoked 
from  Soame  Jenyns,  was  an  ill-timed  resentment, 
unworthy  of  the  genius  of  that  amiable  author. 

The  Rambler  may  be  considered  as  Johnson's 
great  work.  It  was  the  basis  of  that  high  reputa- 
tion which  went  on  increasing  to  the  end  of  his 
days.  The  circulation  of  those  periodical  essays 
was  not,  at  first  equal  to  their  merit.  They  had 
not,  like  the  Spectators,  the  art  of  charming  by 
variety ;  and  indeed  how  could  it  be  expected  ? 
The  wits  of  dueen  Anne's  reign  sent  their  con- 
tributions to  the  Spectator ;  and  Johnson  stood 


ments  are  beautiful,  always  happily  expressed, 'alone.      "A    stage-coach,"    says    Sir   Richard 


but  seldom  appropriated  to  the  character,  and 
generally  too  philosophic.  What  Johnson  has 
said  of  the  tragedy  of  Cato  may  be  applied  to 
Irene :  "  It  is  rather  a  poem  in  dialogue  than  a 
drama ;  rather  a  succession  of  just  sentiments 
in  elegant  language,  than  a  representation  of  na- 
tural, affections.  Nothing  excites  or  assuages 
emotion.  The  events  are  expected  without  soli- 
citude, and  are  remembered  without  joy  or  sor- 
row. Of  the  agents  we  have  no  care ;  we  con- 
sider not  what  they  are  doing,  nor  what  they  are 
suffering ;  we  wish  only  to  know  what  they  have 
to  say.  It  is  unaffecting  elegance,  and  chill  phi- 
losophy." The  following  speech,  in  the  mouth 
of  a  Turk,  who  is  supposed  to  have  heard  of 
the  British  constitution,  has  been  often  selected 
from  the  numberless  beauties  with  which  Irene 
abounds : 

"  If  there  be  any  land,  as  fame  reports 
Where  common  laws  restrain  the  prince  and  subject ; 
A  happy  land,  where  circulating  power 
Flows  through  each  member  of  th'  embodied  state  ; 
Sure,  not  unconscious  of  the  mighty  blessing, 
Her  grateful  sons  shine  bright  with  every  virtue ; 
Untainted  with  the  lust  of  Innovation  ; 
Sure  all  unite  to  hold  her  league  of  rule, 
Unbroken  as  the  sacred  chain  of  nature, 
That  licks  the  jarring  elements  in  peace." 

These  are  British  sentiments.  Above  forty 
y  ears  ago  they  found  an  echo  in  the  breast  of 
applauding  audiences ;  and  to  this  hour  they  are 
the  voice  of  the  people,  in  defiance  of  the  meta- 
vhysics  and  the  new  lights  of  certain  politicians, 
who  would  gladly  find  their  private  advantage 


Steele,  "  must  go  forward  on  stated  days,  whe- 
her  there  are  passengers  or  not."  So  it  was  with 
he  Rambler,  every  Tuesday  and  Saturday,  for 
;wo  years.  In  this  collection  Johnson  is  the 
[rreat  moral  teacher  of  his  countrymen ;  his  es- 
says form  a  body  of  ethics  ;  the  observations  on 
life  and  manners  are  acute  and  instructive  ;  and 
he  papers,  professedly  critical,  serve  to  promote 
ihe  cause  of  literature.  It  must,  however,  be  ac- 
snowledged,  that  a  settled  gloom  hangs  over  the 
author's  mind ;  and  all  the  essays,  except  eight 
or  ten,  coming  from  the  same  fountain-head,  no 
wonder  that  they  have  the  raciness  of  the  soil 
from  which  they  sprang.  Of  this  uniformity 
Johnson  was  sensible.  He  used  to  say,  that  if  he 
had  joined  a  friend  or  two,  who  would  have  been 
able  to  intermix  papers  of  a  sprightly  turn,  the 
collection  would  have  been  more  miscellaneous, 
and  by  consequence  more  agreeable  to  the  ge- 
nerality of  readers.  This  he  used  to  illustrate 
by  repeating  two  beautiful  stanzas  from  his  own 
Ode  to  Cave,  or  Sylvanus  Urban; 

Non  ulla  Musis  pagina  gratipr, 
Quam  quae  severis  ludicra  jungere 
Novit,  fatigatamque  nugis 
Utilibus  recreare  nicnteiu. 

Texente  nymphis  serta  Lycoride, 
Rosa1  rubbrem  sic  viola  adjuvat 
Immista,  sic  Iris  refulget 
Althereis  variata  fucis. 


*  Dr.  Johnson  informed  Mr.  Boswell  that  this  epilogue 
was  written  by  Sir  William  Young.  See  Boswell's  Lift 
of  Johnson,  vol.  i.  p.  166—70.  8vo.  edit.  1504.  The  inter- 
nal  evidence  that  it  is  not  Johnson's,  is  very  strong,  parti- 
cularly in  the  Hue  "  But  how  the  devil,"  &c. 


-\\V111 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


It  is  remarkable  that  the  pomp  of  diction, 
which  has  been  objected  to  Johnson,  was  first 
assumed  in  the  Rambler.  His  Dictionary  was 
going  on  at  the  same  time,  and,  in  the  course  of 
that  work,  as  he  grew  familiar  with  technical 
and  scholastic  words,  he  thought  that  the  bulk 
of  his  readers  were  equally  learned ;  or  at  least 
would  admire  the  splendour  and  dignity  of  the 
style.  And  yet  it  is  well  known  that  he  praised 
in  Cowley  the  easy  and  unaffected  structure  of 
the  sentences.  Cowley  may  be  placed  at  the 
head  of  those  who  cultivated  a  clear  and  natural 
style.  Dryden,  Tillotson,  and  Sir  William 
Temple,  followed.  Addison,  Swift,  and  Pope, 
with  more  correctness,  carried  our  language 
well  nigh  to  perfection.  Of  Addison,  Johnson 
was  used  to  say,  He  is  the  Raphael  of  Essay 
Writers.  How  he  differed  so  widely  from  such 
elegant  models  is  a  problem  not  to  be  solved, 
unless  it  be  true  that  he  took  an  early  tincture 
from  the  writers  of  the  last  century,  particularly 
Sir  Thomas  Browne,  Hence  the  peculiarities 
of  his  style,  new  combinations,  sentences  of  an 
unusual  structure,  and  words  derived  from  the 
learned  languages.  His  own  account  of  the 
matter  is,  "When  common  words  were  less 
pleasing  to  the  ear,  or  less  distinct  in  their  signi- 
fication, I  familiarized  the  terms  of  philosophy, 
by  applying  them  to  popular  ideas."  but  he  for- 
got the  observation  of  Dryden :  If  too  many  fo- 
reign words  are  poured  in  upon  us,  it  looks  as  if 
they  were  designed,  not  to  assist  the  natives,  but  to 
conquer  them.  There  is,  it  must  be  admitted,  a 
swell  of  language,  often  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  sentiment ;  but  there  is,  in  general,  a  fulness 
of  mind,  and  the  thought  seems  to  expand  with 
the  sound  of  the  words.  Determined  to  discard 
colloquial  barbarisms  and  licentious  idioms,  he 
forgot  the  elegant  simplicity  that  distinguishes 
the  writings  of  Addison.  He  had  what  Locke 
calls  a  round-about  view  of  his  subject ;  and 
though  he  was  never  tainted,  like  many  modern 
wits,  with  the  ambition  of  shining  in  paradox, 
he  may  be  fairly  called  an  ORIGINAL  THINKER. 
His  reading  was  extensive.  H«  treasured  in  his 
mind  whatever  was  worthy  of  notice,  but  he 
added  to  it  from  his  own  meditation.  He  col- 
lected, qu<R  reconderet,  auctaque  prorneret.  Addi- 
son  was  not  so  profound  a  thinker.  He  was 
born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease  ;  and  he 
found  an  early  patron  in  Lord  Somers.  He  de- 
pended, however,  more  upon  a  fine  taste  than 
the  vigour  of  his  mind.  His  Latin  poetry  shows, 
that  he  relished,  with  a  just  selection,  all  the  re- 
fined and  delicate  beauties  of  the  Roman  class- 
ics ;  and  when  he  cultivated  his  native  language, 
no  wonder  that  he  formed  that  graceful  style, 
which  has  been  so  justly  admired  ;  simple,  yet 
elegant;  adorned,  yet  never  overwrought ;  rich 
in  allusion,  yet  pure  and  perspicuous  ;  correct, 
without  labour ;  and  though  sometimes  deficient 
in  strength,  yet  always  musical.  His  essays,  in 
general,  are  on  the  surface  of  life  ;  if  ever  ori- 
ginal, it  was  in  pieces  of  humour.  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverly,  and  the  Tory  Fox-hunter,  need  not  to 
be  mentioned.  Johnson  had  a  fund  of  humour, 
but  he  did  not  know  it :  nor  was  he  willing  to 
descend  to  the  familiar  idiom  and  the  variety  ol 
diction  which  that  mode  of  composition  required. 
The  letter,  in  the  Rambler,  No.  12,  from  a  young 
girl  that  wants  a  place,  will  illustrate  this  ob- 
servation. Addison  possessed  an  unclouded 


imagination,  alive  to  the  first  objects  of  nature 
and  of  art.  He  reaches  the  sublime  without 
any  apparent  effort.  When  he  tells  us,  "  If  we 
consider  the  fixed  stars  as  so  many  oceans  of 
flame,  that  are  each  of  them  attended  with  a  dif- 
ferent set  of  planets  ;  if  we  still  discover  new 
firmaments  and  new  lights  that  are  sunk  further 
in  those  unfathomable  depths  of  aether,  we  are 
lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  suns  and  worlds,  and  con- 
founded with  the  magnificence  and  immensity 
of  nature ;"  the  ease  with  which  this  passage 
rises  to  unaffected  grandeur,  is  the  secret  charm 
that  captivates  the  reader.  Johnson  is  ahvays 
lofty  ;  he  seems,  to  use  Dryden's  phrase,  to  be 
o'er-informed  with  meaning,  and  his  words  do 
not  appear  to  himself  adequate  to  his  conception. 
He  moves  in  state,  and  his  periods  are  always 
harmonious.  His  Oriental  Tales  are  in  the  true 
style  of  Eastern  magnificence,  and  yet  none  of 
them  are  so  much  admired  as  the  Visions  of 
Mirza.  In  matters  of  criticism,  Johnson  is  ne- 
ver the  echo  of  preceding  writers.  He  thinks 
and  decides  for  himself.  If  we  except  the  Es- 
says on  the  Pleasures  of  Imagination,  Addison 
cannot  be  called  a  philosophical  critic.  His  mo- 
ral Essays  are  beautiful :  but  in  that  province 
nothing  can  exceed  the  Rambler,  though  John- 
son used  to  say,  that  the  Essay  on  The  burthens 
of  mankind  (in  the  Spectator  No.  558)  was  the 
most  exquisite  he  had  ever  read.  Talking  of 
himself,  Johnson  said,  "  Topham  Beauclerk  has 
wit,  and  every  thing  eomes  from  him  with  ease  ; 
but  when  I  say  a  good  thing  I  seem  to  labour." 
When  we  compare  him  with  Addison,  the  con- 
trast is  still  stronger.  Addison  lends  grace  and 
ornament  to  truth:  Jolmson  gives  it  force  and 
energy.  Addison  makes  virtue  amiable  ;  John- 
son represents  it  as  an  awful  duty.  Addison  in 
sinuates  himself  with  an  air  of  modesty  ;  John 
son  commands  like  a  dictator ;  but  a  dictator  in 
his  splendid  robes,  not  labouring  at  the  plough. 
Addison  is  the  Jupiter  of  Virgil,  with  placid  se- 
renity talking  to  Venus  : 

"  Vultu,  quo  coelum  tempestatesque  sereiiat." 

Johnson  is  Jupiter  tonans :  he  darts  his  light- 
ning, and  rolls  his  thunder,  in  the  cause  of  virtue 
and  piety.  The  language  seems  to  fall  short  of 
ideas ;  he  pours  along,  familiarizing  the  terms 
of  philosophy,  with  bold  inversions,  and  sono- 
rous periods ;  but  we  may  apply  to  him  what 
Pope  has  said  of  Homer:  "It  is  the  sentiment 
that  swells  and  fills  out  the  diction,  which  rises 
with  it,  and  forms  itself  about  it ;  like  glass  in 
the  furnace,  which  grows  to  a  greater  magni- 
tude, as  the  breath  within  is  more  powerful,  and 
the  heat  more  intense." 

It  is  not  the  design  of  this  comparison  to  de- 
cide between  these  two  eminent  writers.  In 
matters  of  taste  every  reader  will  choose  for 
himself.  Johnson  is  ahvays  profound,  and  of 
course  gives  the  fatigue  of  thinking.  Addison 
charms  while  he  instructs;  and  writing,  as  he 
always  does,  a  pure,  an  elegant  and  idiomatic 
style,  he  may  be  pronounced  the  safest  model  for 
imitation. 

The  essays  written  by  Johnson  in  the  Adven- 
turer may  be  called  a  continuation  of  the  Ram- 
bler. The  Idler,  in  order  to  be  consistent  with 
the  assumed  character,  is  written  with  abated 
vigour,  in  a  style  of  ease  and  unlaboured  ele- 
gance. It  is  the  Odyssey  after  the  Illiad.  In- 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


tense  thinking  would  not  become  the  Idler.  The 
first  number  presents  a  well-drawn  portrait  of  an 
Idler,  and  from  that  character  no  deviation  could 
be  made.  Accordingly,  Johnson  forgets  his  aus- 
tere manner,  and  plays  us  into  sense.  He  still 
continues  his  lectures  on  human  life,  but  he  ad- 
verts to  common  occurrences,  and  is  often  con- 
tent with  the  topic  of  the  day.  An  advertise- 
ment in  the  beginning  of  the  first  volume  informs 
us,  that  twelve  entire  essays  were  a  contribution 
from  different  hands.  One  of  these,  No.  33,  is 
the  journal  of  a  Senior  Fellow  at  Cambridge,  but 
as  Johnson,  being  himself  an  original  thinker, 
always  revolted  from  servile  imitation,  he  has 
printed  the  piece,  with  an  apology,  importing  that 
the  journal  of  a  citizen  in  the  Spectator  almost 
precluded  the  attempt  of  any  subsequent  writer. 
This  account  of  the  Idler  may  be  closed,  after 
observing,  that  the  author's  mother,  being  buried 
on  the  23d  of  January,  1759,  there  is  an  admira- 
ble paper  occasioned  by  that  event,  on  Saturday 
the  27th  of  the  same  month,  No.  41.  The  read- 
er, if  he  pleases,  may  compare  it  with  another 
fine  paper  in  the  Rambler,  No.  54,  on  the  convic- 
tion that  rushes  on  the  mind  at  the  bed  of  a  dy- 
ing friend. 

"  Rasselas,"  says  Sir  John  Hawkins,  "  is  a 
specimen  of  our  language  scarcely  to  be  paral- 
leled ;  it  is  written  in  a  style  refined  to  a  degree 
of  immaculate  purity,  and  displays  the  whole  force 
of  turgid  eloquence."  One  cannot  but  smile  at 
this  encomium.  Rasselas  is  undoubtedly  both 
elegant  and  sublime.  It  is  a  view  of  human  life, 
displayed,  it  must  be  owned,  in  gloomy  colours. 
The  author's  natural  melancholy,  depressed,  at 
the  time,  by  the  approaching  dissolution  of  his 
mother,  darkened  the  picture.  A  tale,  that  should 
keep  curiosity  awake  by  the  artifice  of  unexpect- 
ed incidents,  was  not  the  design  of  a  mind  preg- 
nant with  better  things.  He,  who  reads  the 
heads  of  the  chapters  will  find,  that  it  is  not  a 
course  of  adventures  that  invites  him  forward, 
but  a  discussion  of  interesting  questions  ;  Re- 
flections on  Human  life,  the  History  of  Imlac,  the 
Man  of  Learning ;  a  Dissertation  upon  Poetry ; 
the  Character  of  a  wise  and  happy  Man,  who 
discourses  with  energy  on  the  goverm:?ent  of  the 
passions,  and  on  a  sudden,  when  Death  deprives 
him  of  his  daughter,  forgets  all  his  maxims  of 
wisdom  and  the  eloquence  that  adorned  them, 
yielding  to  the  stroke  of  affliction  with  all  the 
vehemence  of  the  bitterest  anguish.  It  is  by  pic- 
tures of  life,  and  profound  moral  reflection,  that 
expectation  is  engaged  and  gratified  throughout 
the  work.  The  History  of  the  Mad  Astronomer, 
who  imagines  that,  for  five  years,  he  possessed 
the  regulation  of  the  weather,  and  that  the  sun 
passed  from  tropic  to  tropic  by  his  direction,  re- 
presents in  striking  colours  the  sad  effect  of  a 
distempered  imagination.  It  becomes  the  more 
affecting  when  we  recollect  that  it  proceeds  from 
one  who  lived  in  fear  of  the  same  dreadful  visita- 
tion ;  from  one  who  says  emphatically,  "  Of  the 
uncertainties'  in  our  present  state,  the  most  dread- 
ful and  alarming  is  the  uncertain  continuance  of 
reason."  The  inquiry  into  the  cause  of  mad- 
ness, and  the  dangerous  prevalence  of  imagina- 
tion, till  in  time  some  particular  train  of  ideas 
fixes  the  attention,  and  the  mind  recurs  con- 
Btantly  to  the  favourite  conception,  is  carried  on 
in  a  strain  of  acute  observation ;  but  it  leaves  us 
room  to  think  that  the  author  was  transcribing 


XXIX 

from  his  own  apprehensions.  The  discourse  on 
the  nature  of  the  soul  gives  us  all  that  philoso- 
phy knows,  not  without  a  tincture  of  supersti- 
tion. It  is  remarkable  that  the  vanity  of  humar 
pursuits  was,  about  the  same  time,  the  subject 
that  employed  both  Johnson  and  Voltaire :  but 
Candide  is  the  work  of  a  lively  imagination ;  and 
Rasselas,  with  all  its  splendour  of  eloquence,  ex- 
hibits a  gloomy  picture.  It  should,  however,  be 
remembered,  that  the  world  has  known  the 
weeping  as  well  as  the  laughing  philosopher. 

The  Dictionary  does  not  properly  fall  within 
the  province  of  this  essay.  The  preface,  how 
ever,  will  be  found  in  this  edition.  He  who  reads 
the  close  of  it,  without  acknowledging  the  force 
of  the  pathetic  and  sublime,  must  have  more  in- 
sensibility in  his  composition  than  usually  falls 
to  the  share  of  a  man.  The  work  itself,  though 
in  some  instances  abuse  has  been  loud,  and  in 
others  malice  has  endeavoured  to  undermine  its 
fame,  still  remains  the  MOUNT  ATLAS  of  English 
literature. 

Though  storms  and  tempests  thunder  on  its  brow, 
And  oceans  break  their  billows  at  its  feet, 
It  stands  unmoved,  and  glories  in  its  height- 
Thai  Johnson  was  eminently  qualified  for  th  3 
office  of  a  commentator  on  Shakspeare,  no  mar 
can  doubt ;  but  it  was  an  office  which  he  never 
cordially  embraced.  The  public  expected  more 
than  he  had  diligence  to  perform ;  and  yet  his 
edition  has  been  the  ground  on  which  every  sub- 
sequent commentator  has  chosen  to  build.  One 
note  for  its  singularity,  may  be  thought  worthy 
of  notice  in  this  place.  Hamlet  says ;  "  For  if 
the  sun  breed  maggots  in  a  dead  dog,  being  a 
God-kissing-  carrion."  In  this  Warburton  dis- 
covered the  origin  of  evil.  Hamlet,  he  says, 
breaks  off"  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence ;  but  the 
learned  commentator  knows  what  he  was  going 
to  say,  and  being  unwilling  to  keep  the  secret, 
he  goes  on  in  a  train  of  philosophical  reasoning 
that  leaves  the  reader  in  astonishment.  Johnson, 
with  true  piety,  adopts  the  fanciful  hypothesis, 
declaring  it  to  be  a  noble  emendation,  which  al- 
most sets  the  critic  on  a  level  with  the  author. 
The  general  observations  at  the  end  of  the  seve- 
ral plays,  and  the  preface  will  be  found  in  this 
edition.  The  former,  with  great  elegance  and 
precision,  give  a  summary  view  of  each  drama. 
The  preface  is  a  tract  of  great  erudition  and  phi- 
losophical criticism. 

Johnson's  political  pamphlets,  whatever  waa 
his  motive  for  writing  them,  whether  gratitude 
for  his  pension,  or  the  solicitation  of  men  in 
power,  did  not  support  the  cause  for  which  they 
were  undertaken.  They  are  written  in  a  style 
truly  harmonious,  and  with  his  usual  dignity  of 
language.  When  it  is  said  that  he  advanced  po- 
sitions repugnant  to  the  common  rights  of  mankind, 
the  virulence  of  party  may  be  suspected.  It  is, 
perhaps,  true  that  in  the  clamour  raised  through- 
out the  kingdom,  Johnson  over-heated  his  mind  ; 
but  he  was  a  friend  to  the  rights  of  man,  and  he 
was  greatly  superior  to  the  littleness  of  spirit  that 
might  incline  him  to  advance  what  he  did  not 
think  and  firmly  believe.  In  the  False  Mann, 
though  many  of  the  most  eminent  men  in  the  king- 
domconcurred  in  petitionsto  the  throne,  yet  John- 
son, having  well  surveyed  the  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple, has  given,  with  great  humour,  and  no  less 
truth,  what  may  be  called,  the  birth,  parentage, 


XXX 


AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 


and  education  of  a  remonstrance.  On  the  subject 
of  Falkland's  islands,  the  fine  dissuasive  from  too 
hastily  involving  the  world  in  the  calamities  of 
war,  must  extort  applause  even  from  the  party 
that  wished,  at  that  time,  for  the  scenes  of  tu- 
rnult  and  commotion.  It  was  in  the  sarne  pam- 
phlet that  Johnson  offered  battle  to  JUNIUS  ;  a 
writer,  who,  by  the  uncommon  elegance  of  his 
style,  charmed  every  reader,  though  his  object 
was  to  inflame  the  nation  in  favour  of  a  faction. 
Junius  fought  in  the  dark ;  he  saw  his  enemy 
and  had  his  full  blow ;  while  he  himself  remained 
safe  in  obscurity.  But  let  us  not,  said  Johnson, 
mistake  the  venom  of  the  shaft  for  the  vigour  of 
the  bow.  The  keen  invective  which  he  pub- 
lished on  that  occasion,  promised  a  paper  war 
between  two  combatants,  who  knew  the  use  of 
their  weapons.  A  battle  between  them  was  as 
eagerly  expected  as  between  Mendoza  and  Big 
Ben.  But  Junius,  whatever  was  his  reason, 
never  returned  to  the  field.  He  laid  down  his 
arms,  and  has,  ever  since,  remained  as  secretes 
tne  man  in  the  mask  in  Voltaire's  History. 

The  account  of  his  journey  to  the  Hebrides, 
or  Western  Isles  of  Scotland,  is  a  model  for  such 
as  shall  hereafter  relate  their  travels.  The  au- 
thor did  not  visit  that  part  of  the  world  in  the 
character  of  an  Antiquary,  to  amuse  us  with 
wonders  taken  from  the  dark  and  fabulous  ages ; 
nor  as  a  Mathematician,  to  measure  a  degree, 
and  settle  the  longitude  and  latitude  of  the  seve- 
ral islands.  Those,  who  expected  such  informa- 
tion, expected  what  was  never  intended.  In 
every  work  regard  the  writer's  end.  Johnson  went 
to  see  men.  and  manners,  modes  of  life,  and  the 
progress  of  civilization.  His  remarks  are  so 
artfully  blended  with  the  rapidity  and  elegance 
of  his  narrative,  that  the  reader  is  inclined  to 
wish,  as  Johnson  did  with  regard  to  Gray,  that 
to  travel,  and  to  tell  his  travels,  had  been  more  of  his 
employment. 

As  to  Johnson's  Parliamentary  Debates,  no- 
thing with  propriety  can  be  said  in  this  place. 
They  are  collected  in  two  volumes  by  Mr. 
Stockdale,  and  the  flow  of  eloquence  which 
runs  through  the  several  speeches  is  sufficiently 
known. 

It  will  not  be  useless  to  mention  two  more 
volumes,  which  may  form  a  proper  supplement 
to  this  edition.  They  contain  a  set  of  Sermons 
left  for  publication  by"  John  Taylor,  LL.  D.  The 
Reverend  Mr.  Hayes,  who  ushered  these  Dis- 
courses into  the  world,  has  not  given  them  as 
the  composition  of  Dr.  Taylor.  All  he  could 
say  for  his  departed  friend  was,  that  he  left  them 
in  silence  among  his  papers.  Mr.  Hayes  knew 
them  to  be  the  production  of  a  superior  mind  ; 
and  the  writer  of  these  Memoirs  owes  it  to  the 
candour  of  that  elegant  scholar,  that  he  is  now 
warranted  to  give  an  additional  proof  of  John- 
son's ardour  in  the  cause  of  piety,  and  every 
moral  duty.  The  last  discourse  in  the  collection 
was  intended  to  be  delivered  by  Dr.  Taylor  at 
the  funeral  of  Johnson's  wife;  but  that  reverend 
gentleman  declined  the  office,  because,  as  he  told 
Mr.  Hayes.,  the  praise  of  the  deceased  was  too 
much  amplified.  He,  who  reads  the  piece,  will 
find  it  a  beautiful  moral  lesson,  written  with 
temper,  and  no  where  over-charged  with  ambi- 
tious ornaments.  The  rest  of  the  Discourses 
were  the  fund,  which  Dr.  Taylor,  from  time  to 
time  carried  with  him  to  his  pulpit.  He  had  the 


largest  Bull*  in  England,  and  some  of  the  beet 
Sermons. 

We  now  come  to  the  Lives  of  the  Poets,  a 
work  undertaken  at  the  age  of  seventy,  yet  the 
most  brilliant,  and  certainly  the  most  popular, 
of  all  our  Author's  writings.  For  this  perform- 
ance he  needed  little  preparation.  Attentive 
always  to  the  history  of  letters,  and  by  his  own 
natural  bias  fond  of  biography,  he  was  the  more 
willing  to  embrace  the  proposition  of  the  Book- 
sellers. He  was  versed  in  the  whole  body  of 
English  Poetry,  and  his  rules  of  criticism  were 
settled  with  precision.  The  dissertation,  in  the 
Life  of  Cowley,  on  the  metaphysical  Poets  of 
the  last  century,  has  the  attraction  of  novelty  as 
well  as  sound  observation.  The  writers  who 
followed  Dr.  Donne,  went  in  quest  of  something 
better  than  truth  and  nature.  As  Sancho  says 
in  Don  duixote,  they  wanted  better  bread  than 
is  made  with  wheat.  They  took  pains  to  be- 
wilder themselves,  and  were  ingenious  for  no 
other  purpose  than  to  err.  In  Johnson's  review 
of  Cowley's  works,  false  wit  is  detected  in  all  its 
shapes,  and  the  Gothic  taste  for  glittering  con- 
ceits, and  far-fetched  allusions,  is  exploded,  ne- 
ver, it  is  hoped,  to  revive  again. 

An  author  who  has  published  his  observations 
on  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Dr.  Johnson,  speak- 
ing of  the  Lives  of  the  Poets,  says,  "  These  com 
positions  abounding  in  strong  and  acute  remark, 
and  with  many  fine  and  even  sublime  passages, 
have  unquestionably  great  merit;  but  if  they 
be  regarded  merely  as  containing  narrations  of 
the  lives,  delineations  of  the  characters,  and 
strictures  of  the  several  authors,  they  are  far 
from  being  always  to  be  depended  on."  He 
adds,  "The  characters  are  sometimes  partial, 
and  there  is  sometimes  too  much  malignity  of 
misrepresentation,  to  which,  perhaps,  may  be 
joined  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  erroneous 
criticism."  The  several  clauses  of  this  censure 
deserve  to  be  answered  as  fully  as  the  limits  of 
this  essay  will  permit. 

In  the  first  place,  the  facts  are  related  upon 
the  best  intelligence,  and  the  best  vouchers  that 
could  be  g'^aned,  after  a  great  lapse  of  time. 
Probability  ivas  to  be  inferred  from  such  mate- 
rials as  could  be  procured,  and  no  man  better 
understood  the  nature  of  historical  evidence  than 
Dr.  Johnson ;  no  man  was  more  religiously  an 
observer  of  truth.  If  his  History  is  any  where 
defective,  it  must  be  imputed  to  the  want  of 
better  information,  and  the  errors  of  uncertain 
tradition. 

Ad  nos  vix  tennis  fainiE  perlabitur  aura. 

If  the  strictures  on  the  works  of  the  various 
authors  are  not  always  satisfactory,  and  if  erro- 
neous criticism  may  sometimes  be  suspected, 
who  can  hope  that  in  matters  of  taste  all  shall 
agree  ?  The  instances  in  which  the  public  mind 
has  differed  from  the  positions  advanced  by 
the  author,  are  few  in  number.  It  has  been 
said,  that  justice  has  not  been  done  to  Swift, 
that  Gay  and  Prior  are  undervalued ;  and  that 
Gray  has  been  harshly  treated.  This  charge, 
perhaps,  ought  not  to  be  disputed.  Johnson,  it  is 
well  known  had  conceived  a  prejudice  against 


*  See  Johnson's  Letters  from  Ashbourne,  in  thU  edi 
tion. 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


XXXI 


Swift.  His  friends  trembled  for  him  when  he 
was  writing  that  life  :  but  were  pleased,  at  last, 
to  see  it  executed  with  temper  and  moderation. 
As  to  Prior,  it  is  probable  that  he  gave  his  real 
opinion,  but  an  opinion  that  will  not  be  adopted 
by  men  of  lively  fancy.  With  regard  to  Gray, 
when  he  condemns  the  apostrophe,  in  which 
Father  Thames  is  desired  to  tell  who  drives  the 
hoop,  or  tosses  the  ball,  and  then  adds,  that  Fa- 
ther Thames  had  no  better  means  of  knowing 
than  himself;  when  he  compares  the  abrupt  be- 
ginning of  the  first  stanza  of  the  Bard  to  the  bal- 
lad of  Johnny  Armstrong,  "  Is  there  ever  a  man 
in  all  Scotland;"  there  are,  perhaps,  few  friends 
of  Johnson,  who  would  not  wish  to  blot  out  both 
the  passages.  It  may  be  questioned  whether 
the  remarks  on  Pope's  Essay  on  Man  can  be 
received  without  great  caution.  It  has  been  al- 
ready mentioned,  that  Crousaz,  a  professor  in 
Switzerland,  eminent  for  his  Treatise  of  Logic, 
started  up  a  professed  enemy  to  that  poem. 
Johnson  says,  "  his  mind  was  one  of  those,  in 
which  philosophy  and  piety  are  happily  united. 
He  looked  with  distrust  upon  all  metaphysical 
systems  of  theology,  and  was  persuaded,  that  the 
positions  of  Pope  were  intended  to  draw  man- 
kind away  from  Revelation,  and  to  represent  the 
whole  course  of  things  as  a  necessary  concate- 
nation of  indissoluble  fatality."  This  is  not  the 
place  for  a  controversy  about  the  Leibnitzian 
system.  Warburton  with  all  the  powers  of  his 
large  and  comprehensive  mind,  published  a 
Vindication  of  Pope ;  and  yet  Johnson  says, 
that  "  in  many  passages  a  religious  eye  may 
easily  discover  expressions  not  very  favourable 
to  morals,  or  to  liberty."  This  sentence  is  se- 
vere, and,  perhaps  dogmatical.  Crousaz  wrote 
an  Examen  of  The  Essay  on  Man,  and  after- 
wards a  Commentary  on  every  remarkable 
passage  ;  and  though  it  now  appears  that  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Carter  translated  the  foreign  Critic,  yet 
it  is  certain  that  Johnson  encouraged  the  work, 
and,  perhaps,  imbibed  those  early  prejudices 
\thichadhered  to  him  to  the  end  of  his  life.  He 
shuddered  at  the  idea  of  irreligion.  Hence  we 
are  told  in  the  Life  of  Pope,  "  never  were  pe- 
nury of  knowledge  and  vulgarity  of  sentiment 
so  happily  disguised  ;  Pope,  in  the  chair  of  wis- 
dom tells  much  that  every  man  knows,  and 
much  that  he  did  not  know  himself ;  and  gives 
us  comfort  in  the  position,  that  though  man's  a 
fool,  yet  God  is  wise;  that  human  advantages  are 
unstable ;  that  our  true  honour  is,  not  to  have  a 
great  part,  but  to  act  it  well ;  that  virtue  only  is 
our  own,  and  that  happiness  is  always  in  our 
power.  The  reader,  when  he  meets  all  this  in 
Us  new  array,  no  longer  knows  the  talk  of  his 
mother  and  his  nurse."  But  may  it  not  be  said, 
that  every  system  of  ethics  must  or  ought  to 
terminate  in  plain  and  general  maxims  for  the 
use  of  life  ?  and,  though  in  such  axioms  no  dis- 
covery is  made,  does  not  the  beauty  of  the  moral 
theory  consist  in  the  premises,  and  the  chain  of 
reasoning  that  leads  to  the  conclusion  ?  May 
not  truth,  as  Johnson  himself  says,  be  conveyed 
to  the  mind  by  a  new  train  of  intermediate 
images?  Pope's  doctrine  about  the  ruling  pas- 
sion does  not  seem  to  be  refuted,  though  it  is 
called,  in  harsh  terms,  pernicious  as  well  as 
false,  tending  to  establish  a  kind  of  moral  pre- 
destination, or  over-ruling  principle,  which  can- 
not be  resisted.  But  Johnson  was  too  easily 


alarmed  in  the  cause  of  religion.  Organized  as 
the  human  race  is,  individuals  have  different  in- 
lets of  perception,  different  powers  of  mind,  and 
different  sensations  of  pleasure  and  pain. 

All  spread  their  charm*,  but  charms  not  all  alike, 
On  different  senses  different  objects  strike  : 
Hence  different  passions  more  or  less  inflame, 
As  strong  or  weak  the  organs  of  the  frame. 
And  hence  one  master-passion  in  the  breast, 
Like  Aaron's  serpent,  swallows  up  the  rest. 

Brumoy  says,  Pascal  from  his  infancy  felt  him- 
self a  geometrician  ;  and  Vandyke,  in  like  man- 
ner, was  a  painter.  Shakspeare,  who  of  all  po- 
ets, had  the  deepest  insight  into  human  nature, 
was  aware  of  a  prevailing  bias  in  the  operations 
of  every  mind.  By  him  we  are  told,  "  Master- 
less  passion  sways  us  to  the  mood  of  what  it 
likes  or  loathes." 

It  remains  to  inquire  whether  in  the  lives  be- 
fore us  the  characters  are  partial,  and  too  often 
drawn  with  malignity  of  misrepresentation.  To 
prove  this  it  is  alleged,  that  Johnson  has  misre- 
presented the  circumstance  relative  to  the  trans- 
lation of  the  first  Iliad,  and  maliciously  ascribed 
that  performance  to  Addison,  instead  of  Tickell, 
with  too  much  reliance  on  the  testimony  of  Pope, 
taken  from  the  account  in  the  papers  left  by 
Mr.  Spence.  For  a  refutation  of  the  fallacy 
imputed  to  Addison,  we  are  referred  to  a  note 
in  the  Biographia  Britannica,  written  by  the 
late  Judge  Blackstone,  who,  it  is  said,  examined 
the  whole  matter  with  accuracy,  and  found  that 
the  first  regular  statement  of  the  accusation 
against  Addison  was  published  by  Ruffhead,  in 
his  Life  of  Pope,  from  the  materials  which  he  re- 
ceived from  Dr.  Warburton.  But  with  all  due 
deference  to  the  learned  Judge,  whose  talents 
deserve  all  praise,  this  account  is  by  no  means 
accurate. 

Sir  Richard  Steele,  in  a  dedication  of  the 
Comedy  of  the  Drummer  to  Mr.  Congreve,  gave 
the  first  insight  into  that  business.  He  says,  in 
a  style  of  anger  and  resentment,  "  If  that  gen 
tleman  (Mr.  Tickell)  thinks  himself  injured,  I 
will  allow  I  have  wronged  him  upon  this  issue, 
that  (if  the  reputed  translator  of  the  first  book 
of  Homer  shall  please  to  give  us  another  book) 
there  shall  appear  another  good  judge  of  poetry, 
besides  Mr.  Alexander  Pope,  who  shall  like  it" 
The  authority  of  Steele  outweighs  all  opinions 
founded  on  vain  conjecture,  and,  indeed,  seems 
to  be  decisive,  since  we  do  not  find  that  Tickell, 
though  warmly  pressed,  thought  proper  to  vin 
dicate  himself. 

But  the  grand  proof  of  Johnson's  malignity  is 
the  manner  in  which  he  has  treated  the  charac- 
ter and  conduct  of  Milton.  To  enforce  this 
charge  has  wearied  sophistry,  and  exhausted 
the  invention  of  a  party.  What  they  cannot 
deny,  they  palliate;  what  they  cannot  prove, 
they  say  is  probable.  But  why  all  this  rage 
against  Dr.  Johnson  ?  Addison,  before  him,  had 
said  of  Milton: 

Oh :  had  the  Poet  ne'er  profaned  his  pen, 
To  varnish  o'er  the  guilt  of  faithless  men ! 

And  had  not  Johnson  an  equal  right  to  avow  his 
sentiments  ?  Do  his  enemies  claim  a  privilege  to 
abuse  whatever  is  valuable  to  Englishmen,  either 
in  Church  or  State  ?  and  must  the  liberty  of  UN- 


XXX11 

LICENSED  PRINIING  be  denied  to  the  friends  of 
the  British  constitution  ? 

It  is  unnecessary  to  pursue  the  argument 
through  all  its  artifices,  since,  dismantled  of  or- 
nament and  seducing  language,  the  plain  truth 
may  be  stated  in  a  narrow  compass.  Johnson 
knew  that  Milton  was  a  republican  ;  he  says, 
"  an  acrimonious  and  surly  republican,  for  which 
it  is  not  known  that  he  gave  any  better  reason 
than  that  a  popular  government  was  the  most 
frugal ;  for,  the  trappings  of  a  monarchy  would 
set  up  an  ordinary  commonwealth."  Johnson 
knew  that  Milton  talked  aloud  "  of  the  danger 
of  RE-ADMITTING  KINGSHIP  in  this  nation  ;"  and 
when  Milton  adds,  "  that  a  commonwealth  was 
commended,  or  rather  enjoined,  by  our  Saviour 
himself,  to  all  Christians,  not  without  a  remarka- 
ble disallowance,  and  the  brand  of  Gentilism 
UPOX  KINGSHIP,"  Johnson  thought  him  no  better 
than  a  wild  enthusiast.  He  knew  as  well  as 
Milton,  "that  the  happiness  of  a  nation  must 
needs  be  firmest  and  certainest  in  a  full  and 
free  council  of  their  own  electing,  where  no  sin- 
gle person  but  reason  only  sways ;"  but  the  ex- 
ample of  all  the  republics,  recorded  in  the  annals 
of  mankind,  gave  him  no  room  to  hope  that  REA- 
SON only  would  be  heard.  He  knew  that  the 
republican  form  of  government,  having  little  or 
no  complication,  and  no  consonance  of  parts,  by 
a  nice  mechanism  forming  a  regular  whole,  was 
too  simple  to  be  beautiful  even  in  theory.  In 
practice,  it  perhaps  never  existed.  In  its  most 
flourishing  state,  at  Athens,  Rome,  and  Car- 
thage, it  was  a  constant  scene  of  tumult  and 
commotion.  From  the  mischiefs  of  a  wild  de- 
mocracy, the  progress  has  ever  been  to  the  do- 
minion of  an  aristocracy  :  and  the  word  aristo- 
cracy fatally  includes  the  boldest  and  most  tur- 
bulent citizens,  who  rise  by  their  crimes,  and 
call  themselves  the  best  men  in  the  state.  By 
intrigue,  by  cabal,  and  faction,  a  pernicious  oli- 
garchy is  sure  to  succeed,  and  end  at  last  in  the 
tyranny  of  a  single  ruler.  Tacitus,  the  great 
master  of  political  wisdom,  saw,  under  the  mixed 
authority  of  king,  nobles,  and  people,  a  better 
form  of  government  than  Milton's  boasted  repub- 
lic; and  what  Tacitus  admired  in  theory,  but 
despaired  of  enjoying,  Johnson  saw  established 
in  this  country.  He  knew  that  it  had  been 
overturned  by  the  rage  of  frantic  men ;  but  he 
knew  that,  after  the  iron  rod  of  Cromwell's 
usurpation,  the  constitution  was  once  more  re- 
stored to  its  first  principles.  Monarchy  was 
established,  and  this  country  was  regenerated. 
It  was  regenerated  a  second  time  at  the  Revo- 
lution :  the  rights  of  men  were  then  defined,  and 
the  blessings  of  good  order  and  civil  liberty  have 
been  ever  since  diffused  through  the  whole^om- 
munity 

The  peace  and  happiness  of  society  were  what 
Dr.  Johnson  had  at  heart.  He  knew  that  Mil- 
ton called  his  defence  of  the  Regicides  a  defence 
of  the  people  of  England,  but,  however  glossed 
and  varnished,  he  thought  it  an  apology  for 
murder.  Had  the  men,  who,  under  a  show  of 
liberty,  brought  their  king  to  the  scaffold,  proved 
by  their  subsequent  conduct,  that  the  public  good 
inspired  their  actions,  the  end  might  have  given 
some  sanction  to  the  means;  but  usurpation  and 
slavery  followed.  Milton  undertook  the  office 
of  secretary  under  the  despotic  power  of  Crom- 
well, offering  the  incense  of  adulation  to  his  mas- 


ter, with  the  titles  of  Director  of  public  Councils, 
the  Leader  of  unconquered  Jlrmies,  the  Father  oj 
his  Country.  Milton  declared  at  the  same  time, 
that  nothing  is  more  pleasing  to  God,  or  more,  agree- 
able to  reason,  than  that  the  highest  mind  should 
have  the  sovereign  power.  In  this  strain  of  servile 
flattery  Milton  gives  us  the  right  divine  of  tyrants. 
But  it  seems,  in  the  same  piece,  he  exhorts 
Cromwell  "not  to  desert  those  great  principles 
of  liberty  which  he  had  professed  to  espouse ; 
for,  it  would  be  a  grievous  enormity,  if,  after 
having  successfully  opposed  tyranny,  he  should 
himself  act  the  part  of  a  tyrant,  and  betray  the 
cause  that  he  had  defended."  This -desertion 
of  every  honest  principle  the  advocate  for  liberty 
lived  to  see.  Cromwell  acted  the  tyrant ;  and 
with  vile  hypocrisy,  told  the  people,  that  he  had 
consulted  the  Lord,  and  the  Lord  would  have  it 
so.  Milton  took  an  underpart  in  the  tragedy. 
Did  that  become  the  defender  of  the  people  of 
England  ?  Brutus  saw  his  country  enslaved  ;  he 
struck  the  blow  for  freedom,  and  he  died  with 
honour  in  the  cause.  Had  he  lived  to  be  a  se- 
cretary under  Tiberius,  what  would  now  be  said 
of  his  memory  ? 

But  still,  it  seems,  the  prostitution  with  which 
Milton  is  charged,  since  it  cannot  be  defended, 
is  to  be  retorted  on  the  character  of  Johnson. 
For  this  purpose  a  book  has  been  published, 
called  Remarks  on  Dr.  Johnson's  Life  of  Milton; 
to  which  are  added  Milton's  Tractate  of  Education, 
and  Jlreopagitica.  In  this  laboured  tract  we  are 
told,  "  There  is  one  performance  ascribed  to  the 
pen  of  the  Doctor,  where  the  prostitution  is  of 
so  singular  a  nature,  that  it  would  be  difficult 
to  select  an  adequate  motive  for  it  out  of  the 
mountainous  heap  of  conjectural  causes  of  hu- 
man passions  or  human  caprice.  It  is  the  speech 
of  the  late  unhappy  Dr.  William  Dodd,  when  he 
was  about  to  hear  the  sentence  of  the  law  pro- 
nounced upon  him,  in  consequence  of  an  indict- 
ment for  forgery.  The  voice  of  the  public  has 
given  the  honour  of  manufacturing  this  speech 
to  Dr.  Johnson  ;  and  the  style  and  figuration  of 
the  speech  itself  confirm  the  imputation.  But  it 
is  hardly  possible  to  divine  what  could  be  his 
motive  for  accepting  the  office.  A  man,  to  ex- 
press the  precise  state  of  mind  of  another,  about 
to  be  destined  to  an  ignominious  death  for  a 
capital  crime,  should,  one  would  imagine,  have 
some  consciousness,  that  he  himself  had  incur- 
red some  guilt  of  the  same  kind."  In  all  the 
schools  of  sophistry  is  there  to  be  found  so  vile 
an  argument?  In  the  purlieus  of  Grub-street  is 
there  such  another  mouthful  of  dirt  ?  In  the 
whole  quiver  of  malice  is  there  so  envenomed  a 
shaft  ? 

After  this  it  is  to  be  hoped,  that  a  certain  class 
of  men  will  talk  no  more  of  Johnson's  malig- 
nity. The  last  apology  for  Milton  is  that  he 
acted  according  to  his  principles.  But  Johnson 
thought  those  principles  detestable  ;  pernicious 
to  the  constitution  in  Church  and  State,  destruc- 
tive of  the  peace  of  society,  and  hostile  to  the 
great  fabric  of  civil  policy,  which  the  wisdom  of 
ages  has  taught  every  Briton  to  revere,  to  love 
and  cherish.  He  reckoned  Milton  in  that  class 
of  men  of  whom  the  Roman  historian  says, 
when  they  want,  by  a  sudden  convulsion,  to 
overturn  the  government,  they  roar  and  clamour 
for  liberty ;  if  they  succeed,  they  destroy  liberty 
itself.  Ut  imperium  evertant,  libertatem  prccje- 


GENIUS  OF  DR.  JOHNSON. 


XXXlll 


runt;  si  perverterint,  liberlatem  ipsam  aggredien- 
tur.  Such  were  the  sentiments  of  Dr.  Johnson; 
find  it  may  be  asked,  in  the  language  of  Boling- 
broke,  "  Are  these  sentiments,  which  any  man, 
who  is  born  a  Briton,  in  any  circumstances,  in 
any  situation,  ought  to  be  ashamed  or  afraid  to 
avow?"  Johnson  has  done  ample  justice  to  Mil- 
ton'.s  poetry  :  the  Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost  is 
a  sublime  composition.  Had  he  thought  the 
author  as  good  and  pious  a  citizen  as  Dr.  Watts, 
he  would  have  been  ready,  notwithstanding  his 
non-conformity,  to  do  equal  honour  to  the  me- 
mory of  the  man. 

It  is  now  time  to  close  this  Essay,  which  the 
author  fears  has  been  drawn  too  much  into 
length.  In  the  progress  of  the  work,  feeble  as 
it  may  be,  he  thought  himself  performing  the 
last  human  office  to  the  memory  of  a  friend, 
whom  he  loved,  esteemed,  and  honoured. 

His  saltern  accumulem  donis,  et  fungar  inani 
Munere. 

The  author  of  these  Memoirs  has  been  anx- 
ious to  give  the  features  of  the  man,  and  the  true 


character  of  the  author.  He  has  not  suffered 
the  hand  of  partiality  to  colour  his  excellencies 
with  too  much  warmth ;  nor  has  he  endeavoured 
to  throw  his  singularities  too  much  into  the 
shade.  Dr.  Johnson's  failings  may  well  be  for- 
given for  the  sake  of  his  virtues.  His  defects 
were  spots  in  the  sun.  His  piety,  his  kind  affec- 
tions, and  the  goodness  of  his  liieart,  present  an 
example  worthy  of  imitation.  His  works  still 
remain  a  monument  of  genius  and  of  learning. 
Had  he  written  nothing  but  what  is  contained 
in  this  edition,  the  quantity  shows  a  life  spent  in 
study  and  meditation.  If  to  this  be  added  the 
labour  of  his  Dictionary  and  other  various  pro- 
ductions, it  may  be  fairly  allowed,  as  he  used  to 
say  of  himself,  that  he  has  written  his  share.  In 
the  volumes  here  presented  to  the  public,  the 
reader  will  find  a  perpetual  source  of  pleasure 
and  instruction.  With  due  precautions  authors 
may  learn  to  grace  their  style  with  elegance,  har- 
mony, and  precision ;  they  may  be  taught  to 
think  with  vigour  and  perspicuity ;  and  to  crown 
the  whole,  by  a  diligent  attention  to  these  books, 
all  may  advance  in  virtue. 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  AMERICAN  EDITION. 


THE  works  of  Dr.  Johnson  have  so  long  stood  the  test  of  public  opinion,  that  an  apo- 
logy for  offering  a  new  edition  is  hardly  necessary.  While  a  part  of  his  works  are 
advantageously  known  to  the  general  reader,  there  are  many  of  them,  from  various 
causes,  which  have  not  been  so  extensively  read.  Among  these  causes,  may  be  stated 
the  fact,  that  some  of  them  have  never  been  published  in  this  country  at  all ;  while 
jthers  have  never  been  contained  in  any  uniform  edition  of  his  works.  It  may  also 
is  added,  that  so  far  as  the  works  of  Dr.  Johnson  have  been  published,  the  price 
iemanded  for  them  has  prevented  their  coming  within  the  reach  of  the  great  mass  of 
eaders. 

The  present  is  the  only  complete  edition  of  Dr.  Johnson's  works  which  has  been  pub- 
lished in  this  country.  It  will  be  found  to  contain  much  that  is  valuable  in  itself,  be- 
side many  papers  of  much  curiosity,  including  every  variety  of  subject  which  a  mind 
so  comprehensive  as  his  might  naturally  embrace.  The  American  reader  will  also 
here  find  a  surer  test  by  which  the  intellectual  powers  of  Dr.  Johnson  may  be  appre- 
ciated ; — for  although  these  have  been  acknowledged  to  be  of  the  highest  cast,  yet  it 
has  been  a  general  impression  that  they  were  more  particularly  confined  to  one 
species  of  literature — that  of  purifying  and  elevating  the  standard  of  the  English 
language. 

• 

The  Political  tracts  of  Dr.  Johnson  are  but  little  known  to  the  great  mass  of  readers 
in  this  country.  The  author,  with  his  usual  vigour,  entered  fully  into  the  political 
feelings  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived.  The  relations  between  this  country  and 
Great  Britain  at  that  period,  are,  as  a  matter  of  history,  interesting  to  all  Ameri- 
cans. Dr.  Johnson  defended  with  much  tenacity  the  original  rights  of  the  Indians, 
and  denounced  the  wrongs  imposed  upon  them  by  the  English  and  French.  In  allu- 
sion to  the  war  between  the  French  and  English,  about  the  year  1756,  which  began 
in  this  country,  he  says,  "  The  American  \var  between  the  French  and  us  is  therefore 
only  a  quarrel  between  two  robbers  for  the  spoils  of  a  passenger."  And  yet  when  we 
had  become  colonies  to  Great  Britain  he  equally  defended  the  most  odious  features 
of  government  toward  the  colonies.  A  specimen  of  this  may  be  found  in  a  paper 
entitled  "  Taxation  no  tyranny — an  answer  to  the  resolutions  and  address  of  the  Ameri- 
can Congress  1775,"  (vol.  5i.  p.  425.)  Could  he  have  foreseen  the  progress  and  termi- 
nation of  the  struggle  which  was  then  commencing,  he  might  have  uttered  as  a  truth, 
what  he  then  indited  as  a  bitter  sarcasm.  "  The  heroes  of  Boston,  if  the  Stamp  Act 
had  not  been  repealed,  would  have  left  their  town,  their  port,  and  their  trade,  have  re- 
signed the  splendour  of  opulence,  and  quitted  the  delight  of  neighbourhood,  to  disperse 
themselves  over  the  country,  where  they  would  till  the  ground,  and  fish  in  the  rivers, 
and  range  the  mountains,  and  be  free." 

As  an  essayist,  Dr.  Johnson  may  be  placed  upon  a  par  with  the  writers  of  the 
Spectator.  Although,  in  this  species  of  his  writing,  there  may  not  be  found  that 
sprightliness  and  lively  manner  which  at  once  wins  the  attention,  yet  there  is 
solidity  and  beauty  which  will  bear  thorough  and  close  examination,  and  stand  the 
severest  test  of  scrutiny  and  time. 


ii  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Although  not  exactly  within  the  compass  of  the  present  volumes,  we  may  say 
a  word  in  relation  to  the  great  Dictionary  of  Dr.  Johnson.     This  is  undoubtedly  at  the 
head  of  all  similar  works  in  the  English  language,  and  will  stand  as  a  monument 
of  the  author's  genius,  and  unparalleled  research   and   industry,  so  long  as  the  lan 
guage  shall  be  spoken  and  read. 

Previous  to  the  completion  of  this  work,  no  general  standard  for  the  English  (an 
guage  was  acknowledged.  The  intention  of  the  author  was  to  supply  this  Deficiency 
— in  his  own  words  "  the  chief  intent  of  it  is  to  preserve  the  purity,  and  ascertain  the 
meaning  of  our  English  idiom."  In  fulfilling  this  task,  Dr.  Johnson  accomplished 
what  falls  to  the  lot  of  few  men  in  any  undertaking.  He  made  that  work  which 
was  the  first  standard  of  the  English  language  so  perfect,  that  not  one  of  all  who  fol- 
lowed him,  has  been  able  to  improve  it.  Some  few  indeed  have  enjoyed  an  epheme- 
ral celebrity;  but  while  they  are  gradually  sinking  into  oblivion,  the  value  and  beauty 
of  this  great  work  is  becoming  more  and  more  appreciated.  We  cannot  but  admire 
the  determination  of  Dr.  Johnson  to  undertake  this  work,  which  he  knew  would  add 
little  or  nothing  to  his  literary  fame  during  his  lifetime.  "I  knew,"  says  he,  "  that  the 
work  in  which  I  engaged  is  generally  considered  as  a  drudgery  for  the  blind,  as  the 
proper  toil  for  artless  industry;  a  task  that  requires  neither  the  light  of  learning, 
nor  the  activity  of  genius,  but  may  be  successfully  performed  without  any  higher 
quality  than  that  of  bearing  burdens  with  dull  patience,  and  beating  the  tract  of  the 
alphabet  with  sluggish  resolution." 

There  is  one  consideration  alone  which  should  entitle  the  works  of  Dr.  Johnson  to 
an  attentive,  and  often  repeated  perusal.  It  is  the  perfection  of  style  and  elegance  of 
diction  with  which  they  are  written.  In  this  they  may  be  set  down  as  models. 

New  York,  September  1832. 


CONTENTS 


OF  VOLUME  I. 


MURPHY'S  ESSAY. 

Essay  on  the  Life  and  Genius  of  Dr.  John- 
eon       .... 


THE  RAMBLER. 

1  Difficulty  of  the  first  address.     Practice  of 

the  epic  poets.     Convenience  of  periodi- 
cal performances 13 

2  The  necessity  and  danger  of  looking  into 

futurity.       Writers    naturally   sanguine. 
Their  hopes  liable  to  disappointment.     .     14 

3  An  allegory  on  criticism 15 

4  The  modern  form  of  romances  preferable  to 

the  ancient.    The  necessity  of  characters 
morally  good 17 

5  A  meditation  on  the  Spring  ......     19 

6  Happiness  not  local .20 

7  Retirement  natural   to  a   great  mind.     Its 

religious  use 22 

8  The  thoughts  to  be  brought  under  regulation; 

as   they  respect  the  past,  present,  and 
future 23 

9  The  fondness  of  every  man  for  his  profes- 

sion.   The  gradual  improvement  of  manu- 
factures       25 

.  0  Four  billets,  with  their  answers.     Remarks 

on  masquerades 26 

11  The  folly  of  anger.     The  misery  of  a  peevish 

old  age 28 

12  The  history  of  a  young  woman  that  came  to 

London  for  a  service 29 

13  The  duty  of  secrecy.     The  invalidity  of  all 

excuses  for  betraying  secrets     ....     31 

14  The  difference  between  an  author's  writings 

and  his  conversation 33 

15  The  folly  of  cards.     A  letter  from  a  lady 

that  has  lost  her  money 35 

16  The  dangers  and  miseries  of  a  literary  emi- 

nence    36 

17  The  frequent  contemplation  of  death  neces- 

sary to  moderate  the  passions   ....     38 

18  The  unhappiness  of  marriage  caused  by  ir- 

regular motives  of  choice 39 

19  The  danger  of  ranging  from  one  study  to 

another.     The  importance  of  the  early 
choice  of  a  profession 41 

20  The  folly  and  inconvenience  of  affectation  .     43 

21  The   anxieties  of  literature   not  less   than 

those  of  public  stations.     The  inequality 

of  authors'  writings 44 

22  An  allegory  on  wit  and  learning    ....    46 

23  The  contrariety  of  criticism.     The  vanity  of 

objection.     An  author  obliged  to  depend 
upon  his  own  judgment 47 

24  The  necessity  of  attending  to  the  duties  of 

common   life.      The  natural  character 

not  to  be  forsaken 48 

85  Rashness  preferable  to  cowardice.     Enter- 
prise not  to  be  repressed 50 


26  The  mischief  of  extravagance,  and  misery 

of  dependence 51 

27  An  author's  treatment  from  six  patrons   .     .    63 

28  The  various  arts  of  self-delusion    ....    54 

29  The  folly  of  anticipating  misfortunes  ...    56 

30  The  observance  of  Sunday  recommended; 

•anxallegory 57 

31  The  defence  of   a  known  mistake  highly 

culpable .59 

32  The  vanity  of  stoicism.     The  necessity  of 

patience 60 

33  An  allegorical  history  of  rest  and  labour      .     62 

34  The  uneasiness  and  disgust  of  female  cow- 

ardice   63 

35  A  marriage  of  prudence  without  affection     .     65 

36  The  reasons  why  pastorals  delight      ...     66 

37  The  true  principles  of  pastoral  poetry     .     .     68 

38  The  advantages  of  mediocrity.    An  eastern 

fable 69 

39  The  unhappiness  of  women  whether  single 

or  married 71 

40  The  difficulty  of  giving  advice  without  of- 

fending       72 

41  The  advantages  of  memory 74 

42  The  misery  of  a  modish  lady  in  solitude  .     .    75 

43  The  inconveniences  of  precipitation  and  con- 

fidence        77 

44  Religion  and  superstition ;  a  vision      ...     78 

45  The  causes  of  disagreement  in  marriage      .    80 

46  The  mischiefs  of  rural  faction 81 

47  The  proper  means  of  regulating  sorrow  .     .    82 

48  The  miseries  of  an  infirm  constitution      .     .     84 

49  A  disquisition  upon  the  value  of  fame       .     .     85 

50  A  virtuous  old  age  always  reverenced     .          87 

51  The   employments  of  a   housewife  in  the 

country 88 

52  The  contemplation  of  the  calamities  of  others, 

a  remedy  for  grief 90 

53  The  folly  and  misery  of  a  spendthrift  ...     91 

54  A  death-bed  the  true  school  of  wisdom.    The 

effects  of  death  upon  the  survivors      .     .     92 

55  The  gay  widow's  impatience  of  the  growth 

of  her  daughter.      The  history  of  Miss 
May-pole 94 

56  The  necessity  of  complaisance.     The  Ram- 

bler's grief  for  offending  his  correspondents     95 

57  Sententious  rules  of  frugality 97 

58  The  desire  of  wealth  moderated  by  philosophy     98 

59  An  account  of  Suspirius,  the  human  screech 

ovvl 99 

60  The  dignity  and  usefulness  of  biography  .     .  101 

61  A  Londoner's  visit  to  the  country  ....  102 

62  A  young  lady's  impatience  to  see  London    .  104 

63  Inconstancy  not  always  a  weakness    .     .     .  105 

64  The  requisites  to  true  friendship     ....  107 

65  Obidsh  and  the  hermit,  an  eastern  story  .     .  108 

66  Passion  not  to  be  eradicated.     The  views  of 

women  ill  directed        109 

67  The  garden  of  hope,  a  dream 110 

68  Every  man  chiefly  happy  or  miserable   at 

home.     The  opinion  of  servants  not  to  be 
despised 112 


CONTENTS. 


69  The  miseries  and  prejudice  of  old  age    .     .  113 

70  Different  men  virtuous  in  different  degrees. 

The  vicious  not  always  abandoned     .     .114 

71  No  man  believes  that  his  own  life  will  be 

short 116 

72  The  necessity  of  good  humour      ....  117 

73  The  lingering  expectation  of  an  heir       .     .  118 

74  Peevishness  equally  wretched  and  offensive. 

The  character  of  Tetrica 120 

75  The  world  never  known  but  by  a  change  of 

fortune.     The  history  of  Melissa    .     .     .  121 

76  The  arts  by  which  bad  men  are  reconciled 

to  themselves 123 

77  The  learned  seldom  despised  but  when  they 

deserve  contempt 124 

78  The  power  of  novelty.    Mortality  too  fami- 

liar to  raise  apprehensions 125 

79  A  suspicious  man  justly  suspected     .     .     .  127 

80  Variety  necessary  to  happiness.    A  Winter 

scene 128 

81  The  great  rule  of  action.     Debts  of  justice 

to  be  distinguished  from  debts  of  charity  129 

82  The  virtuoso's  account  of  his  rarities     .     .  131 

83  The  virtuoso's  curiosity  justified  .....  132 

84  A  young  lady's  impatience  of  control      .     .  134 

85  The  mischiefs  of  total  idleness       .     .     .     .  135 

86  The  danger  of  succeeding  a  great  author : 

An  introduction  to  a  criticism  on  Milton's 
versification 137 

87  The  reasons  why  advice  is  generally  inef- 

fectual        138 

88  A  criticism  on  Milton's  versification.     Eli- 

sions dangerous  in  English  poetry      .     .  140 

89  The  luxury  of  vain  imagination     ....  141 

90  The  pauses  in  English  poetry  adjusted       .  143 

91  The  conduct  of  patronage,  an  allegory   .     .  144 

92  The  accommodation  of  sound  to  sense,  often 

chimerical 145 

93  The  prejudices  and  caprices  of  criticism     .  148 

94  An  inquiry  how  far  Mikon  has  accommo- 

dated the  sound  to  the-sense      ....  149 

95  The  history  of  Pertinax,  the  sceptic  .     .     .  151 

96  Truth,  falsehood,  and  fiction,  an  allegory     .  152 

97  Advice  to  unmarried  ladies 154 

98  The  necessity  of  cultivating  politeness   .     .  156 

99  The  pleasures  of  private  friendship.     The 

necessity  of  similar  dispositions     .     .     .  157 

100  Modish  pleasures 158 

101  A  proper  audience  necessary  to  a  wit    .    .  159 

102  The  voyage  of  life 161 

103  The  prevalence  of  curiosity.     The  charac- 

ter of  Nugaculus     . 162 

104  The  original  of  flattery.     The  meanness  of 

venal  praise 164 

105  The  universal  register,  a  dream    ....  165 

106  The   vanity  of  an  author's   expectations. 

Reasons  wiiy  good  authors  are  sometimes 
neglected 167 

107  Properantia's  hopes  of  a  year  of  confusion. 

The  misery  of  prostitutes 168 

108  Life  sufficient  to  all  purposes  if  well  em- 

ployed   170 

109  The  education  of  a  fop 171 

110  Repentance  stated  and  explained.     Retire- 

ment and  abstinence  useful  to  repentance  173 

111  Youth  made  unfortunate  by  its  haste  and 

eagerness        174 

112  Too  much  nicety  not  to  be  indulged.     The 

character  of  Eriphile 176 

113  The  history  of  Hymenjeus's  courtship     .     .  177 

114  The  necessity  of  proportioning  punishments 

to  crimes ' 179 

115  The  sequel  of  Hymenaeus's  courtship      .     .180 

116  The  young  trader's  attempt  at  politeness   .182 

117  The  advantages  of  living  in  a  garret  .     .     .  183 

118  The  narrowness  of  fame 185 

119  Tranquillo's  account  of  her  lovers  opposed 

to  Hymenceus 187 

120  The   history   of  Almamoulin,   the    son    of 

Nouradin 188 


121  The  dangers  of  imitation.    The  impropriety 

of  imitating  Spenser 190 

122  A  criticism  on  the  English  historians      .     .  191 

123  The  young  trader  turned  gentleman  .     .     .  193 

124  The  lady's  misery  in  a  summer  retirement   194 

125  The  difficulty  of  defining  comedy.    Tragic 

and  comic  sentiments  confounded  .     .     .  195 

126  The  universality  of  cowardice.    The  impro- 

priety of  extorting  praise.     The  imper- 
tinence of  an  astronomer 197 

127  Diligence  too  soon  relaxed.    Necessity  of 

perseverance 198 

128  Anxiety  universal.     The  unhappiness  of  a 

wit  and  a  fine  lady 200 

129  The  folly  of  cowardice  and  inactivity      .     .  201 

130  The  history  of  a  beauty 202 

131  Desire  of  gain  the  general  passion     .     .     .204 

132  The  difficulty  of  educating  a  young  noble- 

man       '.     .  205 

133  The  miseries  of  a  beauty  defaced       .     .     .  2'16 

134  Idleness  an  anxious  and  miserable  state      .  £08 

135  The  folly  of  annual  retreats  into  the  country  209 

136  The  meanness  and  mischief  of  indiscrimi- 

nate dedication    ....         ....  21 

137  The  necessity  of  literary  courage       .     .     .  212 

138  Original  characters  to  be  found  in  the  coun- 

try.    The  character  of  Mrs.  Busy       .     .  213 

139  A  critical  examination  of  Samson  Agonistes  215 

140  The  criticism  continued 216 

141  The  danger  of  attempting  wit  in  conversa- 

tion.    The  character  of  Papilius     .     .     .218 

142  An  account  of  squire  Bluster 219 

143  The  criterions  of  plagiarism 221 

144  The  difficulty  of  raising  reputation.     The 

various  species  of  detractors      ....  223 

145  Petty  writers  not  to  be  despised    ....  224 

146  An  account  of  an  author  travelling  in  quest 

of  his  own  character.     The  uncertainty 
offame 225 

147  The  courtier's  esteem  of  assurance  .     .     .  228 

148  The  cruelty  of  parental  tyranny    ....  229 

149  Benefits  no't  always  entitled  to  gratitude     .  230 

150  Adversity  useful  to  the  acquisition  of  know- 

ledge     231 

151  The  climacterics  of  the  mind 232 

152  Criticism  on  epistolary  writings     ....  234 

153  The  treatment  incurred  by  loss  of  fortune  .  235 

154  The  inefficacy  of  genius  without  learning    .  237 

155  The  usefulness  of  advice.     The  danger  of 

habits.     The  necessity  of  reviewing  life  238 

156  The  laws  of  writing  not  always  indisputable. 

Reflections  on  tragi-comedy       ....  240 

157  The  scholar's  complaint  of  his  own  bashful- 

ness      241 

158  Rules   of    writing  drawn    from    examples 

Those  examples  often  mistaken      .     .     .  242 

159  The  nature  and  remedies  of  bashfulness     .  244 

160  Rules  for  the  choice  of  associates       .     .     .  245 

161  The  revolutions  of  a  garret 246 

162  Old  men  in  danger  of  falling  into  pupilage. 

The  conduct  of  Thrasybulus     ....  247 

163  The  mischiefs  of  following  a  patron  .     .     .249 

164  Praise  universally  desired.     The  failings  of 

eminent  men  often  imitated 250 

165  The   impotence  of  wealth'.      The  visit  of 

Serotinus  to  the  place  of  his  nativity  .     .  252 

166  Favours  not  easily  gained  by  the  poor    .     .  253 

167  The  marriage  of  Hymenseus  and  Tranquilla  254 

168  Poetry  debased  by  mean  expressions.     An 

example  from  Shakspeare 256 

169  Labour  necessary  to  excellence     ....  257 

170  The  history  of  Misce'.la  debauched  by  her 

relation 258 

171  Miscella's  description  of  the  life  of  a  pros- 

titute     259 

172  The  effect  of  sudden  riches  upon  the  man- 

ners       261 

173  Unreasonable  fears  of  pedantry     .     .     .     .262 

174  The  mischiefs  of  unbounded  raillery.    His- 

tory of  Dicaculus    ........  264 


CONTENTS. 


175  The  r»vajority  are  wicked 265 

176  Directions  to  authors  attacked  by  critics. 

The  various  degrees  of  critical   perspi- 
cacity    266 

177  An  account  of  a  club  of  antiquaries    .     .     .  267 

1 78  Many  advantages  not  to  be  enjoyed  together  269 

179  The  awkward  merriment  of  a  student     .     .  270 

180  The  study  of  life  iiot  to  be  neglected  for  the 

sake  of  books 271 

181  The  history  of  an  adventurer  in  lotteries     .  272 

182  The  history  of  Leviculus  the  fortune-hunter  274 

183  The  influence  of  envy  and  interest  com- 

pared      275 

184  The  subject  of  essays  often  suggested  by 

chance.     Chance  .equally   prevalent  in 
other  affairs        276 

185  The  prohibition   of  revenge  justifiable  by 

reason.     The  meanness  of  regulating  our 
conduct  by  the  opinions  of  men      .     .     .  277 

186  Anningait  and  Ajut,  a  Greenland  history    .  279 

187  The  history  of  Anningait   and  Ajut  con- 

cluded     280 

188  Favour  often  gained  with  little  assistance 

from  understanding 281 

189  The  mischiefs  of  falsehood.     The  character 

ofTurpicula 283 

190  The  history  of  Abouzaid,  the  son  of  Morad  284 

191  The  busy  life  of  a  young  lady 285 

192  Love  unsuccessful  without  riches  ....  286 

193  The  author's  art  of  praising  himself  .     .     .  288 

194  A  young  nobleman's  progress  in  politeness  289 

195  A  young   nobleman's    introduction   to   the 

knowledge  of  the  town 290 

196  Human   opinions  mutable.     The  hopes  of 

youth  fallacious 292 

197  The  history  of  a  legacy  hunter      ....  293 

198  The  legacy  hunter's  history  concluded  .     .  294 

199  The  virtues  of  Rabbi  Abraham's  magnet    .  296 

200  Asper's  complaint  of  the  insolence  of  Pros- 

pero.     Unpoliteness  not  always  the  effect 

of  pride 297 

201  The  importance  of  punctuality      ....  299 

202  The  different  acceptations  of  poverty.    Cyn- 

ics and  monks  not  poor 300 

203  The  pleasures  of  life  to  be  sought  in  pros- 

pects of  futurity.     Future  fame  uncertain  301 

204  The  history  of  ten  days  of  Seged,  emperor 

of  Ethiopia 302 

205  The  history  of  Seged  concluded    .     .     .     .  304 

206  The  art  of  living  at  the  cost  of  others     .     .  305 

207  The  fo'.ly  of  continuing  too  long  upon  the 

sta.au 306 

208  The  Rambler's  reception.     His  design  .     .  308 


THE  ADVENTURER. 

34  Story  of  Mysargyras 310 

39   Sleep 311 

41  Story  of  Mysargyras  concluded    ....  313 
45  Want  of  strength  and  unity  in  confederated 

power 314 

50  The  causes  of  falsehood 316 

53  Letter  of  Mysarsyras 317 

58  Criticism 318 

62  Letter  of  Mysargyras 320 

57  The  useful  arts  as  applied  to  the  wants,  ne- 
cessities and  superfluities  of  life      .     .     .  322 

59  Men  willingly  believe  what  they  wish  to  be 

true 324 

74  Advice  useful  and  salutary 325 

81  Whether  a  man  should  think  too  highlv,  or 

too  meanly  of  himself 327 

84  On  the  diversity  of  the  English  character    .  329 

85  The   necessity  of  readina   and   consulting 

o'her  understandings  than  our  own     .     .  330 

!  Observations  on  Virgil's  Pastorals     .     .     .  332 

95  Resemblance  between  authors      ....  334 

99  The  fate  of  projectors  335 

102  Life  of  Mercator .337 


107  Why  is  the  world  divided  by  such  difference 

of  opinion 338 

108  Some  images  and  sentiments  of  which  the 

mind  of  man  may  be  said  to  be  enamoured  340 
111  Examination  of  the  pretensions  that  are 

made  to  happiness 341 

115  Every  age  has  fe  peculiar  character  .  .  343 

119  The  great  extremes  in  which  happiness  is 

sought 344 

120  Misery  the  lot  of  man,  and  our  present  state 

one  of  danger  and  infelicity 346 

126  Retirement 347 

138  The  employment  of  mankind 349 

131  The  neglect  of  little  things  ......  350 

137  Retrospect  of  the  papers  of  the  Adventurer  352 

138  The  condition  of  authors  with  regard  to 

themselves 354 


THE  IDLER. 

1  Idler's  character 357 

2  Invitation  to  correspondents 358 

3  Idler's  reason  for  writing 359 

4  Charities  and  hospitals 360 

5  Proposal  for  a  female  army 361 

6  Lady's  performance  on  horseback  .     .     .     .     ib. 

7  Scheme  for  news  writers  .     . ' 362 

8  Plan  of  military  discipline     ......  364 

9  Progress  of  idleness 365 

10  Political  credulity 366 

11  Discourses  on  the  weather 367 

12  Marriages  why  advertised ib. 

13  The  imaginary  housewife 368 

14  Robbery  of  time 369 

15  Treacle's  complaint  of  his  wife 370 

16  Drugget's  retirement 371 

17  Expedients  of  Idlers 372 

18  Drugget  vindicated 373 

19  Whirler's  character 374 

20  Louisbourg's  history 375 

21  Linger's  history  of  lisllessness 376 

22  Imprisonment  of  debtors         377 

23  Uncertainty  of  friendship       378 

24  Man  does  not  always  think ib. 

25  New  actors  on  the  theatre 379 

26  Betty  Broom's  history 380 

27  Power  of  habits 381 

28  Wedding  day — Grocer's  wife — Chairman    .  382 

29  Betty  Broom's  history 383 

30  Corruption  of  news  writers 384 

31  Disguises  of  idleness — Sober's  character      .  385 

32  Sleep 386 

33  Journal  of  a  fellow  of  a  college 387  - 

34  Punch  and  conversation 388 

35  Auction  hunter 389 

36  The  terrific  diction 390 

37  Iron  and  gold 391 

38  Debtors  in  Prison .    .  392 

39  The  bracelet 393 

40  Art  of  advertising 394 

41  On  the  death  of  a  friend 395 

42  Perdita's  complaint  of  her  father    .     .     .     .396 

43  Monitions  on  the  flight  of  time        .     .     .    .397 

44  Use  of  memory 398 

45  Portraits  defended 399 

46  Molly.  Quick's  complaint  of  her  mistress  .    .  400 

47  Deborah  Ginger's  account  of  city  wits     .     .  401 

48  The  bustles  of  Idleness 402 

49  Marvel's  journey 403 

50  Marvel  paralleled 404 

51  Domestic  greatness  unattainable    ....  405 
32  Self  denial  necessary ib. 

53  Mischiefs  of  good  company 406 

54  Mrs.  Savecharges'  complaint 407 

55  Author's  mortifications 409 

56  Virtuosos  \\himsical 410 

57  Character  of  Sophron  the  prudent       .     .     .411 

58  Expectations  of  pleasure  frustrated     .     .    .412 

59  Books  fall  into  neglect .         ib. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

60  Minim  the  critic 413 

61  Minim  the  critic 414 

62  Ranger's  account  of  the  vanity  of  riches      .  415 

63  Progress  of  arts  and  language 416 

64  Ranger's  complaint  concluded 417 

65  Fate  of  posthumous  works 418 

66  Loss  of  ancient  writings  .  .     .....  419 

67  Scholar's  journal 420 

68  History  of  translations 421 

69  History  of  translations 422 

70  Hard  words  defended 423 

71  Dick  Shifter's  rural  excursion 424 

72  Regulation  of  memory 425 

73  Tranquil's  use  of  riches 426 

74  Memory  rarely  deficient 427 

75  GelaleddinofBassora 428 

76  False  criticisms  on  painting 429 

77  Easy  writing 430 

78  Steady,  Snug,  Startle,  Solid,  and  Misty       .  431 

79  Grand  style  of  painting 432 

80  Ladies'  journey  to  London 433 

81  Indian's  speech  to  his  countrymen     .     .     .  434 

82  The  true  idea  of  beauty 435 

83  Scruple,  Wormwood,  Sturdy,  and  Gentle    .  436 

84  Biography,  how  best  performed      ....  437 

85  Books  multiplied  by  useless  compilations    .  438 

86  Miss  Heartless's  want  of  a  lodging    .     .     .439 

87  Amazonian  bravery  revived ib. 

88  What  have  ye  done? 440 

89  Physical  evil  moral  good 441 

90  Rhetorical  action  considered     .....  442 

91  Sufficiency  of  the  English  language  .     .     .  443 

92  Nature  of  cunning 444 

93  Sam  Softly's  history 445 

94  Obstructions  of  learning 446 

95  Tim  Wainscot's  son  a  fine  gentleman    .     .    ib. 

96  Hacho  of  Lapland 447 

97  Narratives  of  travellers  considered    .     .     .  448 

98  Sophia  Heedful 449 

99  Ortogrul  of  Basra 450 

100  The  good  sort  of  woman 451 

101  Omar's  plan  of  life 452 

102  Authors  inattentive  to  themselves      .     .     .  453 

103  Horror  of  the  last ib. 

22  (as  originally  published,)  The  Shepherd  of 

Bohemia 454 


RASSELAS,  a  Tale 456 


TALES  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

The  Vision  of  Theodore  the  Hermit  of  Tene- 

riffe 501 

The  Fountains,  a  Fairy  Tale 606 


LETTERS,     SELECTED     FROM     THE    COLLECTION 
OF  MRS.  PlOZZI,  AND  OTHERS. 

I.  To  Mr.  James  Elphinston 499 

II.  to  LIII.  To  Mrs.  Thrale ib. 

LIV.  To  Mrs.  Piozzi 525 


IRENE,  a  Tragedy  in  five  acts  . 


.  525 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

London 544 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 548 

Prologue  spoken  by  Mr.  Garrick,  at  the  opening 

the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  I.ane  .  .  .  551 
Prologue  to  the  "Masque  of  Comus"  .  .  .  .  ib. 
Prologue  to  the  Comedy  of"  The  Good-natured 

Man" 55? 

Prologue   to  the  Comedy  of  "A  Word  to  the 

Wise" ib. 

Spring ib. 


Midsummer ib. 

Autumn 553 

Winter ib. 

The  Winter's  Walk ib 

To  Miss  ****.  on  her  giving  the  Author  a  Gold 
and  Silk  Network  Purse  of  her  own 
weaving ib. 

To  Miss  ****,  on  her  playing  upon  the  Harp- 
sichord in  a  room  hung  with  Flower- 
pieces  of  her  own  painting  654 

Evening:  an  Ode.     To  Stella ib 

To  the  Same ib. 

To  a  Friend ib. 

Stella  in  Mourning .     ib. 

To  Stella    .     .     • 555 

Verses  written  at  the  request  of  a  Gentleman  to 

whom  a  Lady  had  given  a  Sprig  of  Myrtle  ib 

To  Lady  Firebrace,  at  Bury  Assizes   .     .     .     .    ib. 

To  Lyce,  an  elderly  Lady       .     .          .     .     .     .    ib 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Robert  Level       .    .     .     .    ib. 

Epitaph  on  Claude  Phillips 556 

Epitaphium  in  Thomam  Hanmer,  Baronettum  .     ib. 

Paraphrase  of  the  above  by  Dr.  Johnson  .     .     .    ib. 

To  Miss  Hickman,  playing  on  the  Spinnet   .     .  557 

Paraphrase  of  Proverbs,  chap.  vi.  verses  6,  7,  8, 

9,  10,  11,  ........  .  .  ib. 

Horace,  Lib.  iv.  Ode  vii.  translated      .     .     .     .    ib. 

Anacreon,  Ode  ix.     .     .     . ib. 

Lines  written  in  ridicule  of  certain  Poems  pub- 
lished in  1777 558 

Parody  of  a  Translation  from  the  Medea  of 

Euripides ib 

Translation  of  the  two  first  Stanzas  of  the  Song 

"Rio  Verde,  Rio  Verde" ib. 

Imitation  of  the  style  of  **** ib. 

Burlesque  of  some  Lines  of  Lopez  de  Vega       .    ib. 

Translation  of  some  Lines  at  the  end  of  Baretti's 

Easy  Phraseology ib 

Improviso  Translation  of  a  Distich  on  the  Duke 
of  Modena's  running  away  from  the 
Comet  in  1742  to  1743 ib 

Improviso  Translation  of  some  Lines  of  Mons. 

Benserade  h  son  Lit ib. 

Epitaph  for  Mr.  Hogarth        559 

Translation  of  some  Lines  written  under  a 

Print  representing  persons  skaiting  .  .  ib. 

Impromptu  Translation  of  the  same      .     .     .     .     ib. 

To  Mrs.  Thrale,  on  her  completing  he  r  35th  year    ib 

Impromptu  Translation  of  an  Air  in  the  Cle- 

menza  de  Tito  of  Metastasio  .  .  .  .  ib. 

Translation  of  a  Speech  of  Aquileio  in  the 

Adriano  of  Meiaotasio ib. 

Friendship.     An  Ode ib. 

Translation  from  the  M"dea  of  Euripides     .     .    ib 

Poemata 560 


HISTORICAL  AND  BIOGRAPHICAL  PREFACE. 


THIS  work  was  written  by  Dr.  Johnson  for 
"The  Universal  Chronicle,  or  Weekly  Gazette," 
projected  in  the  year  1751,  by  Mr.  J.  Newberry, 
Bookseller.  The  preface  to  the  Rambler  con- 
tains an  outline  of  the  Life  of  the  celebrated 
author  of  these  papers;  we  shall  therefore  here 
only  present  our  readers  with  a  few  observations 
on  the  style,  &c.  of  Dr.  Johnson,  which  he  will 
not  find  so  copiously  described  as  we  could  wish 
in  on i-  preliminary  observations  on  the  Rambler. 

The  Doctor  is  said  to  have  been  allowed  a 
share  in  the  profits  of  this  newspaper,  for  which 
he  was  to  furnish  a  short  essay  on  such  subjects 
as  might  suit  the  taste  of  the  times,  and  distin- 
guish this  publication  from  it  contemporaries. 
The  first  Essay  appeared  on  Saturday,  April 
15th,  1753,  and  continued  to  be  published  on  the 
same  day,  weekly,  until  April  5th,  1760,  when 
the  Idler  was  concluded. 

The  Rambler  may  be  considered  as  Johnson's 
great  work.  It  was  the  basis  of  that  high  re- 
putation which  went  on  increasing  to  the  end  of 
his  days.  The  circulation  of  those  periodical 
essays  was  not,  at  first,  equal  to  ther  merit.  They 
had  not,  like  the  Spectators,  the  art  of  charming 
by  variety  ;  and  indeed  how  could  it  be  expected  ? 
The  wits  of  dueen  Anne's  reign  sent  their  con- 
tributions to  the  Spectator ;  and  Johnson  stood 
alone.  A  stage-coach,  says  Sir  Richard  Steele, 
must  go  forward  on  stated  days,  whether  there 
are  passengers  or  not  So  it  was  with  the  Ram- 
bler, every  Tuesday  and  Saturday,  for  two  years. 
In  this  collection  Johnson  is  the  great  moral 
teacher  of  his  countrymen  ;  his  essays  form  a 
body  of  ethics ;  the  observations  on  life  and  man- 
ners are  acute  and  instructive ;  and  the  papers, 
professedly  critical,  serve  to  promote  the  cause  of 
literature.  It  must,  however,  be  acknowledged, 
that  a  settled  gloom  hangs  over  the  author's 
mind  ;  and  all  the  essays,  except  eight  or  ten, 
coming  from  the  same  fountain  head,  no  wonder 
that  they  have  the  raciness  of  the  soil  from  which 
they  spams:.  Of  this  uniformity  Johnson  was 
sensible.  He  used  to  say,  that  if  he  had  joined  a 
friend  or  two,  who  would  have  been  able  to  inter- 
mix papers  of  a  sprightly  turn,  the  collection 
would  have  been  more  miscellaneous,  and,  by 
consequence,  more  agreeable  to  the  generality 
of  readers. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  the  pomp  of  diction, 
which  has  been  objected  to  Johnson,  was  first 
assumed  in  the  Rambler.  His  Dictionary  was 
going  on  at  the  same  time,  and,  in  the  course  of 
that  work,  as  he  grew  familiar  with  technical 
and  scholastic  words,  he  thought  the  bulk  of  his 
readers  were  equally  learned  ;  or  at  least  would 
admire  the  splendour  and  dignity  of  the  style. 
And  yet  it  is  well  known,  that  he  praisea  in 
Cowley  the  ease  and  unaffected  structure  of  the 
sentences.  Cowley  may  be  placed  at  the  head 
of  those  who  cultivated  a  clear  and  natural  style. 
Dryden,  Tillotson,  and  Sir  William  Temple,  fol- 
lowed. Addison,  Swift,  and  Pope,  with  more 
correctness,  carried  our  language  well  nigh  to 
perfection.  Of  Addison,  Johnson  was  used  to 


say,  "He  is  the  Raphael  of  Essay  Writers." 
How  he  differed  so  widely  from  such  elegant 
models  is  a  problem  not  to  be  solved,  unless  it  be 
true  that  he  took  an  early  tincture  from  the  wri- 
ters of  the  last  century,  particularly  Sir  Thomas 
Browne.  Hence  the  peculiarities  of  his  style, 
new  combinations,  sentences  of  an  unusual  struc- 
ture, and  words  derived  from  the  learned  lan- 
guages. His  own  account  of  the  matter  is, 
"When  common  words  were  less  pleasing  to  the 
ear,  or  less  distinct  in  their  signification,  I  fami- 
liarized the  terms  of  philosophy,  by  applying 
them  to  popular  ideas."  But  he  forgot  the  obser- 
vation of  Dryden: — "If too  many  foreign  words 
are  poured  in  upon  us,  it  looks  as  if  they  were 
designed,  not  to  assist  the  natives,  but  to  conquer 
them."  There  is,  it  must  be  admitted,  a  swell 
of  language,  often  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  sen- 
timent; but  there  is,  in  general,  a  fulness  of 
mind,  and  the  thought  seems  to  expand  with  the 
sound  of  the  words.  Determined  to  discard  col- 
loquial barbarisms  and  licentious  idioms,  he  for- 
got the  elegant  simplicity  that  distinguishes  the 
writings  of  Addison.  He  had  what  Locke  calls 
a  roundabout  view  of  his  subject ;  and  though  he 
was  never  tainted,  like  many  modern  wits,  with 
the  ambition  of  shining  in  paradox,  he  may  be 
fairly  called  an  Original  Thinker.  His  reading 
was  extensive.  He  treasured  in  his  mind  what- 
ever was  worthy  of  notice,  but  he  added  to  it 
from  his  own  meditation.  He  collected,  qua 
reconderet,  auctaque  promeret.  Addison  was  not 
so  profound  a  thinker.  He  was  born  to  write, 
converse,  and  live  with  ease ;  and  he  found  an 
early  patron  in  Lord  Somers.  He  depended, 
however,  more  upon  a  fine  taste  than  the  vigour 
of  his  mind.  His  Latin  poetry  shows,  that  he 
relished,  with  a  just  selection,  all  the  refined  and 
delicate  beauties  of  the  Roman  classics ;  and 
when  he  cultivated  his  native  language,  no  won- 
der that  he  formed  that  graceful  style,  which  has 
been  so  justly  admired;  simple,  yet  elegant; 
adorned,  yet  never  over-wrought;  rich  in  allu- 
sion, yet  pure  and  perspicuous;  correct  with- 
out labour,  and,  though  sometimes  deficient  in 
strength,  yet  always  musical.  His  essays  in  ge- 
neral, are  on  the  surface  of  life ;  if  ever  original,  it 
was  in  pieces  of  humour.  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly, 
and  the  Tory  Fox-hunter,  need  not  to  be  men- 
tioned. Johnson  had  a  fund  of  humour,  but  he 
did  not  know  it,  nor  was  he  willing  to  descend  to 
the  familiar  idiom  and  the  variety  of  diction  which 
that  mode  of  composition  required.  The  letter, 
in  the  Rambler,  No.  12,  from  a  young  girl  that 
wants  a  place,  will  illustrate  this  observation. 
Addison  possessed  an  unclouded  imagination, 
alive  to  the  first  objects  of  nature  and  of  art.  He 
reaches  the  sublime  without  any  apparent  effort. 
When  he  tells  us,  "  If  we  consider  the  fixed 
stars  as  so  many  oceans  of  flame,  that  are  each  of 
them  attended  with  a  different  set  of  planets ;  if 
we  still  discover  new  firmaments  and  new  lights 
that  are  sunk  further  in  those  unfathomabla 
depths  of  aether,  we  are  lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  suns 
and  worlds,  and  confounded  with  the  magnifi- 


HISTORICAL  AND 


coiicc  and  immensity  of  nature ;"  the  ease,  with 
which  this  passage  rises  to  unaffected  grandeur, 
is  the  secret  charm  that  captivates  the  reader. 
Johnson  is  always  lofty  ;  he  seems,  to  use  Dry- 
den's  phrase,  to  be  o'er  informed  with  meaning, 
and  his  words  do  not  appear  to  himself  adequate 
to  his  conception.  He  moves  in  state,  and  his  pe- 
riods are  always  harmonious.  His  Oriental  Tales 
are  in  the  true  style  of  eastern  magnificence,  and 
yet  none  of  them  are  so  much  admired  as  the  Vi- 
sions of  Mirza.  In  matters  of  criticism,  Johnson 
is  never  the  echo  of  preceding  writers.  He  thinks 
and  decides  for  himself.  If  we  except  the  Essays 
on  the  pleasures  of  imagination,  Addison  cannot 
be  called  a  philosophical  critic.  His  moral  Es- 
says are  beautiful ;  but  in  that  province  nothing 
can  exceed  the  Rambler,  though.  Johnson  used 
to  say,  that  the  Essay  on  "  The  Burthens  of 
Mankind"  (in  the  Spectator,  No.  558)  was  the 
most  exquisite  he  had  ever  read.  Talking  of 
himself,  Johnson  said,  "  Topham  Beauclark  has 
wit,  and  every  thing  conies  from  him  with  ease  ; 
but  when  I  say  a  good  thing,  I  seem  to  labour." 
When  we  compare  him  with  Addison,  the  con- 
trast is  still  stronger.  Addison  lends  grace  and 
ornament  to  truth;  Johnson  gives  it  force  and 
energy.  Addison  makes  virtue  amiable  ;  John- 
son represents  it  as  an  awful  duty.  Addison 
insinuates  himself  with  an  air  of  modesty  ;  John- 
son commands  like  a  dictator  ;  but  a  dictator  in 
his  splended  robes,  not  labouring  at  the  plough. 
Addison  is  the  Jupiter  of  Virgil,  with  placid 
serenity  talking  to  Venus  : 

"  Vultu,  quo  coelum  tempestatesque  serenat." 

Johnson  is  Jupiter  Tonans ;  he  darts  his  light- 
ning, and  rolls  his  thunder,  in  the  cause  or  vir- 
tue and  piety.  The  language  seems  to  fall  short 
of  his  ideas ;  he  pours  along,  familiarising  the 
terms  of  philosophy,  with  bold  inversions,  and 
sonorous  periods ;  but  we  may  apply  to  him 
what  Pope  has  said  of  Homer: — "It  is  the  sen- 
timent that  swells  and  fills  out  the  diction,  which 
rises  with  it,  and  forms  itself  about  it ;  like  glass 
in  the  furnace,  which  grows  to  a  greater  magni- 
tude, as  the  breath  within  is  more  powerful,  and 
the  heat  more  intense." 

It  is  not  the  design  of  this  comparison  to  decide 
between  those  two  eminent  writers.  In  matters 
of  taste  every  reader  will  chose  for  himself.  John- 
son is  always  profound,  and  of  course  gives  the 
fatigue  of  thinking.  Addison  charms  while  he 
instructs;  and  writing,  as  he  always  does,  a 
pure,  an  elegant,  and  idiomatic  style,  he  may 
be  pronounced  the  safest  model  for  imitation. 

The  Essays  written  by  Johnson  in  the  Adven- 
turer may  be  called  a  continuation  of  the  Rambler. 
The  Idler,  in  order  to  be  consistent  with  the  as- 
sumed character,  is  written  with  abated  vigour,  in 
a  style  of  ease  and  unlaboured  elegance.  It  is 
the  Odyssey  after  the  Iliad.  Intense  thinking 
would  not  become  the  Idler.  The  first  number 
presents  a  well-drawn  portrait  of  an  Idler,  and 
from  that  character  no  deviation  could  be  made. 
Accordingly,  Johnson  forgets  his  austere  manner, 
and  plays  us  into  sense.  He  still  continues  his 
lectures  on  human  life,  but  he  adverts  to  common 
occurrences,  and  is  often  content  with  the  topic 
of  the  day.  An  advertisement  in  the  beginning 
of  the  first  volume  informs  us,  that  twelve  entire 
Essays  were  a  contribution  from  different  hands. 
One  of  these,  No.  33,  is  the  journal  of  a  Senior 


fellow  at  Cambridge,  but,  aa  Johnson,  being 
himself  an  original  thinker,  always  revolted  from 
servile  imitation,  he  has  punted  the  piece,  with 
an  apology,  importing  that  the  journal  of  a  citizen 
in  the  Spectator  almost  precluded  the  attempt  ol 
any  subsequent  writer.  This  account  01  the 
Idler  may  be  closed,  after  observing,  that  the 
author's  mother  being  buried  on  the  23d  of  Jan- 
uary 1759,  there  is  an  admirable  paper,  occasion- 
ed by  that  event,  on  Saturday  the  27th  of  the 
same  month,  No.  41.  The  reader,  if  he  pleases, 
may  compare  it  with  another  fine  paper  in  the 
Rambler,  No.  54,  on  the  conviction  that  rushes 
on  the  mind  at  the  bed  of  a  dying  friend. 

The  Idlers,  during  the  time  of  their  publication, 
were  frequently  copied  into  contemporary  works 
without  any  acknowledgment.  The  author,  who 
was  also  a  proprietor  of  the  Universal  Chronicle, 
in  which  they  appeared,  hurled  his  vengeance  on 
the  pirates  in  the  following  "Hue  and  Cry," 
which,  as  coming  from  Dr.  Johnson's  pen,  may 
justly  be  deemed  a  literary  curiosity. 

"London,  Jan.  5,  1759.  Advertisement.  The 
proprietors  of  the  paper,  entitled  "The  Idler," 
having  found  that  those  essays  are  inserted  in 
the  newspapers  and  magazines  with  so  little 
regard  to  justice  or  decency,  that  the  Universal 
Chronicle  in  which  they  first  appear,  is  not 
always  mentioned,  think  it  necessary  to  declare  to 
the  publishers  of  those  collections,  that  however 
patiently  they  have  hitherto  endured  these  inju- 
ries, made  yet  more  injurious  by  contempt,  they 
have  now  determined  to  endure  them  no  longer. 
— They  have  already  seen  essays,  for  which  a 
very  large  price  is  paid,  transferred  with  the 
most  shameless  rapacity  into  the  weekly  or 
monthly  compilations,  and  their  right,  at  least 
for  the  present,  alienated  from  them,  before  they 
could  themselves  be  said  to  enjoy  it.  But  they 
would  not  willingly  be  thought  to  want  tender- 
ness even  for  men  by  whom  no  tenderness  hath 
been  shown.  The  past  is  without  remedy,  and 
shall  be  without  resentment.  But  those  who 
have  been  thus  busy  with  their  sickles  in  the 
fields  of  their  neighbours,  are  henceforward  to 
take  notice,  that  the  time  of  impunity  is  at  an 
end.  Whoever  shall,  without  our  leave,  lay  the 
hand  of  rapine  upon  our  papers,  is  to  expect 
that  we  shall  vindicate  our  due,  by  the  means 
which  justice  prescribes,  and  which  are  warrant- 
ed by  the  immemorial  prescriptions  of  honoura- 
ble trade.  We  shall  lay  hold,  in  our  turn,  on 
their  copies,  degrade  them  from  the  pomp  of 
wide  margin  and  diffuse  typography,  contract 
them  into  a  narrow  space,  and  sell  them  at  "an 
humble  price ;  yet  not  with  a  view  of  growing 
rich  by  confiscations,  for  we  think  not  much  bet- 
ter of  money  got  by  punishment  than  by  crimes : 
we  shall  therefore,  when  our  losses  are  repaid, 
give  what  profit  shall  remain  to  the  Magdalens: 
for  we  know  not  who  can  be  more  properly  taxed 
for  the  support  of  penitent  prostitutes  than  pros- 
titutes in  whom  there  yet  appears  neither  peni- 
tence nor  shame." 

The  effect  of  this  singular  manifesto  is  not  now 
known;  but  if  "essays  for  which  a  large  price 
has  been  paid"  be  not  words  of  course,  they  may 
prove  that  the  author  received  an  immediate  re- 
muneration for  his  labour,  independent  of  his 
share  in  the  general  profits. 

Nos.  33,  93,  and  96,  were  written  by  Mr. 
Thomas  Warton.  Thomas  Warton  was  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  PREFACE. 


younger  brother  of  Dr.  Joseph  Warton,  and  was 
born  at  Basingstoke  in  1728.  He  very  early 
manifested  a  taste  for  verse ;  and  there  is  extant  a 
well-turned  translation  of  an  epigram  of  Martial 
composed  by  him  in  his  ninth  year.  He  was 
educated  under  his  father,  who  kept  a  school  at 
Basingstoke,  till  he  was  admitted  in  1743  a  com- 
moner of  Trinity  College,  Oxford.  Here  he  exer- 
cised his  poletical  talent  to  so  much  advantage, 
that  on  the  appearance  of  Mason's  Elegy  of 
"  Isis,"  which  severely  reflected  on  the  disloyalty 
of  Oxford  at  that  period,  he  was  encouraged  by 
Dr.  Huddesford,  president  of  his  college,  to  vin- 
dicate the  cause  of  the  university.  This  task  he 
performed  with  great  applause,  by  writing,  in  his 
21st  year,  "The  Triumph  of  Isis;"  a  piece  of 
much  spirit  and  fancy,  in  which  he  retaliated 
upon  the  bard  of  Cam  by  satirising  the  courtly 
venality  then  supposed  to  distinguished  the  loyal 
university,  and  sung  in  no  common  strains  the 
past  and  present  glories  of  Oxford.  This  on  his 
part  was  fair  warfare,  though  as  a  peace-offer- 
ing he  afterwards  excluded  the  poem  from  his 
volume  of  collected  pieces.  His  "  Progress  of 
Discontent,"  published  in  1750,  in  a  miscellany 
entitled  "The  Student,"  exhibited  to  great  ad- 
vantage his  power  in  the  familiar  style,  and 
his  talent  for  humour,  with  a  knowledge  of  life 
extraordinary  at  his  early  age,  especially  if  com- 
posed, as  is  said,  for  a  college-exercise  in  1746.  In 
1750  he  took  the  degree  of  M.  A.,  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  became  a  Fellow  of  his  college.  He 
appears  now  to  have  unalterably  devoted  him- 
self to  the  pursuit  of  poetry  and  elegant  literature 
in  a  university-residence.  His  spirited  satire, 
entitled  "  Newmarket,"  and  pointed  against  the 
ruinous  passion  for  the  turf;  his  "Ode  for  Mu- 
sic ;"  and  "  Verses  on  the  Death  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales  ;"  were  written  about  this  time  ;  and  in 
1753  he  was  the  editor  of  a  small  collection  of 
poems,  which,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Union," 
was  printed  at  Edinburgh,  and  contained  several 
of  his  own  pieces.  In  1754  he  made  himself 
known  as  a  critic  and  a  diligent  student  of  poeti- 
cal antiquities,  by  his  observations  on  Spenser's 
Fairy  Glueen,  in  one  volume,  afterwards  enlarg- 
ed to  two  volumes ;  a  work  well  received  by  the 
public,  and  which  made  a  considerable  addition 
to  his  literary  reputation.  These  various  proofs 
of  his  abilities  caused  him  very  properly  to  be 
elected  in  1757  professor  of  poetry  to  the  univer- 
sity, an  office  which  he  held  for  the  usual  period 
of  ten  years,  and  rendered  respectable  by  the 
erudition  and  taste  displayed  in  his  lectures.  Dr. 
Johnson  was  at  this  time  publishing  his  "  Idler," 
and  Warton  who  had  long  been  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  him,  contributed  the  three  papers 
we  have  mentioned  to  that  work.  He  gave  a 
specimen  of  his  classical  proficiency  in  1758  by 
the  publication  "Inscriptionum  Romanarum 
Metricarum  Delectus,"  a  collection  of  select  Latin 
epigrams  and  inscriptions,  to  which  were  annex- 
ed a  few  modern  ones,  on  the  antique  model,  five 
of  them  by  himself.  He  drew  up  in  1760,  for  the 
Biographica  Britannica,  the  life  of  Sir  Thomas 
Pope,  which  he  published  separately,  much 
enlarged,  in  1772  and  1780.  Another  con- 
tribution to  literary  biography  was  his  "Life 
and  Literary  Remains  of  Dr.  Bathurst,"  pub- 
lished in  1761.  A  piece  of  local  humour, 
which  was  read  at  the  time  with  great  avidity, 
dropped  from  his  pen  in  1760  with  the  title, 
B 


"  A  Companion  to  the  Guide,  and  a  Guide  to  the 
Companion;  being  a  complete  Supplement  to 
all  the  Accounts  of  Oxford  hitherto  published." 
The  lapse  of  time,  and  the  new  reign,  had  now 
entirely  restored  to  Oxford  its  ancient  virtue  of 
loyalty ;  and  Warton,  who  had  lamented  the 
death  of  George  II.  in  a  copy  of  verses  addressed 
to  Mr.  Pitt,  continued  the  courtly  strain,  though 
with  due  dignity,  in  lines  on  the  marriage  of 
George  III.  and  on  the  birth  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  printed  in  the  university  collection.  Still 
ranking  equally  with  the  wits  and  with  the  poets 
of  Isis,  he  edited  in  1764  the  "  Oxford  Sausage," 
of  several  pieces  in  which  lively  miscellany  he 
was  the  writer.  In  1766  he  again  appeared  as  a 
classical  editor  by  superintending  the  Anthology 
of  Cephalus,  printed  at  the  Clarendon-press,  to 
which  he  perfixed  a  learned  and  ingenious  pre- 
face. He  took  the  degree  of  B.  D.  in  1761,  and 
in  1771  was  instituted  to  the  small  living  of  Kid- 
dington  in  Oxfordshire,  on  the  presentation  oi 
the  Earl  of  Litchfield,  then  chancellor  of  the  uni 
versity.  An  edition  of  Theocritus  in  2  vols.  4to. 
which  was  published  in  1770,  gave  him  celebrity 
not  only  at  home,  but  among  the  scholars  of  the 
continent. 

A  History  of  English  Poetry  is  said  to  have 
been  meditated  by  Pope,  who  was  but  indiffer 
ently  qualified  by  learning,  whatever  he  might 
have  been  by  taste,  for  such  an  undertaking. 
Gray,  who  possessed  every  requisite  for  the  work, 
except  industry,  entertained  a  distant  idea  of  en- 
gaging in  it,  with  the  assistance  of  Mason  ;  but 
he  shrunk  from  the  magnitude  of  the  task,  and 
readily  relinquished  his  project,  when  he  heard 
that  a  similar  design  was  adopted  by  Warton. 
At  what  period  he  first  occupied  himself  in  this 
extensive  plan  of  writing  and  research,  we  are 
not  informed  ;  but  in  1774  he  had  proceeded  so 
far  as  to  publish  the  first  volume  in  quarto ;  and 
he  pursued  an  object  now  apparently  become  the 
great  mark  of  his  studies,  with  so  much  assiduity, 
that  he  brought  out  a  second  volume  in  1778,  and 
a  third  in  1781.  He  now  relaxed  iahis  labours, 
and  never  executed  more  than  a  few  sheets  of  a 
fourth  volume.  The  work  had  grown  upon  his 
hands,  and  had  greatly  exceeded  his  first  esti- 
mate ;  so  that  the  completion  of  the  design, 
which  was  to  have  terminated  only  with  the 
commencement  of  the  eighteenth  century,  was 
still  very  remote,  supposing  a  due  proportion  to 
have  been  preserved  throughout.  Warton's 
"  History  of  English  Poetry"^  regarded  as  his 
opus  magnum  ;  and  is  indeed  an  ample  monument 
of  his  reading,  as  well  as  of  his  taste  and  critical 
judgment.  The  majority  of  its  readers,  however, 
will  probably  be  of  opinion  that  he  has  dwelt  too 
minutely  upon  those  early  periods  in  which  poe- 
try can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  existed  in  this 
country,  and  has  been  too  profuse  of  transcripts 
from  pieces  destitute  of  all  merit  but  their  age. 
Considered,  however,  as  literary  antiquarianism, 
the  work  is  very  interesting;  and  though  inaccu- 
racies have  been  detected,  it  cannot  be  denied  to 
abound  with  curious  information.  His  brother 
gave  some  expectation  of  carrying  on  the  history 
to  the  completion  of  the  fourth  volume,  but 
seems  to  have  done  little  or  nothing  towards  ful- 
filling it.  As  a  proof  that  Warton  began  to  be 
weary  of  his  task,  it  appears  that  about  1781  he 
had  turned  his  thoughts  to  another  laborious  un- 
dertaking, which  was  a  county-history  of  Ox 


HISTORICAL  AND 


fordshire ;  and  in  1782  he  published  as  a  sped- ' 
men  a  topographical  account  of  his  parish  of  Kid- 
dington.  In  the  same  year  he  entered  into  the 
celebrated  Chattertonian  controversy,  and  pub- 
lished An  Inquiry  into  the  Authenticity  of  the 
Poems  ascribed  to  Rowley,  which  he  decidedly 
pronounced  to  be  the  fabrication  of  their  pre- 
tended editor.  His  income  was  augmented  in 
this  year  by  presentation  to  a  donative  in  Somer- 
setshire ;  and  as  he  was  free  both  from  ambition 
and  avarice,  he  seems  to  have  looked  no  farther 
for  ecclesiastical  promotion.  In  1785  the  place 
of  Camden-professor  of  history  at  Oxford,  vacant 
by  the  resignation  of  the  present  Sir  W.  Scott, 
was  conferred  upon  him.  He  attended  to  his 
duties  so  far  as  to  deliver  a  learned  and  ingenious 
inaugural  lecture,  but  that  was  the  limit  of  his 
professional  exertions.  Another  office  at  this 
time  demanded  new  efforts.  At  his  Majesty's 
express  desire  the  post  of  Poet-laureat,  vacated  by 
the  death  of  Whitehead,  was  offered  to  him  ; 
and,  in  accepting  it,  he  laudably  resolved  to  use 
his  best  endeavours  for  rendering  it  respectable. 
He  varied  the  monotony  of  anniversary  court 
compliment  by  retrospective  views  of  the  splen- 
did period  of  English  history  and  the  glories  of 
chivalry,  and  by  other  topics  adapted  to  poetical 
description,  though  little  connected  with  the  pro- 
per theme  of  the  day ;  and  though  his  lyric  strains 
underwent  some  ridicule  on  that  account,  they 
in  general  enhanced  the  literary  valuation  of 
laureat  odes.  His  concluding  publication  was 
an  edition  of  the  juvenile  poems  of  Milton,  in 
which  it  was  his  purpose  to  explain  his  allusions, 
point  out  his  imitations,  illustrate  his  beauties, 
and  elucidate  his  obsolete  diction  and  peculiar 
phraseology.  This  was  a  task  of  no  great  effort 
to  one  qualified  like  Warton  ;  and  engaging  in  it, 
rather  than  in  the  completion  of  his  elaborate 
plans,  seems  to  prove  that  the  indolence  of  ad- 
vancing years  and  a  collegiate  life  was  gaining 
upon  him.  Of  this  work  the  first  edition  appear- 
ed in  1785,  and  the  second  in  1791,  a  short  time 
before  his  death.  He  had  intended  to  include 
in  his  plan  a  similar  edition  of  the  Paradise  Re- 
gained, and  the  Samson  Agonistes,  of  the  great 
author,  of  whom,  notwithstanding  religious  and 
political  differences,  he  was  a  warm  admirer ; 
and  he  left  notes  on  both  these  pieces.  But  his 
constitution  now  began  to  give  way,  though  the 
period  of  old  age  was  yet  distant.  In  his  62d 
year  an  attack  of  the  gout  shattered  his  frame, 
and  was  succeeded,  in  May  1790,  by  a  paralytic 
seizure,  which  carried  him  off  at  his  lodgings  in 
Oxford.  His  remains  were  interred,  with  every 
academical  honour,  in  the  chapel  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege. 

The  character  of  Thomas  Warton  was  mark- 
ed by  some  of  those  peculiarities  which  common- 
ly fix  upon  a  man  the  appellation  of  an  humorist ; 
and  a  variety  of  stories  current  among  the  col- 
legians show  that  he  was  more  intent  upon  grati- 
fying his  own  habitual  tastes,  than  regardful  of 
the  usual  modes  and  decorums  of  society.  But 
he  was  substantially  good-humoured,  friendly, 
and  placid ;  and  if  his  dislike  of  form  and  re- 
straint sometimes  made  him  prefer  the  company 
of  inferiors  to  that  of  equals,  the  choice  was  pro- 
bably in  some  measure  connected  with  that  love 
of  nature,  and  spirit  of  independence,  which  may 
oe  discerned  in  his  writings.  That  he  employed 
a  large  portion  of  his  time  in  the  cultivation  of  his 


mind  by  curious  and  elegant  literature,  his  various 
productions  abundantly  testify  ;  yet  he  appears 
to  have  wanted  the  resolution  and  steady  indus 
try  necessary  for  the  completion  of  a  great 
design;  and  some  remarkable  instances  of  inac- 
curacy or  forgetfulness  prove  that  his  exertions 
were  rather  desultory  than  regular.  This  dispo- 
sition was  less  injurious  to  him  in  his  poetical 
capacity  than  in  any  other,  whence  he  will  proba- 
bly live  longest  in  fame  as  a  poet.  Scarcely  any 
one  of  that  tribe  has  noted  with  finer  observation 
the  minute  circumstances  in  rural  nature  that 
afford  pleasure  in  description,  or  has  derived  from 
the  regions  of  fiction  more  animated  and  pictu- 
resque scenery.  His  pieces  are  very  various  in 
subject,  and  none  of  them  long.  He  can  only 
rank  among  the  minor  poets  ;  but  perhaps  few 
volumes  in  that  class  will  more  frequently  be 
taken  up  for  real  amusement.  Several  editions 
of  his  poems  were  called  for  in  his  life-time,  and 
since  his  death  an  edition  of  his  works  has  been 
given  by  Mr.  Mant,  in  2  vols.  octavo,  1802,  with 
a  biographical  account  of  the  author  prefixed. 

"When  Mr.  Warton  wrote  his  three  papers 
in  the  Idler,  he  lived  in  habits  of  intimacy  and 
correspondence  with  Dr.  Johnson  ;  he  was  like- 
wise a  member  of  the  Literary  Club,  and  made 
occasional  journeys  to  London,  to  attend  that,  and 
to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds' 
company,  of  whom  some  notice  is  now  to  be 
taken  as  writer  of  the  Essays  Nos.  76,  79,  and  82, 
in  this  work. 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  the  son  of  a  clergy- 
man at  Plympton,  in  Devonshire,  and  born  there 
in  1723.  Being  intended  for  the  church,  he 
received  a  suitable  education  under  his  father, 
and  then  removed  to  Oxford,  where  he  took  his 
degrees  in  arts ;  but  having  a  great  taste  for  draw 
ing,  he  resolved  to  make  painting  his  profession, 
and  accordingly  was  placed  under  Hudson  the 
portrait  painter.  About  1749  he  went  to  Italy, 
in  company  with  the  honourable  Mr.  Keppel,  his 
early  friend  and  patron.  After  studying  the 
works  of  the  most  illustrious  masters  two  years, 
Mr.  Reynolds  returned  to  London,  where  he 
found  no  encouragement  given  to  any  other 
branch  of  the  art  than  to  portrait  painting.  Pie 
was  of  course  under  the  necessity  of  complying 
with  the  prevailing  taste,  and  in  that  walk  soon 
became  unrivalled.  The  first  picture  by  which 
he  distinguished  himself,  after  his  return,  was  the 
portrait  of  Mr.  Keppel.  He  did  not,  however, 
confine  himself  to  portraits,  but  painted  several 
historical  pictures  of  high  and  acknowledged 
merit.  When  the  royal  academy  was  instituted 
he  was  appointed  president,  which  station  he 
held  with  honour  to  himself  and  advantage  to  the 
arts  till  1791,  and  then  resigned  it.  He  was 
also  appointed  principal  painter  to  the  king,  and 
knighted.  His  literary  merits,  and  other  ac- 
complishments, procured  him  the  friendship  of 
the  most  distinguished  men  of  genius  in  his  time, 
particularly  Johnson,  Burke,  Goldsmith,  and 
Garrick :  and  Sir  Joshua  had  the  honour  of  insti- 
tuting the  literary  club,  of  which  they  were  mem- 
bers. He  was  likewise  a  member  of  the  royal 
society,  and  of  that  of  antiquaries;  and  was  cre- 
ated doctor  of  laws  by  the  universities  of  Oxford 
and  Dublin.  Sir  Joshua's  academical  discour- 
ses display  the  soundest  judgment,  the  most  re- 
fined taste,  and  a  perfect  acquaintance  with  the 
works  of  different  masters ;  and  are  written  in  a 


HISTORICAL  PREFACE  TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


clear  and  elegant  style.  He  died  in  1792,  and 
lies  buried  in  St.  Paul's  cathedral.  Having  no 
children,  he  bequeathed  the  principal  part  of  his 
property  to  his  niece,  since  married  to  the  Earl  of 
Inciiiquin,  now  Marquis  of  Thomond. 

We  shall  conclude  our  sketch  of  the  life  of 
this  illustrious  artist,  by  quoting  his  opinion  of 
Dr.  Johnson,  which  is  equally  honourable  to 
himself  and  his  friend.  Speaking  of  his  own  dis- 
courses, our  great  artist  says,  "  Whatever  merit 
they  have  must  be  imputed,  in  a  great  measure, 
to  the  education  which  I  may  be  said  to  have  had 
under  Dr.  Johnson.  I  do  not  mean  to  say, 
though  it  certainly  would  be  to  the  credit  of 
these  discourses  if  I  could  say  it  with  truth,  that 
he  contributed  even  a  single  sentiment  to  them  ; 
but  he  qualified  my  mind  to  think  justly.  No 
man  had,  like  him,  the  faculty  of  teaching  inferior 
minds  the  art  of  thinking.  Perhaps  other  men 
might  have  equal  knowledge,  but  few  were  so 
communicative.  His  great  pleasure  was  to  talk 
to  those  who  looked  up  to  him.  It  was  here  he 
exhibited  his  wonderful  powers.  In  mixed  com- 
pany, and  frequently  in  company  that  ought  to 


have  looked  up  to  him,  many,  thinking  they  had 
a  character  for  learning  to  support,  considered  it 
as  beneath  them  to  enlist  in  the  train  of  his  au- 
ditors ;  and  to  such  persons  he  certainly  did  not 
appear  to  advantage,  being  often  impetuous  and 
over-bearing.  The  desire  of  shining  in  conversa- 
tion was  in  him  indeed  a  predominant  passion; 
and  if  it  must  be  attributed  to  vanity,  let  it  at  the 
same  time  be  recollected,  that  it  produced  that 
loquaciousness  from  which  his  more  intimate 
friends  derived  considerable  advantage.  The 
observations  which  he  made  on  poetry,  on  life, 
and  on  every  thing  about  us,  I  applied  to  our  art, 
with  what  success  others  must  judge." 

No.  67  was  written  by  another  intimate  and 
affectionate  friend  of  Dr.  Johnson's,  Bennet 
Langton,  Esq.  of  Langton  in  Lincolnshire.  His 
acquaintance  with  Dr.  Johnson  commenced  soon 
after  the  conclusion  of  the  Rambler,  which  Mr. 
Langton,  then  a  youth,  had  read  with  so  much 
admiration  that  Mr.  Bpswell  says  he  came  to 
London  chiefly  with  a  view  of  being  introduced 
to  its  author.  Mr.  Langton  died  December  the 
18th,  1801. 


HISTORICAL  PREFACE  TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


THE  long  space  which  intervened  between  the 
GUARDIAN  and  the  RAMBLER,  from  1713  to  1750, 
was  filled  up  by  many  attempts  of  the  periodical 
kind,  but  scarcely  any  of  these  had  a  reformation 
of  manners  and  morals  for  their  object.  A  few 
valuable  papers  on  general  and  useful  topics  ap- 
peared, but  so  incumbered  with  angry  political 
contests,  as  to  be  soon  forgotten.  Dr.  Johnson 
was  the  first  to  restore  ths  periodical  essay  to  its 
original  purpose,  and  it  will  appear  soon  that 
there  is  none  of  his  works  on  which  he  set  a 
higher  value  than  on  his  RAMBLER.  He  seems  to 
have  thought,  that  it  would  constitute  his  princi- 
pal fame,  and  the  learned  world  appear  to  have 
been  of  the  same  opinion. 

Its  commencement  was  a  matter  of  great  im- 
portance with  him ;  and  he  was  so  desirous  to 
benefit  the  age  by  this  production,  that  he  began 
to  write  with  the  solemnity  of  preparatory  prayer. 
In  the  volume  of  his  Devotions,  published  soon 
after  his  death,  we  find  the  following,  entitled 
"  Prayer  on  the  RAMBLER." 

"  Almighty  God,  the  giver  of  all  good  things, 
without  whose  help  all  labour  is  ineffectual,  and 
without  whose  grace  all  wisdom  is  folly  ;  grant, 
I  beseech  thee,  that  in  this  my  undertaking,  thy 
HOLY  SPIRIT  may  not  be  withheld  from  me,  but 
that  I  may  promote  thy  glory,  and  the  salvation 
both  of  myself  and  others  :  grant  this,  O  Lord, 
for  the  sake  of  JESUS  CHRIST,  Amen." 

The  first  paper  was  published  on  Tuesday, 
March  20,  1750,  and  the  work  continued  without 
the  least  interruption,  every  Tuesday  and  Sa- 


turday, until  Saturday,  March  14, 1752,  on  which 
day  it  closed. 

The  sale  was  very  inconsiderable,  and  seldom 
exceeded  five  hundred  copies:  and  it  is  very 
remarkable  that  the  only  paper  which  had  a  pros- 
perous sale  (No.  97)  was  one  of  the  very  few 
which  Dr.  Johnson  did  not  write.  It  was  writ- 
ten by  Richardson,  author  of  Clarissa,  Pamela, 
and  Sir  Charles  Grandison.  Modern  taste  will  not 
allow  it  a  very  high  place,  but  its  style  was  at 
that  time  better  adapted  to  the  readers  of  the 
RAMBLER  than  that  of  Dr.  Johnson. — It  may  here 
be  noticed,  that  the  assistance  our  author  re- 
ceived from  correspondents  amounted  to  a  very 
small  proportion.  The  four  billets  in  No.  10, 
were  written  by  Miss  Mulso,  afterwards  Mrs. 
Chapone  ;  No.  30,  was  written  by  Miss  Talbot, 
and  Nos.  44,  and  100,  by  the  learned  and  cele- 
brated Mrs.  Carter. 

Of  the  characters  described  in  the  RAMBLER, 
some  were  not  altogether  fictitious,  yet  they  were 
not  exact  portraits.  The  author  employed 
some  adventitious  circumstances  to  produce 
effect.  Prospero,  in  No.  200,  was  intended  for 
the  celebrated  actor  Garrick.  By  Gelidus  in  No. 
24,  the  author  is  said  to  have  meant  Mr.  Coul- 
son,  a  mathematician,  who  formerly  lived  at 
Rochester.  The  man  "immortalized  for  purring 
like  a  cat,"  was  one  Busby,  a  proctor  in  the 
Commons.  He  who  barked  so  ingeniously,  and 
then  called  the  drawer  to  drive  away  the  dog,  was 
father  to  Dr.  Saltar  of  the  Charterhouse.  He 
who  sung  a  song,  and  by  correspondent  motions 


HISTORICAL  PREFACE  TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


of  his  arm  chalked  out  a  giant  on  the  wall,  was 
one  Richardson,  an  attorney.  Polypliilus,  in  No. 
19,  is  said  to  have  been  drawn  from  the  various 
studies  of  Floyer  Sydenhem,  but  no  produce  of 
his  studies  is  known  except  his  translations. 

It  has  been  remarked  by  the  editor  of  the 
"  British  Essayists"  that  the  RAMBLER  made  its 
way  very  slowly  into  the  world.  This  may  be 
true,  if  spoken  of  its  appearance  in  numbers. 
The  style  was  new  ;  it  appeared  harsh,  involved, 
and  perplexed ;  it  required  more  than  a  transitory 
inspection  to  be  understood ;  but  this  repulsive 
appearance  was  soon  overcome :  and  few  works 
have  been  more  successful,  when  reprinted 
in  volumes.  It  was  admired  by  scholars,  and 
recommended  by  the  friends  of  religion  and  lite- 
rature, as  a  book  by  which  a  man  might  be  taught 
to  think :  and  the  author  lived  to  see  tec  large 
editions  printed  in  England,  besides  those  which 
were  clandestinely  printed  in  other  parts  of  Great 
Britain,  in  Ireland,  and  in  America.  For  some 
years  past  the  demand  for  it  has  been  greater 
than  for  any  of  the  "  British  Essayists ;"  its  in- 
fluence on  the  literature  of  the  age  has  been  great. 
Dr.  Johnson  is  certainly  not  to  be  imitated  with 
perfect  success,  yet  the  attempt  to  imitate  him, 
where  it  has  neither  been  servile  or  artificial,  has 
elevated  the  style  of  every  species  of  literary  com- 
position. "In  every  thing  we  perceive  more 
vigour,  more  spirit,  more  elegance.  He  not  only 
began  a  revolution  in  our  language,  but  lived  till 
it  was  almost  completed." 

It  has  already  been  said  that  Dr.  Johnson  set  a 
high  value  on  the  RAMBLER,  and  it  may  now  be 
added  that  he  bestowed  a  labour  upon  it,  with 
which  he  never  favoured  any  other  of  his  works. 
This  circumstance,  which  escaped  the  researches 
of  all  his  biographer*,  was  lately  discovered  by 
the  editor  of  tb«  ''British  Essayists,"  whose 


words  we  shall  borrow  on  the  present  occa- 
sion. 

After  noticing  the  mistakes  Mr.  Boswell  had 
fallen  into,  on  the  subject  of  the  perfection  of  thf) 
RAMBLERS  at  their  first  appearance,  the  editor 
of  the  "Essayists"  says,  "Is  it  not  surprising 
that  this  friend  and  companion  of  our  illustrious 
author,  who  has  obliged  the  public  with  the 
most  perfect  delineation  ever  exhibited  of  any 
human  being,  and  who  declared  so  often  that  he 
was  determined 

'  To  lose  no  drop  of  that  immortal  man'-- 

that  one  so  inquisitive  after  the  most  trifling 
circumstance  connected  with  Dr.  Johnson's  cha- 
racter or  history,  should  have  never  heard  or 
discovered  that  Dr.  Johnson  almost  re-wrote  the 
RAMBLER  after  the  first  folio  edition.  Yet  the 
alterations  made  by  him  in  the  second  and  third 
editions  of  the  RAMBLER  far  exceed  six  thousand  ; 
a  number  which  may  justify  the  use  of  the  word 
re-wrote,  although  it  must  not  be  taken  in  its 
literal  acceptation.  A  comparison  of  the  first  edi- 
tion with  the  fourth  or  any  subsequent  edition 
will  show  the  curious  examiner  in  what  these 
alterations  consist.  In  the  mean  time  we  may 
apply  to  the  author  what  he  says  of  Pope — 'He 
laboured  his  works,  first  to  gain  reputation,  and 
afterwards  to  keep  it.'  He  was  not  content  to 
satisfy ;  he  desired  to  excel,  and  therefore  always 
endeavoured  to  do  his  best:  he  did  not  court 
the  candour,  but  dared  the  judgment  of  his  read- 
ers; and  expecting  no  indulgence  from  others, 
he  showed  none  himself.  He  examined  lines 
and  words  with  minute  and  punctilious  obser- 
vation, and  retouched  every  part  with  indefati- 
gable diligence  till  he  had  left  nothing  to  be 
forgiven." 


THE  RAMBLER. 


No.  I.]     TUESDAY,  MARCH  20,  1749-50. 

Cur  iamenhoc  libcatpotius  decurrere  campo, 
Per  quern  nuignus  eqvos  Auru.ncaf.txil  alumnus, 
Si  vacat,  el  placidi  rationcm  admiltitis,  edam. 

JBV. 

Why  to  expatiate  in  this  beaten  field, 
Why  arms,  oft  used  in  vain,  I  mean  to  wield  ; 
If  time  permit,  and  candour  will  attend, 
Some  satisfaction  this  essay  may  lend. 

ELPHINSTON. 

THE  difficulty  of  the  first  address  on  any  new 
occasion,  is  felt  by  every  man  in  his  transactions 
with  the  world,  and  confessed  by  the  settled  and 
regular  forms  of  salutation  which  necessity  has 
introduced  into  all  languages.  Judgment  was 
wearied  with  the  perplexity  of  being  forced  upon 
choice,  where  there 'was  no  motive  to  preference ; 
and  it  was  found  convenient  that  some  easy  me- 
thod of  introduction  should  be  established,  which, 
if  it  wanted  the  allurement  of  novelty,  might  en- 
ioy  the  security  of  prescription. 

Perhaps  few  authors  have  presented  themselves 
before  the  public,  without  wishing  that  such  ce- 
remonial modes  of  entrance  had  been  anciently 
established  as  might  have  freed  them  from  those 
dangers  which  the  desire  of  pleasing  is  certain  to 
produce,  and  precluded  the  vain  expedients  of 
softening  censure  by  apologies,  or  rousing  atten- 
tion by  abruptness. 

The  epic  writers  have  found  theproemial  part 
of  the  poem  such  an  addition  to  then-  undertak- 
ing, that  they  have  almost  unanimously  adopted 
the  first  lines  of  Homer,  and  the  reader  needs 
only  be  informed  of  the  subject,  to  know  in  what 
manner  the  poem  will  begin. 

But  this  solemn  repetition  is  hitherto  the  pe- 
culiar distinction  of  heroic  poetry ;  it  has  never 
been  legally  extended  to  the  lower  orders  of  lite- 
rature, but  seems  to  be  considered  as  an  heredi- 
tary privilege,  to  be  enjoyed  only  by  those  who 
claim  it  from  then-  alliance  to  the  genius  of  Ho- 
mer. 

The  rules  which  the  injudicious  use  of  this  pre- 
logative  suggested  to  Horace,  may  indeed  be 
applied  to  the  direction  of  candidates  for  inferior 
fame  ;  it  may  be  proper  for  all  to  remember, 
that  they  ought  not  to  raise  expectation  which  it 
is  not  in  their  power  to  satisfy,  and  that  it  is  more 
pleasing  to  see  smoke  brightening  into  flame, 
than  flame  sinking  into  smoke. 

This  precept  has  been  long  received,  both  from 
regard  to  the  authority  of  Horace,  and  its  con- 
formity to  the  general  opinion  of  the  world ;  yet 
thpre  have  been  a'wavs  some,  that  thought 't  "° 


deviation  from  modesty  to  recommend  their  own 
labours,  and  imagined  themselves  entitled  by  in- 
disputable merit  to  an  exemption  from  general 
restraints,  and  to  elevations  not  allowed  in  com- 
mon life.  They,  perhaps,  believed,  that  when, 
like  Thucydides,  they  bequeathed  to  mankind 
K-rrjita  Is  Act  an  estatefor  ever,  it  was  an  additional 
favour  to  inform  them  of  its  value. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  no  less  dangerous  to  claim 
on  certain  occasions,  too  little  than  too  much. 
There  is  something  captivating  in  spirit  and  in- 
trepidity, to  which  we  often  yield,  as  to  a  resist- 
less power ;  nor  can  he  reasonably  expect  the 
confidence  of  others,  who  too  apparently  distrusts 
himself. 

Plutarch,  in  his  enumeration  of  the  various  oc- 
casions on  which  a  man  may  without  just  of- 
fence proclaim  his  own  excellencies,  has  omitted 
the  caJse  of  an  author  entering  the  world  ;  unless 
it  may  be  comprehended  under  his  general  posi- 
tion, that  a  man  may  lawfully  praise  himself  for 
those  qualities  which  cannot  be  known  but  from 
his  own  mouth  ;  as  when  he  is  among  strangers, 
and  can  have  no  opportunity  of  an  actual  exer 
tion  of  his  powers.  That  the  case  of  an  author 
is  parallel,  will  scarcely  be  granted,  because  he 
necessarily  discovers  the  degree  of  his  merit  to 
his  judges,  when  he  appears  at  his  trial.  But  it 
should  be  remembered,  that  unless  his  judges  are 
inclined  to  favour  him,  they  will  hardly  be  per- 
suaded to  hear  the  cause. 

In  love,  the  state  which  fills  the  heart  with  a 
degree  of  solicitude  next  that  of  an  author,  it  has 
been  held  a  maxim,  that  success  is  most  easily 
obtained  by  indirect  and  unperceived  approaches , 
he  who  too  soon  professes  himself  a  lover,  raises 
obstacles  to  his  own  wishes,  and  those  whom 
disappointments  have  taught  experience,  endea- 
vour to  conceal  their  passion  till  they  believe 
their  mistress  wishes  for  the  discovery.  The 
same  method,  if  it  were  practicable  to  writers, 
would  save  many  complaints  of  the  severity  of 
the  age,  and  the  caprices  of  criticism.  If  a  man 
could  glide  imperceptibly  into  the  favour  of  the 
public,  and  only  proclaim  his  pretensions  to  lite- 
rary honours  when  he  is  sure  of  not  being  reject- 
ed, he  might  commence  author  with  better  hopes, 
as  his  failings  might  escape  contempt,  though  he 
shall  never  attain  much  regard. 

But  since  the  world  supposes  every  man  that 
writes,  ambitious  of  applause,  as  some  ladies 
have  taught  themselves  to  believe  that  every  man 
intends  love,  who  expresses  civility,  the  miscar- 
riage of  any  endeavour  in  learning  raises  an  un- 
bounded contempt,  indulged  by  most  minds  with- 


14 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  2 


out  scruple,  as  an  honest  triumph  over  unjust 
claims,  and  exhorbitant  expectations.  The  arti- 
fices of  those  who  put  themselves  in  this  hazard- 
ous state,  have  therefore  been  multiplied  in  pro- 
tion  to  their  fear  as  well  as  their  ambition  ;  and 
are  to  be  looked  upon  with  more  indulgence,  as 
they  are  incited  at  once  by  the  two  great  movers 
of  the  human  rnind,  the  desire  of  good  and  the 
fear  of  evil.  For  who  can  wonder  that,  allured 
on  one  side,  and  frightened  on  the  other,  some 
should  endeavour  to  gain  favour  by  bribing  the 
judge  with  an  appearance  of  respect  which  they 
do  not  feel,  to  excite  compassion  by  confessing 
weakness  of  which  they  are  not  convinced  ;  and 
others  to  attract  regard  by  a  show  of  openness 
and  magnanimity,  by  a  daring  profession  of  their 
own  deserts,  and  a  public  challenge  of  honours 
and  rewards? 

The  ostentatious  and  haughty  display  of  them- 
selves has  been  the  usual  refuge  of  diurnal  writ- 
ers ;  in  vindication  of  whose  practice  it  may  be 
said,  that  what  it  wants  in  prudence  is  supplied 
by  sincerity,  and  who  at  least  may  plead,  that  if 
their  boasts  deceive  any  kito  the  perusal  of  their 
performances,  they  defraud  them  of  but  little  time. 


-Quidenim?   Concurritur — hora 


Momenta  cita  mors  vtnit,  aut  victoria  lata. 

The  battle  join,  and  in  a  moment's  flight, 
Death,  or  a  joyful  conquest,  ends  the  fight. 


The  question  concerning  the  merit  of  the  day  is 
soon  decided,  and  we  are  not  condemned  to  toil 
through  half  a  folio,  to  be  convinced  that  the 
writer  has  broke  his  promise. 

It  is  one  among  many  reasons  for  which  I  pur- 
pose to  endeavour  the  entertainment  of  my  coun- 
trymen by  a  short  essay  on  Tuesday  and  Satur- 
day, that  I  hope  not  much  to  tire  those  whom  I 
shall  not  happen  to  please  ;  and  if  I  am  not  com- 
mended for  the  beauty  of  my  works,  to  be  at 
.east  pardoned  for  their  brevity.  But  whether 
my  expectations  are  most  fixed  on  pardon  or 
praise,  I  think  it  not  necessary  to  discover  ;  for 
having  accurately  weighed  the  reasons  for  arro- 
gance and  submission,  I  find  them  so  nearly 
equiponderant,  that  my  impatience  to  try  the 
event  of  my  first  performance  will  not  suffer  me  to 
attend  any  longer  the  trepidations  of  the  balance. 

There  are,  indeed,  many  conveniences  almost 
peculiar  to  this  method  of  publication,  which  may 
naturally  flatter  the  author,  whether  he  be  con- 
fident or  timorous.  The  man  to  whom  the  ex- 
tent of  his  knowledge,  or  the  sprightliness  of  his 
imagination,  has,  in  his  own  opinion,  already 
secured  the  praises  of  the  world,  willingly  takes 
that  way  of  displaying  his  abilities  which  will 
soonest  give  him  an  opportunity  of  hearing  the 
voice  of  fame ;  it  heightens  his  alacrity  to  think 
in  how  many  places  he  shall  hear  what  he  is 
now  writing,  read  with  ecstacies  to-morrow.  He 
will  often  please  himself  with  reflecting,  that  the 
author  of  a  large  treatise  must  proceed  with  anx- 
iety, lest,  before  the  completion  of  his  work,  the 
attention  of  the  public  may  have  changed  its  ob- 
ject ;  but  that  he  who  is  confined  to  no  single  topic, 
may  follow  the  national  taste  through  all  its  va- 
riations, and  catch  the  aura  popularis,  the  gale  of 
favour,  from  what  point  soever  it  shall  blow. 

Nor  is  the  prospect  less  likely  to  ease  the 
doubts  of  the  cautious,  and  the  terrors  of  the 


fearful,  for  to  such  the  shortness  of  every  single 
paper  is  a  powerful  encouragement.  He  that 
questions  his  abilities  to  arrange  the  dissimilar 
parts  of  an  extensive  plan,  or  fears  to  be  lost  in 
a  complicated  system,  may  yet  hope  to  adjust  a 
few  pages  without  perplexity ;  and  if,  when  he 
turns  over  the  repositories  of  his  memory,  he 
finds  his  collection  too  small  for  a  volume,  he 
may  yet  have  enough  to  furnish  out  an  essay. 
He  that  would  fear  to  lay  out  too  much  time 
upon  an  experiment  of  which  he  knows  not  the 
event,  persuades  himself  that  a  few  days  will 
show  him  what  he  is  to  expect  from  his  learning 
and  his  genius.  If  he  thinks  his  own  judgment 
not  sufficiently  enlightened,  he  may,  by  attend- 
ing to  the  remarks  which  every  paper  will  pro- 
duce, rectify  his  opinions.  If  he  should  with  too 
little  premeditation  encounter  himself  by  an  un- 
wieldy subject,  he  can  quit  it  without  confessing 
his  ignorance,  and  pass  to  other  topics  less  dan- 
gerous, or  more  tractable.  And  if  he  finds,  with 
all  his  industry,  and  all  his  artifices,  that  he  can- 
not deserve  regard,  or  cannot  attain  it,  he  may 
let  the  design  fall  at  once,  and,  without  injury  to 
others  or  himself,  retire  to  amusements  of  greater 
pleasure,  or  to  studies  of  better  prospect. 


No.  2.]     SATURDAY,  MARCH  24,  1749-50. 

Stare  loco  nescit,  pereunt  vestigia  mille 
Ante  fugam,  absenlemque  ferit  gravis  ungula  campum. 

STATHIS 

Th'  impatient  courser  pants  in  every  vein, 
And  pawing  seems  to  beat  the  distant  plain, 
Hills,  vales,  and  Hoods  appear  already  cross'd, 
And  ere  he  starts  a  thousand  steps  are  lost. 


THAT  the  mind  of  man  is  never  satisfied  with 
the  objects  immediately  before  it,  but  is  always 
breaking  away  from  the  present  moment,  and 
losing  itself  in  schemes  of  future  felicity  ;  and 
that  we  forget  the  proper  use  of  the  time  now  in 
our  power  to  provide  for  the  enjoyment  of  that 
which,  perhaps,  may  never  be  granted  us,  has 
been  frequently  remarked ;  and  as  this  practice 
is  a  commodious  subject  of  raillery  to  the  gay, 
and  of  declamation  to  the  serious,  it  has  been  ri- 
diculed with  all  the  pleasantry  of  wit,  and  exag 
gerated  with  all  the  amplifications  of  rhetoric. 
Every  instance,  by  which  its  absurdity  might  ap 
pear  most  flagrant,  has  been  studiously  collect- 
ed ;  it  has  been  marked  with  every  epithet  of 
contempt,  and  all  the  tropes  and  figures  have  been 
called  forth  against  it 

Censure  is  willingly  indulged,  because  it  al- 
ways implies  some  superiority ;  men  please 
themselves  with  imagining  that  they  have  made 
a  deeper  search,  or  wider  survey  than  others, 
and  detected  faults  and  follies,  which  escape 
vulgar  observation.  And  the  pleasure  of  wan- 
toning in  common  topics  is  so  tempting  to  a 
writer,  that  he  cannot  easily  resign  it ;  a  train 
of  sentiments  generally  received  enables  him  to 
shine  without  labour,  and  to  conquer  without  a 
contest  It  is  so  easy  to  laugh  at  the  folly  of 
him  who  lives  only  in  idea,  refuses  immediate 
ease  for  distant  pleasures,  and,  instead  of  enjoy- 
ing the  blessings  of  life,  lets  life  glide  away  in 
preparations  to  enjoy  them ;  it  affords  such  op- 
portunities of  triumphant  exultation,  to  exem- 


No.  2.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


plify  the  uncertainty  of  the  human  state,  to  rouse 
mortals  from  their  dream,  and  inform  them  of 
the  silent  celerity  of  time,  that  we  may  believe 
authors  willing  rather  to  transmit  than  examine 
so  advantageous  a  principle,  and  more  inclined 
o  pursue  a  track  so  smooth  and  so  flowery,  than 
attentively  to  consider  whether  it  leads  to  truth. 
This  quality  of  looking  forward  into  futurity, 
seems  the  unavoidable  condition  of  a  being, 
whose  motions  are  gradual,  and  whose  life  is  pro- 
gressive :  as  his  powers  are  limited,  he  must  use 
means  for  the  attainment  of  his  ends,  and  intend 
first  what  he  performs  last ;  as  by  continual  ad- 
vances from  his  first  stage  of  existence,  he  is  per- 
petually varying  the  horizon  of  his  prospects,  he 
must  always  discover  new  motives  of  action, 
new  excitements  of  fear,  and  allurements  of 
desire. 

The  end  therefore  which  at  present  calls  forth 
our  efforts,  will  be  found,  when  it  is  once  gained, 
to  be  only  one  of  the  means  to  some  remoter  end. 
The  natural  flights  of  the  human  mind  are  not 
from  pleasure  to  pleasure,  but  from  hope  to  hope. 
He  that  directs  his  steps  to  a  certain  point, 
must  frequently  turn  his  eyes  to  that  place 
which  he  strives  to  reach ;  he  that  undergoes  the 
fatigue  of  labour,  must  solace  his  weariness  with 
the  contemplation  of  its  reward.  In  agriculture, 
one  of  the  most  simple  and  necessary  employ- 
ments, no  man  turns  up  the  ground  but  because 
he  thinks  of  the  harvest,  that  harvest  which 
blights  may  intercept,  which  inundations  may 
sweep  away,  or  which  death  or  calamity  may 
hinder  him  from  reaping. 

Yet  as  few  maxims  are  widely  received  or  long 
retained  but  for  some  conformity  with  truth  and 
nature,  it  must  be  confessed  that  this  caution 
against  keeping  our  view  too  intent  upon  remote 
advantages  is  not  without  its  propriety  or  useful- 
ness, though  it  may  have  been  recited  with  too 
much  levity,  or  enforced  with  too  little  distinc- 
tion ;  for,  not  to  speak  of  that  vehemence  of  de- 
sire which  presses  through  right  and  wrong  to  its 
gratification,  or  that  anxious  inquietude  which  is 
justly  chargeable  with  distrust  of  Heaven,  sub- 
jects too  solemn  for  my  present  purpose  ;  it  fre- 
quently happens  that  by  indulging  early  the  rap- 
tures of  success,  we  forget  the  measures  neces- 
sary to  secure  it,  and  suffer  the  imagination  to 
riot  in  the  fruition  of  some  possible  good,  till  the 
time  of  obtaining  it  has  slipped  away. 

There  would,  however,  be  few  enterprises  of 
great  labour  or  hazard  undertaken,  if  we  had  not 
the  power  of  magnifying  the  advantages  which 
we  persuade  ourselves  to  expect  from  them. 
When  the  knight  of  La  Mancha  gravely  recounts 
to  his  companion  the  adventures  by  which  he  is 
to  signalize  himself  in  such  a  manner,  that  he 
shall  be  summoned  to  the  support  of  empires,  so- 
licited to  accept  the  heiress  of  the  crown  which 
he  has  preserved,  have  honours  and  riches  to 
scatter  about  him,  and  an  island  to  bestow  on 
his  worthy  squire,  very  few  readers,  amidst  their 
mirth  or  pity,  can  deny  that  they  have  admitted 
visions  of  the  same  kind  ;  though  they  have  not, 
perhaps,  expected  events  equally  strange,  or  by 
means  equally  inadequate.  When  we  pity  him, 
we  reflect  on  our  own  disappointments;  and 
when  we  laugh,  our  hearts  inform  us  that  he  is 
not  more  ridiculous  than  ourselves,  except  thai 
he  tells  what  we  have  only  thought. 

The  understanding  ot  a  men  naturally  san- 


;uine,  may,  indeed,  be  easily  vitiated  by  the 
'uxurious  indulgence  of  hope,  however  necessary 
.o  the  production  of  every  thing  great  or  excel- 
ent,  as  some  plants  are  destroyed  by  too  open 
exposure  to  that  sun  which  gives  life  and  beauty 
,o  the  vegetable^world. 

Perhaps  no  class  of  the  human  species  requires 
nore  to  be  cautioned  against  this  anticipation  of 
lappiness,  than  those  that  aspire  to  the  name  of 
authors.  A  man  of  lively  fancy  no  sooner  finds 
a  hint  moving  in  his  mind,  than  he  makes  mo- 
mentaneous  excursions  to  the  press,  and  to  the 
world,  and,  with  a  little  encouragement  from  flat- 
ery,  pushes  forward  into  future  ages,  and  prog- 
nosticates the  honours  to  be  paid  him,  when 
nvy  is  extinct,  and  faction  forgotten,  and  those, 
whom  partiality  now  suffers  to  obscure  him,  shall 
lave  given  way  to  the  triflers  of  as  short  dura- 
ion  as  themselves. 

Those  who  have  proceeded  so  far  as  to  appeal 
o  the  tribunal  of  succeeding  times,  are  not  likely 
:o  be  cured  of  their  infatuation  ;  but  all  endea- 
vours ought  to  be  used  for  the  prevention  of  a 
disease,  for  which,  when  it  has  attained  its  height, 
jerhaps  no  remedy  will  be  found  in  the  gardens 
of  philosophy,  however  she  may  boast  her  phy- 
sic of  the  mind,  her  cathartics  of  vice,  or  lenitive? 
of  passion. 

I  shall,  therefore,  while  I  am  yet  but  lightly 
.ouched  with  the  symptoms  of  the  writer's  ma- 
ady,  endeavour  to  fortify  myself  against  the  in- 
"ection,  not  without  some  weak  hope  that  my 
reservatives  may  extend  their  virtue  to  others, 
whose  employment  exposes  them  to  the  same 
danger. 

Loitdis  amore  tunics  ?   Sunt  eerta piacula,  qua  te 
Ter  pure  lecto  pottrunt  recreare  libello. 

Is  fame  your  passion  ?  Wisdom's  powerful  charm, 
If  thrice  read  over,  shall  its  force  disarm. 

FRANCIS. 

It  is  the  sage  advice  of  Epictetus,  that  a  man 
should  accustom  himself  often  to  think  of  what 
is  most  shocking  and  terrible,  that  by  such  re- 
flections he  may  be  preserved  from  too  ardent 
wishes  for  seeming  good,  and  from  too  much  de 
jection  in  real  evil. 

There  is  nothing  more  dreadful  to  an  author 
than  neglect ;  compared  with  which,  reproach, 
hatred,  and  opposition,  are  names  of  happiness  ; 
yet  this  worst,  this  meanest  fate,  every  one  who 
dares  to  write  has  reason  to  fear. 

I  nunc,  et  versus  tecum  meditare  canoros. 

Go  now,  and  meditate  thy  tuneful  lays. 

ELPHINSTOK 

It  may  not  be  unfit  for  him  who  makes  a  new 
entrance  into  the  lettered  world,  so  far  to  suspect 
his  own  powers  as  to  believe  that  he  possibly  may 
deserve  neglect ;  that  nature  may  not  have  quali 
fied  him  much  to  enlarge  or  embellish  knowledge, 
nor  sent  him  forth  entitled  by  indisputable  supe 
riority  to  regulate  the  conduct  of  the  rest  of  man- 
kind ;  that,  though  the  world  must  be  granted  to 
be  yet  in  ignorance,  he  is  not  destined  to  dispel 
the  cloud,  nor  to  shine  out  as  one  of  the  lumina- 
ries of  life.  For  this  suspicion,  every  catalogue 
of  a  library  will  furnish  sufficient  reason ;  as  he 
will  find  it  crowded  with  names  of  men,  who, 
though  now  forgotten,  were  once  no  less  enter- 
prising or  confident  than  himself,  equally  pleased 


16 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  3 


with  their  own  productions,  equally  caressed  by 
their  patrons,  and  flattered  by  their  friends. 

But,  though  it  should  happen  that  an  author 
is  capable  of  excelling,  yet  his  merit  may  pass 
without  notice,  huddled  in  the  variety  of  things, 
and  thrown  into  the  general  miscellany  of  life. 
He  that  endeavours  after  fame  by  writing,  soli- 
cits the  regard  of  a  multitude  fluctuating  in  plea- 
sures, or  immersed  in  business,  without  time  for 
intellectual  amusements ;  he  appeals  to  judges, 
prepossessed  by  passions,  or  corrupted  by  preju- 
dices, which  preclude  their  approbation  of  any 
new  performance.  Some  are  too  indolent  to 
read  any  thing,  till  its  reputation  is  established ; 
others  too  envious  to  promote  that  fame  which 
gives  them  pain  by  its  increase.  What  is  new 
is  opposed,  because  most  are  unwilling  to  be 
raught ;  and  what  is  known  is  rejected,  because 
it  is  not  sufficiently  considered,  that  men  more 
frequently  require  to  be  reminded  than  informed. 
The  learned  are  afraid  to  declare  their  opinion 
early,  lest  they  should  put  their  reputation  in  ha- 
zard ;  the  ignorant  always  imagine  themselves 
giving  some  proof  of  delicacy,  when  they  refuse 
to  be  pleased :  and  he  that  rinds  his  way  to  re- 
putation through  all  these  obstructions,  must  ac- 
knowledge that  he  is  indebted  to  other  causes 
»esides  his  industry,  his  learning,  or  his  wit. 


No.  3.1       TUESDAY,  MARCH  27,  1750. 

Virtus,  repulsa  nescia  soraidts, 
fntaminalisfulget  konoribus, 

ffecsumit  aut  pouit  secures  HOR. 

Arbitrio  popularis  auric. 

ITiidisappointed  in  designs, 
With  native  honours  virtue  shines ; 
Nor  takes  up  power,  nor  lays  it  down, 
As  giddy  rabbles  smile  or  frown. 

ELPHINSTON. 

THE  task  of  an  author  is,  either  to  teach  what 
is  not  known,  or  to  recommend  known  truths 
by  his  manner  of  adorning  them ;  either  to  let 
new  light  in  upon  the  mind,  and  open  new 
scenes  to  the  prospect,  or  to  vary  the  dress  and 
situation  of  common  objects,  so  as  to  give  them 
fresh  grace  and  more  powerful  attractions,  to 
spread  such  flowers  over  the  regions  through 
which  the  intellect  has  already  made  its  pro- 
gress, as  may  tempt  it  to  return,  and  take  a  se- 
cond view  of  things  hastily  passed  over,  or  neg- 
ligently regarded. 

Either  of  these  labours  is  very  difficult,  be- 
cause that  they  may  not  be  fruitless,  men  must 
not  only  be  persuaded  of  their  errors,  but  recon- 
ciled to  their  guide ;  they  must  not  only  confess 
their  ignorance,  but,  what  is  still  less  pleasing, 
must  allow  that  he  from  whom  they  are  to  learn 
is  more  knowing  than  themselves. 

It  might  be  imagined  that  such  an  employ- 
ment was  in  itself  sufficiently  irksome  and  ha- 
zardous ;  that  none  would  be  found  so  malevo- 
lent as  wantonly  to  add  weight  to  the  stone  of 
Sisyphus;  and  that  few  endeavours  would  be 
used  to  obstruct  those  advances  to  reputation 
which  must  be  made  at  such  an  expense  of  time 
and  thought,  with  so  great  hazard  in  the  miscar- 
ria«f,  and  with  so  little  advantage  from  the  suc- 
cess. 

Yet  there  is  a  certain  race  of  men,  that  either 
imagine  it  their  duty,  or  make  it  their  amuse- 


ment, to  hinder  the  reception  of  every  work  ot 
learning,  or  genius,  who  stand  as  sentinels  in  the 
avenues  of  fame,  and  value  themselves  upon  giv- 
ing Ignorance  and  Envy  the  first  notice  of  a  prey. 
"To  these  men,  who  distinguish  themselves  by 
the  appellation  of  Critics,  it  is  necessary  for  a 
new  author  to  find  some  means  of  recommenda- 
tion. It  is  probable,  that  the  most  malignant 
of  these  persecutors  might  be  somewhat  soften- 
ed, and  prevailed  on,  for  a  short  time,  to  remit 
their  fury.  Having  for  this  purpose  considered 
many  expedients,  I  find  in  the  records  of  an- 
cient times,  that  Argus  was  lulled  by  music, 
and  Cerberus  quieted  with  a  sop ;  and  am  there- 
fore inclined  to  believe  that  modern  critics,  who, 
if  they  have  not  the  eyes,  have  the  watchfulness 
of  Argus,  and  can  bark  as  loud  as  Cerberus, 
though,  perhaps,  they  cannot  bite  with  equal 
force,  might  be  subdued  by  methods  of  the  same 
kind.  I  have  heard  how  some  have  been  paci- 
fied with  claret  and  a  supper,  and  others  laid 
asleep  with  the  soft  notes  of  flattery. 

Though  the  nature  of  my  undertaking  gives 
me  sufficient  reason  to  dread  the  united  attacks 
of  this  virulent  generation,  yet  I  have  not  hither- 
to persuaded  myself  to  take  any  measures  for 
flight  or  treaty.  For  I  am  in  doubt  whether 
they  can  act  against  me  by  lawful  authority, 
and  suspect  that  they  hate  presumed  upon  a. 
forged  commission,  styled  themselves  the  minis- 
ters of  Criticism,  without  any  authentic  evidence 
of  delegation,  and  uttered  their  own  determina- 
tions as  the  decrees  of  a  higher  judicature. 

Criticism,  from  whom  they  derive  their  claim 
to  decide  the  fate  of  writers,  was  the  eldest 
daughter  of  Labour  and  of  Truth :  she  was,  at 
her  birth,  committed  to  the  care  of  Justice,  and 
brought  up  by  her  in  the  palace  of  Wisdom. 
Being  soon  distinguished  by  the  celestials,  for 
her  uncommon  qualities,  she  was  appointed  the 
governess  of  Fancy,  and  empowered  to  beat  time 
to  the  chorus  of  the  Muses,  when  they  sung  be- 
fore the  throne  of  Jupiter. 

When  the  Muses  condescended  to  visit  this 
lower  world,  they  came  accompanied  by  Criti- 
cism, to  whom,  upon  her  descent  from  her  na- 
tive regions,  Justice  gave  a  sceptre,  to  be  carried 
aloft  in  her  right  hand,  one  end  of  which  was 
tinctured  with  ambrosia,  and  inwreathed  with 
a  golden  foliage  of  amaranths  and  bays ;  the 
other  end  was  encircled  with  cypress  and  pop- 
pies, and  dipped  in  the  waters  of  oblivion.  In 
her  left  hand  she  bore  an  unextinguishable  torch, 
manufactured  by  Labour,  and  lighted  by  Truth, 
of  which  it  was  the  particular  quality  immedi- 
ately to  show  every  thing  in  its  true  form,  how- 
ever it  might  be  disguised  to  common  eyes. 
Whatever  Art  could  complicate,  or  Folly  could 
confound,  was,  upon  the  first  gleam  of  the  torch 
of  Truth,  exhibited  in  its  distinct  parts  and  origi- 
nal simplicity;  it  darted  through  the  labyrinths 
of  sophistry,  and  showed  at  once  all  the  absurdi- 
ties to  which  they  served  for  refuge  ;  it  pierced 
through  the  robes  which  rhetoric  often  sold  to 
falsehood,  and  detected  the  disproportion  of  parts 
which  artificial  veils  had  been  contrived  to 
cover. 

Thus  furnished  for  the  execution  of  her  office, 
Criticism  came  down  to  survey  the  perform- 
ances of  those  who  professed  themselves  the 
votaries  of  the  Muses.  Whatever  was  brought 
before  her,  she  beheld  by  the  steady  light  of  the 


No.  4.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


torch  of  Truth,  and  when  her  examination  had 
convinced  her,  that  the  laws  of  just  writing  had 
been  observed,  she  touched  it  with  the  amaran- 
thine end  of  the  sceptre,  and  consigned  it  over 
to  immortality. 

But  it  more  frequently  happened,  that  in  the 
works  which  required  her  inspection,  there  was 
some  imposture  attempted  ;  that  false  colours 
were  laboriously  laid ;  that  some  secret  in- 
equality was  found  between  the  words  and 
sentiments,  or  some  dissimilitude  of  the  ideas 
and  the  original  objects ;  that  incongruities 
were  linked  together,  or  that  some  parts  were 
of  no  use  but  to  enlarge  the  appearance  of  the 
whole,  without  contributing  to  its  beauty,  soli- 
dity, or  usefulness. 

Wherever  such  discoveries  were  made,  and 
they  were  made  whenever  these  faults  were 
committed,  Criticism  refused  the  touch  which 
conferred  the  sanction  of  immortality,  and, 
when  the  errors  were  frequent  and  gross,  re- 
/ersed  the  sceptre,  and  let  drops  of  Lethe  distil 
"rom  the  poppies  and  cypress,  a  fatal  mildew, 
•vhich  immediately  began  to  waste  the  work 
iway,  till  it  was  at  last  totally  destroyed. 

There  were  some  compositions  brought  to  the 
test,  in  which,  when  the  strongest  light  was 
thrown  upon  them,  their  beauties  and  faults 
appeared  so  equally  mingled,  that  Criticism 
stood  with  her  sceptre  poised  in  her  hand,  in 
doubt  whether  to  shed  Lethe,  or  ambrosia,  upon 
them.  These  at  last  increased  to  so  great  a 
number,  that  she  was  weary  of  attending  such 
doubtful  claims,  and  for  fear  of  using  improperly 
the  sceptre  of  Justice,  referred  the  cause  to  be 
considered  by  Time. 

The  proceedings  of  Time,  though  very  dila- 
tory, were,  some  few  caprices  excepted,  con- 
formable to  justice;  and  many  who  thought 
themselves  secure  by  a  short  forbearance,  have 
sunk  under  his  sithe,  as  they  were  posting  down 
with  their  volumes  in  triumph  to  futurity.  It 
was  observable  that  some  were  destroyed  by  lit- 
tle and  little,  and  others  crushed  for  ever  by  a 
single  blow. 

Criticism  having  long  kept  her  eye  fixed  stea- 
dily upon  Time,  was  at  last  so  well  satisfied  with 
his  conduct,  that  she  withdrew  from  the  earth 
with  her  patroness  Astrea,  and  left  Prejudice  and 
False  Taste  to  ravage  at  large  as  the  associates 
of  Fraud  and  Mischief;  contenting  herself  thence- 
forth to  shed  her  influence  from  afar  upon  some 
select  minds,  fitted  for  its  reception  by  learning 
and  by  virtue. 

Before  her  departure  she  broke  her  sceptre,  of 
which  the  shivers,  that  formed  the  ambrosial  end, 
were  caught  up  by  Flattery,  and  those  that  had 
been  infected  with  the  waters  of  Lethe  were, 
with  equal  haste,  seized  by  Malevolence.  The 
followers  of  Flattery,  to  whom  she  distributed 
her  part  of  the  sceptre,  neither  had  nor  desired 
light,  but  touched  indiscriminately  whatever 
Power  or  Interest  happened  to  exhibit.  The 
companions  of  Malevolence  were  supplied  by  the 
Furies  with  a  torch,  which  had  this  quality  pe- 
culiar to  infernal  lustre,  that  its  light  fell  only 
upon  faults. 

No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible, 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  wo. 

With  these  fragments  of  authority,  the  slaves 
of  Flattery  and  Malevolence  marched  out,  at  the 
C 


command  of  their  mistresses,  to  confer  immor- 
tality, or  condemn  to  oblivion.  But  this  seep- 
tre  had  now  lost  its  power ;  and  Time  passes 
his  sentence  at  leisure,  without  any  regard  to 
their  determinations. 


No.  4.]     SATURDAY,  MARCH  31,  1750. 

Simul  et  jucunda  et  idonea  dicere  vita.  HOR. 

And  join  both  profit  and  delight  in  one. 

CREECH. 

THE  works  of  fiction,  with  which  the  present 
generation  seems  more  particularly  delighted, 
are  such  as  exhibit  life  in  its  true  state,  diver- 
sified only  by  accidents  that  daily  happen  in  the 
world,  and  influenced  by  passions  and  qualities 
which  are  really  to  be  found  in  conversing  with 
mankind. 

This  kind  of  writing  may  be  termed  not  im- 
properly the  comedy  of  romance,  and  is  to  be 
conducted  nearly  by  the  rules  of  comic  poetry. 
Its  province  is  to  bring  about  natural  events 
by  easy  means,  and  to  keep  up  curiosity  with- 
out the  help  of  wonder :  it  is  therefore  precluded 
from  the  machines  and  expedients  of  the  heroic 
romance,  and  can  neither  employ  giants  to  snatch 
away  a  lady  from  the  nuptial  rites,  nor  knights  to 
bring  her  back  from  captivity ;  it  can  neither  be 
wilder  its  personages  in  deserts,  nor  lodge  them 
in  imaginary  castles. 

I  remember  a  remark  made  by  Scaliger  upon 
Pontanus,  that  all  his  writings  are  filled  with 
the  same  images ;  and  that  if  you  take  from  him 
his  lilies  and  his  roses,  his  satyrs  and  his  dry- 
ads, he  will  have  nothing  left  that  can  be  called 
poetry.  In  like  manner  almost  all  the  fictions 
of  the  last  age  will  vanish,  if  you  deprive  them 
of  a  hermit  and  a  wood,  a  battle  and  a  ship 
wreck. 

Why  this  wild  strain  of  imagination  found 
reception  so  long  in  polite  and  learned  ages,  it  is 
not  easy  to  conceive ;  but  we  cannot  wonder 
that  while  readers  could  be  procured,  the  authors 
were  willing  to  continue  it ;  for  when  a  man  had 
by  practice  gained  some  fluency  of  language,  he 
had  no  further  care  than  to  retire  to  his  closet, 
let  loose  his  invention,  and  heat  his  mind  with 
incredibilities ;  a  book  was  thus  produced  with- 
out fear  of  criticism,  without  the  toil  of  study, 
without  knowledge  of  nature,  or  acquaintance 
with  life. 

The  task  of  our  present  writers  is  very  differ 
ent;  it  requires,  together  with  that  learning 
which  is  to  be  gained  from  books,  that  experi- 
ence which  can  never  be  attained  by  solitary  di- 
ligence, but  must  arise  from  general  converse  and 
accurate  observation  of  the  living  world.  Theii 
performances  have,  as  Horace  expresses  it,  plus 
oneris  quantum  veni<e  minus,  little  indulgence,  and 
therefore  more  difficulty.  They  are  engaged  in 
portraits  of  which  every  one  knows  the  original, 
and  can  detect  any  deviation  from  exactness  of 
resemblance.  Other  writings  are  safe,  except 
from  the  malice  of  learning,  but  these  are  in  dan- 
ger from  every  common  reader :  as  the  slippet 
ill  executed  was  censured  by  a  shoemaker  who 
happened  to  stop  in  his  way  at  the  Venus  of 
Apelles. 

But  the  fear  of  not  being  approved  as  just  co- 


18 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  4 


piers  of  human  manners,  is  not  the  most  import- 
am  concern  that  an  author  of  this  sort  ought  to 
to  have  before  him.  These  books  are  written 
chiefly  to  the  young,  the  ignorant,  and  the  idle, 
to  whom  they  serve  as  lectures  of  conduct,  and 
introductions  into  life.  They  are  the  entertain- 
ment of  minds  unfurnished  with  ideas,  and  there- 
fore easily  susceptible  of  impressions  ;  not  fixed 
by  principles,  and  therefore  easily  following  the 
current  of  fancy ;  not  informed  by  experience, 
and  consequently  open  to  every  false  suggestion 
and  partial  account. 

That  the  highest  degree  of  reverence  should  be 
oaid  to  youth,  and  that  nothing  indecent  should 
be  suffered  to  approach  their  eyes  or  ears,  are 
precepts  extorted  by  sense  and  virtue  from  an 
ancient  writer,  by  no  means  eminent  for  chastity 
of  thought.  The  same  kind,  though  not  the 
same  degree  of  caution,  is  required  in  every 
thing  which  is  laid  before  them,  to  secure  them 
rrom  unjust  prejudices,  perverse  opinions,  and 
.^congruous  combinations  of  images. 

In  the  romances  formerly  written,  every  trans- 
action and  sentiment  was  so  remote  from  all  that 
passes  among  men,  that  the  reader  was  in  very 
little  danger  of  making  any  applications  to  him- 
self; the  virtues  and  crimes  were  equally  beyond 
his  sphere  of  activity ;  and  he  amused  himself 
with  heroes  and  with  traitors,  deliverers  and 
persecutors,  as  with  beings  of  another  species, 
whose  actions  were  regulated  upon  motives  of 
their  own,  and  who  had  neither  faults  nor  excel- 
lences in  common  with  himself. 

But  when  an  adventurer  is  levelled  with  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  acts  in  such  scenes  of  the 
universal  drama,  as  may  be  the  lot  of  any  other 
man  ;  young  spectators  fix  their  eyes  upon  him 
with  closer  attention,  and  hope,  by  observing  his 
behaviour  and  success,  to  regulate  their  own 
practices,  when  they  shall  be  engaged  in  the  like 
part. 

For  this  reason,  these  familiar  histories  may 
perhaps  be  made  of  greater  use  than  the  solemni- 
ties of  professed  morality,  and  convey  the  know- 
ledge of  vice  and  virtue  with  more  efficacy  than 
axioms  and  definitions.  But  if  the  power  of  ex- 
ample is  so  great,  as  to  take  possession  of  the 
memory  by  a  kind  of  violence,  and  produce  ef- 
fects almost  without  the  intervention  of  the  will, 
care  ought  to  be  taken,  that,  when  the  choice  is 
unrestrained,  the  best  examples  only  should  be 
exhibited ;  and  that  which  is  likely  to  operate  so 
strongly,  should  not  be  mischievous  or  uncertain 
in  its  effects. 

The  chief  advantage  which  these  fictions  have 
over  real  life  is,  that  their  authors  are  at  liberty, 
though  not  to  invent,  yet  to  select  objects,  and 
to  cull  from  the  mass  of  mankind,  those  indivi- 
duals upon  which  the  attention  ought  most  to  be 
employed  :  as  a  diamond,  though  it  cannot  be 
made,  may  be  polished  by  art,  and  placed  in 
such  a  situation,  as  to  display  that  lustre  which 
before  was  buried  among  common  stones. 

It  is  justly  considered  as  the  greatest  excel- 
lency of  art,  to  imitate  nature  ;  but  it  is  neces- 
sary to  distinguish  those  parts  of  nature,  which 
are  most  proper  for  imitation ; .  greater  care  is 
still  required  in  representing  life,  which  is  so 
often  discoloured  by  passion,  or  deformed  by 
wickedness  If  the  world  be  promiscuously  de- 
scribed, I  cannot  see  of  what  use  it  can  be  to  read 
the  account :  or  why  it  may  not  be  as  safe  to  turn 


the  eye  immediately  upon  mankind  as  upon  i 
mirror  which  shows  all  that  presents  itself  with- 
out discrimination. 

It  is  therefore  not  a  sufficient  vindication  of 
character,  that  it  is  drawn  as  it  appears;  fo 
many  characters  ought  never  to  be  drawn  ;  no 
of  a  narrative,  that  the  train  of  events  is  agreea- 
ble to  observation  and  experience  ;  for  that  ob 
servation  which  is  called  knowledge  of  the  world, 
will  be  found  much  more  frequently  to  make 
men  cunning  than  good.  The  purpose  of  these 
writings  is  surely  not  only  to  show  mankind, 
but  to  provide  that  they  may  be  seen  hereafter 
with  less  hazard  ;  to  teach  the  means  of  avoid- 
ing the  snares  which  are  laid  by  Treachery  for 
Innocence,  without  infusing  any  wish  for  that  su- 
periority with  which  the  betrayer  flatters  his  va- 
nity ;  to  give  the  power  of  counteracting  fraud, 
without  the  temptation  to  practise  it ;  to  initiate 
youth  by  mock  encounters  in  the  art  of  neces- 
sary defence,  and  to  increase  prudence  without 
impairing  virtue. 

Many  writers,  for  the  sake  of  following  nature, 
so  mingle  good  and  bad  qualities  in  their  princi- 
pal personages,  that  they  are  both  equally  con- 
spicuous ;  and  as  we  accompany  them  through 
their  adventures  with  delight,  and  are  led  by  de- 
grees to  interest  ourselves  in  their  favour,  we  lose 
the  abhorrence  of  their  faults,  because  they  do 
not  hinder  our  pleasure,  or,  perhaps,  regard  them 
with  some  kindness,  for  being  united  with  so 
much  merit. 

There  have  been  men  indeed  splendidly  wicked, 
whose  endowments  threw  a  brightness  on  their 
crimes,  and  whom  scarce  any  villany  made  per- 
fectly detestable,  because  they  never  could  be 
wholly  divested  of  their  excellences;  but  such 
have  been  in  all  ages  the  great  corrupters  of  the 
world,  and  their  resemblance  ought  no  more  to 
be  preserved,  than  the  art  of  murdering  without 
pain. 

Some  have  advanced,  without  due  attention  to 
the  consequences  of  this  notion,  that  certain  vir- 
tues have  their  correspondent  faults,  and  there- 
fore that  to  exhibit  either  apart  is  to  deviate  from 
probability.  Thus  men  are  observed  by  Swift  to 
be  "  grateful  in  the  same  degree  as  they  are  re- 
sentful." This  principle,  with  others  of  the  same 
kind,  supposes  man  to  act  from  a  brute  impulse, 
and  pursue  a  certain  degree  of  inclination,  with- 
out any  choice  of  the  object ;  for,  otherwise, 
though  it  should  be  allowed  that  gratitude  and 
resentment  arise  from  the  same  constitution  of 
the  passions,  it  follows  not  that  they  will  be 
equally  indulged  when  reason  is  consulted ;  yet, 
unless  that  consequence  be  admitted,  this  saga- 
cious maxim  becomes  an  empty  sound,  without 
any  relation  to  practice  or  to  life. 

Nor  is  it  evident,  that  even  the  first  motions  to 
these  effects  are  always  in  the  same  proportion. 
For  pride,  which  produces  quickness  of  resent- 
ment, will  obstruct  gratitude,  by  unwillingness 
to  admit  that  inferiority  which  obligation  im- 
plies; and  it  is  very  unlikely  that  he  who  cannot 
think  he  receives  a  favour,  will  acknowledge  or 
repay  it 

It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  mankind,  that 
positions  of  this  tendency  should  be  laid  open 
and  confuted  ;  for  while  men  consider  good  and 
evil  as  springing  from  the  same  root,  they  will 
spare  the  one  for  the  sake  of  the  other,  and  in 
judging,  if  not  of  others,  at  least  of  themselves, 


No.  5.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


19 


will  be  apt  to  estimate  their  virtues  by  their  vices. 
To  this  fatal  error  all  those  will  contribute,  who 
confound  the  colours  of  right  and  wrong,  and,  in- 
stead of  helping  to  settle  their  boundaries,  mix 
them  with  so  much  art,  that  no  common  mind  is 
able  to  disunite  them. 

In  narratives  where  liistorical  veracity  has  no 
place,  I  cannot  discover,  why  there  should  not 
be  exhibited  the  most  perfect  idea  of  virtue ;  of 
virtue  not  angelical,  nor  above  probability,  for 
.vhat  we  cannot  credit,  we  shall  never  imitate, 
Cut  the  highest  and  purest  that  humanity  can 
reach,  which,  exercised  in  such  trials  as  the  vari- 
ous revolutions  of  things  shall  bring  upon  it,  may, 
by  conquering  some  calamities,  and  enduring 
others,  teach  us  what  we  may  hope,  and  what 
we  can  perform.  Vice,  for  vice  is  necessary  to 
be  shown,  should  always  disgust;  nor  should 
the  graces  of  gayety,  or  the  dignity  of  courage,  be 
so  united  with  it,  as  to  reconcile  it  to  the  mind. 
Wherever  it  appears,  it  should  raise  hatred  by  the 
malignity  of  its  practices,  and  contempt  by  the 
meanness  of  its  stratagems  :  for  while  it  is  sup- 
ported by  either  parts  or  spirit,  it  will  be  seldom 
heartily  abhorred.  The  Roman  tyrant  was  con- 
tent to  be  hated,  if  he  was  but  feared  ;  and  there 
are  thousands  of  the  readers  of  Romances  willing 
to  be  thought  wicked,  if  they  may  be  allowed  to 
be  wits.  It  is  therefore  to  be  steadily  inculcated, 
that  virtue  is  the  highest  proof  of  understanding, 
and  the  only  solid  basis  of  greatness ;  and  that 
vice  is  the  natural  consequence  of  narrow 
thoughts ;  that  it  begins  in  mistake,  and  ends  in 
ignominy.* 


No.  5.]        TUESDAY,  APRIL  3,  J750. 

Et  nunc  omnls  agcr,  mine  omnis  parturit  arbos, 
J\~unc  frondcnt  silca,  nunc  formosissimus  annus. 

VIRG. 

Now  every  field,  now  every  tree  is  green ; 
Now  genial  Nature's  fairest  face  is  seen. 

ELPHINSTON. 

Every  man  is  sufficiently  discontented  with 
some  circumstances  of  his  present  state,  to  suffer 
his  imagination  to  range  more  or  less  in  quest 
of  future  happiness,  and  to  fix  upon  some  point 
of  time,  in  which,  by  the  removal  of  the  incon- 
venience which  now  perplexes  him,  or  acquisi- 
tion of  the  advantage  which  he  at  present  wants, 
he  shall  find  the  condition  of  his  life  very  much 
improved. 

When  this  time,  which  is  too  often  expected 
with  great  impatience,  at  last  arrives,  it  generally 
;omes  without  the  blessing  for  which  it  was  de- 
sired ;  but  we  solace  ourselves  with  some  new 
prospect,  and  press  forward  again  with  equal 
eagerness. 

It  is  lucky  for  a  man,  in  whom  this  temper  pre- 
vails, when  he  turns  his  hopes  upon  things  wholly 
out  of  his  own  power ;  since  he  forbears  then  to 
precipitate  his  affairs,  for  the  sake  of  the  great 
event  that  is  to  complete  his  felicity,  and  waits 
for  the  blissful  hour  with  less  neglect  of  the  mea- 
sures necessary  to  be  taken  in  the  mean  time. 


*  This  excellent  paper  was  occa? ioneU  by  the  popularity 
of  "  Roderick  Random,"  aud  "  Tom  Jones,"  which  ap- 
peared about  this  tiny;,  and  have  been  the  models  of  that 
species  of  romance,  now  known  by  the  more  common 
name  of  Iforel.  — C. 


I  have  long  known  a  person  of  this  temper, 
who  indulged  his  dream  of  happiness  with  less 
hurt  to  himself  than  such  chimerical  wishes  com- 
monly produce,  and  adjusted  his  scheme  with 
such  address,  that  his  hopes  were  in  full  bloom 
three  parts  of  the  year,  and  in  the  other  part  ne- 
ver wholly  blasted.  Many,  perhaps,  would  be 
desirous  of  learning  by  what  means  he  procured 
to  himself  such  a  cheap  and  lasting  satisfaction. 
It  was  gained  by  a  constant  practice  of  referring 
the  removal  of  all  his  uneasiness  to  the  coming 
of  the  next  spring ;  if  his  health  was  impaired, 
the  spring  would  restore  it ;  if  what  he  wanted 
was  at  a  high  price,  it  would  fall  its  value  in  the 
spring. 

The  spring  indeed  did  often  come  without  any 
of  these  effects,  but  he  was  always  certain  that 
the  next  would  be  more  propitious ;  nor  was  ever 
convinced,  that  the  present  spring  would  fail  him 
before  the  middle  of  summer ;  for  he  alwaj's 
talked  of  the  spring  as  coming  till  it  was  past,  and 
when  it  was  once  past,  every  one  agreed  with 
him  that  it  was  coming. 

By  long  converse  with  this  man,  I  am,  perhaps, 
brought  to  feel  immoderate  pleasure  in  the  con- 
templation of  this  delightful  season  ;  but  I  have 
the  satisfaction  of  finding  many,  whom  it  can  be 
no  shame  to  resemble,  infected  with  the  same 
enthusiasm ;  for  there  is,  I  believe,  scarce  any 
poet  of  eminence,  who  has  not  left  some  testi- 
mony of  his  fondness  for  the  flowers,  the  zephyrs, 
and  the  warblers  of  the  spring.  Nor  has  the 
most  luxuriant  imagination  been  able  to  describe 
the  serenity  and  happiness  of  the  golden  age,, 
otherwise  than  by  giving  a  perpetual  spring,  as 
the  highest  reward  of  uncorrupted  innocence. 

There  is,  indeed,  something  inexpressibly 
pleasing  in  the  annual  renovation  of  the  world, 
and  the  new  display  of  the  treasures  of  nature. 
The  cold  and  darkness  of  winter,  with  the  naked 
deformity  of  every  object  on  which  we  turn  our 
eyes,  make  us  rejoice  at  the  succeeding  season, 
as  well  for  what  we  have  escaped,  as  for  what 
we  may  enjoy ;  and  every  budding  flower,  whicb 
a  warm  situation  brings  early  to  .our  view,  is  con- 
sidered by  us  as  a  messenger  to  notify  the  ap- 
proach of  more  joyous  days. 

The  Spring  affords  to  a  mind,  so  free  from  the 
disturbance  of  cares  or  passions  as  to  be  vacant 
to  calm  amusements,  almost  every  thing  that  our 
present  state  makes  us  capable  of  enjoying.  The 
variegated  verdure  of  the  fields  and  woods,  the 
succession  of  grateful  odours,  the  voice  of  plea- 
sure pouring  out  its  notes  on  every  side,  with  the 
gladness  apparently  conceived  by  every  animal, 
from  the  growth  of  his  food,  and  the  clemency 
of  the  weather,  throw  over  the  whole  earth  an  air 
of  gayety,  significantly  expressed  by  the  smile  ot 
nature. 

Yet  there  are  men  to  whom  these  scenes  are 
able  to  give  no  delight,  and  who  hurry  away 
from  all  the  varieties  of  rural  beauty,  to  lose  their 
hours  and  divert  their  thoughts  by  cards  or  as- 
semblies, a  tavern  dinner,  or  the  prattle  of  the 
day. 

It  may  be  laid  down  as  a  position  which  will 
seldom  deceive,  that  when  a  man  cannot  bear 
his  own  company,  there  is  something  wrong. 
He  must  fly  from  himself  either  because  he  feels 
a  tediousness  in  life  from  the  equipoise  of  an 
empty  mind,  which,  having  no  tendency  to  one 
motion  more  than  another,  but  as  it  is  impelled 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  6. 


by  some  external  power,  must  always  have  re- 
course lo  foreign  objccU;  or  he  must  bo  afraid 
<  (  the  intrusion  of  sonu  unpleasmg  ideas,  and 
,  nktps  is  struggling  to  escape  iVom  the  remem- 
brance of  a  loss,  the  fcar  of  a  calamity,  or  some 
ouu-r  thought  of  greater  horror. 

'I  hose  whom  sorrow  incapacitates  to  enjoy  the 
pleasures  of  contemplation,  may  property  apply 
to  such  diversions,  provided  thjy  are  innocent, 
as  lay  strong  hold  on  the  attention  ;  and  those, 
whom  fear  of  any  future  affliction  chains  down 
to  misery,  must  endeavour  to  obviate  the  dan- 

re '. 

'  My  considerations  shall,  on  this  occasion,  be 
turned  on  such  as  are  burdensome  to  themselves 
merely  because  they  want  subjects  for  reflection, 
and  to  whom  the  volume  of  nature  is  thrown 
open  without  affording  them  pleasure  or  instruc- 
tion, because  they  never  learned  to  read  the  cha- 
racters. 

A  French  author  has  advanced  this  seeming 
paradox,  that  very  few  men  know  how  to  lalce  a 
•walk ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  true,  that  few  know  how 
to  take  a  walk  with  a  prospect  of  any  other  plea- 
sure, than  the  same  company  would  have  afford- 
ed them  at  home. 

There  are  animals  that  borrow  their  colour 
from  the  neighbouring  body,  and  consequently 
vary  their  hue  as  they  happen  to  change  their 
place.  In  like  manner,  it  ought  to  be  the  en- 
deavour of  every  man  to  derive  his  reflections 
from  the  objects  about  him ;  for  it  is  to  no  purv 
pose  that  he  alters  his  position,  if  his  attention 
continues  fixed  to  the  same  point.  The  mind 
should  be  kept  open  to  the  access  of  every  new 
idea,  and  so  far  disengaged  from  the  predomi- 
nance of  particular  thoughts,  as  easily  to  ac- 
commodate itself  to  occasional  entertainment. 

A  man  that  has  formed  this  habit  of  turning 
every  new  object  to  his  entertainment,  finds  it 
the  productions  of  nature  an  inexhaustible  stocl 
of  materials  upon  which  he  can  employ  himsel 
without  any  temptations  to  envy  or  malevo 
lence  ;  faults,  perhaps,  seldom  totally  avoide< 
by  those,  whose  judgment  is  much  exercise' 
upon  the  works  of  art  He  has  always  a  cer 
tain  prospect  of  discovering  new  reasons  fo 
adoring  the  sovereign  Author  of  the  universe 
and  probable  hopes  of  making  some  discovery  o 
benefit  to  others,  or  of  profit  to  himself.  Ther 
is  no  doubt  but  many  vegetables  and  animal 
have  qualities  that  might  be  of  great  use,  to  th 
knowledge  of  which  there  is  not  required  muc 
force  of  penetration,  or  fatigue  of  study,  bn 
only  frequent  experiments,  and  close  attention 
What  is  said  by  the  chymists  of  their  darlin 
mercury,  is,  perhaps,  true  of  every  body  throug 
the  whole  creation,  that  if  a  thousand  live 
should  be  spent  upon  it,  all  its  properties  woul 
not  be  found  out. 

Mankind  must  necessarily  be  diversified  b 
various  tastes,  since  life  affords  and  require 
euch  multiplicity  of  employments,  and  a  natio 
of  naturalists  is  neither  to  be  hoped  or  desired 
but  it  is  surely  not  improper  to  point  out  a  fres 
amusement  to  those  who  languish  in  health,  an 
repine  in  plenty,  for  want  of  some  source  of  d 
version  that  may  be  less  easily  exhausted,  an 
to  inform  the  multitudes  of  both  sexes,  who  ar 
burdened  with  every  new  day,  that  there  a: 
many  shows  which  they  have  not  seen. 
He  that  enlarges  his  curiosity  after  the  work 


'  nature,  demonstrably  multiplies  the  inlets  to 
appiness ;  and,  therefore,  the  younger  pare  of 
iy  readers,  to  whom  I  dedicate  this  vernal  spe- 
ulation,  must  excuse  me  for  calling  upon  them, 
o  make  use  at  once  of  the  spring  of  the  year,  and 
le  spring  of  life  ;  to  acquire,  while  their  minds 
my  be  yet  impressed  with  new  images,  a  love 
f  innocent  pleasures,  and  an  ardour  for  use- 
ul  knowledge ;  and  to  remember,  that  a  blight 
d  spring  makes  a  barren  year,  and  that  th? 
ernal  flowers,  however  beautiful  and  gay,  ar* 
nly  intended  by  nature  as  preparatives  to  au 
umnal  fruits. 


Sro.  6.]         SATURDAY,  APRIL  7,  1750. 

Slrenuanos  exercrt  inertia,  navibsta  alqus 
Quadrigis  petimus  bene  vivere:  quod  petis,  hie  eat 
Est  Vlubris,  animus  si  te  non  deficit  aquus. 

Active  in  indolence,  abroad  we  roam 
In  quest  of  happiness  which  dwells  at  home  . 
With  vain  pursuits  fatigued,  at  length  you'll  find, 
No  place  excludes  it  from  an  equal  mind. 

ELFHINSTON 

THAT  man  should  never  suffer  his  happiness  ti 
depend  upon  external  circumstances,  is  one  ot 
the  chief  precepts  of  the  stoical  philosophy ;  a 
jrecept,  indeed,  which  that  lofty  sect  lias  ex- 
ended  beyond  the  condition  of  human  life,  and 
.n  which  some  of  them  seem  to  have  comprised 
an  utter  exclusion  of  all  corporeal  pain  and 
pleasure  from  the  regard  or  attention  of  a  wise 

an. 

Such  sapientia  insaniens,  as  Horace  calls  the 
doctrine  of  another  sect,  such  extravagance  of 
philosophy  can  want  neither  authority  nor  ar- 
gument for  its  confutation :  it  is  overthrown  by 
The  experience  of  every  hour,  and  the  powers  ol 
nature  rise  up  against  it.  But  we  may  very  pro- 
perly inquire,  how  near  to  this  exalted  state  it  is 
in  our  power  to  approach  ?  how  far  we  can  ex- 
empt ourselves  from  outward  influences,  and  se- 
cure to  our  minds  a  state  of  tranquillity?  for 
though  the  boast  of  absolute  independence  is  ri 
diculous  and  vain,  yet  a  mean  flexibility  to  every 
impulse,  and  a  patient  submission  to  the  tyranny 
of  casual  troubles,  is  below  the  dignity  of  that 
mind,  which  however  depraved  or  weakened, 
boasts  its  derivation  from  a  celestial  original,  and 
hopes  for  a  union  with  infinite  goodness,  and  un 
variable  felicity. 

Ni  vitiisptjorafovcns 
Proprium  deserat  vrtum. 

Unless  the  soul,  to  vice  a  thrall, 
Desert  her  own  original. 

The  necessity  of  erecting  ourselves  to  some 
degree  of  intellectual  dignity,  and  of  perceiving 
resources  of  pleasure,  which  may  not  be  wholly 
at  the  mercy  of  accident,  is  never  more  apparent 
than  when  we  turn  our  eyes  upon  those  whom 
fortune  has  let  loose  to  their  own  conduct;  who, 
not  being  chained  down  by  their  condition  to  a 
regular  and  stated  allotment  of  their  hours,  are 
obliged  to  find  themselves  business  or  diversion 
and  having  nothing  within  that  can  entertain  01 
employ  them,  are  compelled  to  try  all  the  arts  of 
destroying  time. 

The  numberless  expedients  practised  by  this 
class  of  morUls  to  alleviate  the  burden  of  life 


No.  6.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


21 


are  not  less  shameful,  nor,  perhaps,  much  less 
pitiable,  than  those  to  which  a  trader  on  the  edge 
of  a  bankruptcy  is  reduced.  I  have  seen  me- 
lancholy overspread  a  whole  family  at  the  disap- 
pointment of  a  party  for  cards ;  and  when,  after 
the  proposal,  of  a  thousand  schemes,  and  the  de- 
spatch of  the  fo  Jtman  upon  a  hundred  messages, 
they  have  submitted,  with  gloomy  resignation,  to 
the  misfortune  of  passing  one  evening  in  con- 
versation with  each  other;  on  a  sudden,  such  are 
the  revolutions  of  the  world,  an  unexpected  visit- 
or has  brought  them  relief,  acceptable  as  pro- 
vision to  a  starving  city,  and  enabled  them  to 
hold  out  till  the  next  day. 

The  general  remedy  of  those  who  are  uneasy 
without  knowing  the  cause,  is  change  of  place ; 
they  are  willing  to  imagine  that  their  pain  is  the 
consequence  of  some  local  inconvenience,  and 
endeavour  to  fly  from  it,  as  children  from  their 
shadows  ;  always  hoping  for  some  more  satis- 
factory delight  from  every  new  scene,  and  al- 
ways returning  home  with  disappointment  and 
complaints^ 

Who  can  look  upon  this  kind  of  infatuation, 
without  reflecting  on  those  that  suffer  under  the 
dreadful  symptoms  of  canine  madness,  termed 
by  physicians  the  dread  of  water  ?  These  mise- 
rable wretches,  unable  to  drink,  though  burning 
with  thirst,  are  sometimes  known  to  try  various 
contortions,  or  inclinations  of  the  body,  flatter- 
ing themselves  that  they  can  swallow  in  one 
posture  that  liquor  which  they  find  in  another 
to  repel  their  lips. 

Y"et  such  folly  is  not  peculiar  to  the  thought- 
less or  ignorant,  but  sometimes  seizes  those 
minds  which  seem  most  exempted  from  it,  by 
the  variety  of  attainments,  quickness  of  pene- 
tration, or  severity  of  judgment ;  and,  indeed, 
the  pride  of  wit  and  knowledge  is  often  morti- 
fied by  finding  that  they  confer  no  security 
against  the  common  errors,  which  mislead  the 
weakest  and  meanest  of  mankind, 

These  reflections  arose  in  my  mind  upon  the 
remembrance  of  a  passage  in  Cowley's  preface 
to  his  poems,  where,  however  exalted  by  genius, 
and  enlarged  by  study,  he  informs  us  of  a 
scheme  of  happiness  to  which  the  imagina- 
tion of  a  girl,  upon  the  loss  of  her  first  lover, 
could  have  scarcely  given  way ;  but  which  he 
seems  to  have  indulged,  till  he  had  totally  for- 
gotten its  absurdity,  and  would  probably  have 
put  in  execution,  had  he  been  hindered  only  by 
his  reason. 

"My  desire,"  says  he,  "has  been  for  some 
years  past,  though  the  execution  has  been  acci- 
dentally diverted,  and  does  still  vehemently  con- 
tinue, to  retire  myself  to  some  of  our  American 
plantations,  not  to  seek  for  gold,  or  enrich  my- 
self with  the  traffic  of  those  parts,  which  is  the 
end  of  most  men  that  travel  thither;  but  to 
forsake  this  world  for  ever,  with  all  the  vanities 
and  vexations  of  it,  and  to  bury  myself  there  in 
some  obscure  retreat,  but  not  without  the  conso- 
lation of  letters  and  philosophy." 

Such  was  the  chimerical  provision  which 
Cowley  had  made  in  his  own  mind,  for  the 
quiet  of  his  remaining  life,  and  which  he  seems 
to  recommend  to  posterity,  since  there  is  no 
other  reason  for  disclosing  it.  Surely  no  strong- 
er instance  can  be  given  of  a  persuasion  that  con- 
tent was  the  inhabitant  of  particular  regions, 
and  that  a  man  might  set  sail  with  a  fair  wind, 


and  leave  behind  him  all  his  cares,  mcumbrances 
and  calamities. 

If  he  travelled  so  far  with  no  other  purpose 
than  to  bury  himself  in  some  obscure  retreat,  he 
might  have  found,  in  his  own  country,  innu- 
merable coverts  sufficiently  dark  to  have  con- 
cealed the  genius  of  Cowley ;  for  whatever 
might  be  his  opinion  of  the  importunity  with 
which  he  might  be  summoned  back  into  public 
life,  a  short  experience  would  have  convinced 
him,  that  privation  is  easier  than  acquisition, 
and  that  it  would  require  little  continuance  to 
free  himself  from  the  intrusion  of  the  world. 
There  is  pride  enough  in  the  human  heart  to 
prevent  much  desire  of  acquaintance  with  a 
man,  by  whom  we  are  sure  to  be  neglected, 
however  his  reputation  for  science  or  virtue 
may  excite  our  curiosity  or  esteem ;  so  that  the 
lover  of  retirement  needs  not  be  afraid  lest  the 
respect  of  strangers  should  overwhelm  him  with 
visits.  Even  those  to  whom  he  has  formerly 
been  known,  will  very  patiently  support  his  ab- 
sence, when  they  have  tried  a  little  to  live  with 
out  him,  and  found  new  diversions  for  those 
moments  which  his  company  contributed  to  ex 
hilarate. 

It  was,  perhaps,  ordained  by  Providence,  to 
hinder  us  from  tyrannising  over  one  another, 
that  no  individual  should  be  of  such  importance, 
as  to  cause,  by  his  retirement  or  death,  any 
chasm  in  the  world.  And  Cowley  had  con- 
versed to  little  purpose  with  mankind,  if  he  had 
never  remarked,  how  soon  the  useful  friend,  the 
gay  companion,  and  the  favoured  lover,  when 
once  they  are  removed  from  before  the  sight, 
give  way  to  the  succession  of  new  objects. 

The  privacy,  therefore,  of  his  hermitage  might 
have  been  safe  enough  from  violation,  though 
he  had  chosen  it  within  the  limits  of  his  native 
island ;  he  might  have  found  here  preservatives 
against  the  vanities  and  vexations  of  the  world, 
not  less  efficacious  than  those  which  the  woods 
or  fields  of  America  could  afford  him:  but  hav- 
ing once  his  mind  embittered  with  disgust,  he 
conceived  it  impossible  to  be  far  enough  from 
the  cause  of  his  uneasiness;  and  was  posting 
away  with  the  expedition  of  a  coward,  who,  for 
want  of  venturing  to  look  behind  him,  thinks  the 
enemy  perpetually  at  his  heels. 

When  he  was  interrupted  by  company,  or  fa- 
tigued with  business,  he  so  strongly  imaged  to 
himself  the  happiness  of  leisure  and  retreat,  that 
he  determined  to  enjoy  them  for  the  future  with- 
out interruption,  and  to  exclude  for  ever  all  that 
could  deprive  him  of  his  darling  satisfaction. 
He  forgot,  in  the  vehemence  of  desire,  that  so- 
litude and  quiet  owe  their  pleasures  to  those 
miseries  which  he  was  so  studious  to  obviate : 
for  such  are  the  vicissitudes  of  the  world,  through 
all  its  parts,  that  day  and  night,  labour  and  rest, 
hurry  and  retirement,  endear  each  other ;  such 
are  the  changes  that  keep  the  mind  in  action ; 
we  desire,  we  pursue,  we  obtain,  we  are  sa 
tiated :  we  desire  something  else,  and  begin  a 
new  pursuit. 

If  he  had  proceeded  in  his  project,  and  fixed 
his  habitation  in  the  most  delightful  part  of  the 
new  world,  it  may  be  doubted,  whether  his  dis- 
tance from  the  vanities  of  life  would  have  enabled 
him  to  keep  away  the  vexations.  It  is  common 
for  a  man,  who  feels  pain,  to  fancy  that  he  could 
bear  it  better  in  any  other  part.  Cowley  having 


22 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  7 


Known  the  troubles  and  perplexities  of  a  parti- 
cular condition,  readily  persuaded  himself  that 
nothing  worse  was  to  be  found,  and  that  every 
alteration  would  bring  some  improvement:  he 
never  suspected  that  the  cause  of  Ms  unhappi- 
ness  was  within,  that  his  own  passions  were  not 
sufficiently  regulated,  and  that  he  was  harassed 
by  his  own  impatience,  which  could  never  be 
without  something  to  awaken  it,  would  accom- 
pany him  over  the  sea,  and  find  its  way  to  his 
American  elysium.  He  would,  upon  the  trial, 
have  been  soon  convinced,  that  the  fountain  of 
content  must  spring  up  in  the  mind  ;  and  that  he 
who  has  so  little  knowledge  of  human  nature,  as 
to  seek  happiness  by  changing  any  thing  but  his 
own  dispositions,  will  waste  his  life  in  fruitless 
efforts,  and  multiply  the  griefs  which  he  pur- 
poses to  remove.* 


No.  7.]         TUESDAY,  APRIL  10,  1750. 

O  qui  perpetua  mundum  ratione  gubernas, 

Terramm  caelique  sator  ! 

Visjice  terrena  nebulas  et  pondera  molis, 
Atque  tuo  splendnre  mica  '.   Tu  namque  serenum, 
Tu  requies  tranquilla  piis.     Te  cernere,Jinis, 
Principium,  vector,  dux,  semita,  terminus,  idem. 

EOETHIUS 

O  thou  whose  power  o'er  moving  worlds  presides, 
Whose  voice  created,  and  whose  wisdom  guides, 
On  darkling  man  in  pure  effulgence  shine, 
And  cheer  the  clouded  mind  with  light  divine. 
'Tis  thine  alone  to  calm  the  pious  breast 
With  silent  confidence  and  holy  rest : 
From  thee,  great  God,  we  spring,  to  thee  we  tend, 
Path,  motive,  guide,  original,  and  end. 

THE  love  of  retirement  has,  in  all  ages,  adhered 
closely  to  those  minds,  which  have  been  most 
enlarged  by  knowledge,  or  elevated  by  genius. 
Those  who  enjoyed  every  thing  generally  sup- 
posed to  confer  happiness,  have  been  forced  to 
seek  it  in  the  shades  of  privacy.  Though  they 
possessed  both  power  and  riches,  and  were, 
therefore  surrounded  by  men  who  considered  il 
as  their  chief  interest  to  remove  from  them  every 
thing  that  might  offend  their  ease,  or  interrupt 
their  pleasure,  they  have  soon  felt  the  languors 
of  satiety,  and  found  themselves  unable  to  pur- 
sue the  race  of  life  without  frequent  respirations 
of  intermediate  solitude. 

To  produce  this  disposition,  nothing  appear; 
requisite  but  quick  sensibility  and  active  imagi- 
nation ;  for,  though  not  devoted  to  virtue,  or 
science,  the  man  whose  faculties  enable  him  to 
make  ready  comparisons  of  the  present  with 
the  past,  will  find  such  a  constant  recurrence  of 
the  same  pleasures  and  troubles,  the  same  ex- 
pectations and  disappointments,  that  he  will 
gladly  snatch  an  hour  of  retreat,  to  let  his 
thoughts  expatiate  at  large,  and  seek  for  thai 
variety  in  his  own  ideas,  which  the  objects  of 
sense  cannot  afford  him. 

Nor  will  greatness,  or  abundance,  exempt  him 
from  the  importunities  of  this  desire,  since,  if  he 
is  born  to  think,  he  cannot  restrain  himself  from 
a  thousand  inquiries  and  speculations,  which  h 
must  pursue  by  his  own  reason,  and  which  the 
splendour  of  his  condition  can  only  hinder :  for 
those  who  are  most  exalted  above  dependence 


*See  Dr.  Johnson's    Life    of   Cowley,    vol.   is.    p 
10— 1C 


or  control,  are  yet  condemned  to  pay  so  largo 

tribute  of  their  time  to  custom,  ceremony, 
and  popularity,  that,  according  to  the  Greek  pro- 
verb, no  man  in  the  house  is  more  a  slave  than 
the  master. 

When  a  king  asked  Euclid,  the  mathemati- 
cian, whether  he  could  not  explain  his  art  to  him 
in  a  more  compendious  manner  ?  he  was  an- 
swered, That  there  was  no  royal  way  to  geome- 
try. Other  things  may  be  seized  by  might,  or 
purchased  with  money,  but  knowledge  is  to  be 
gained  only  by  study,  and  study  to  be  prosecuted 
only  in  retirement. 

These  are  some  of  the  motives  which  have 
had  power  to  sequester  kings  and  heroes  from 
the  crowds  that  soothed  them  with  flatteries,  or 
inspirited  them  with  acclamations ;  but  their 
efficacy  seems  confined  to  the  higher  mind,  and 
to  operate  little  upon  the  common  classes  of 
mankind,  to  whose  conceptions  the  present  as- 
semblage, of  things  is  adequate,  and  who  seldom 
range  beyond  those  entertainments  and  vexa- 
tions, which  solicit  their  attention  by  pressing  on 
their  senses. 

But  there  is  a  universal  reason  for  some  stated 
intervals  of  solitude,  which  the  institutions  of 
the  church  call  upon  me  now  especially  to 
mention ;  a  reason  which  extends  as  wide  as 
moral  duty,  or  the  hopes  of  Divine  favour 
in  a  future  state ;  and  which  ought  to  influ- 
ence all  ranks  of  life,  and  all  degrees  of  intel- 
lect; since  none  can  imagine  themselves  not 
comprehended  in  its  obligation,  but  such  as  de- 
termine to  set  their  Maker  at  defiance  by  obsti- 
nate wickedness,  or  whose  enthusiastic  security 
of  his  approbation  places  them  above  external  or- 
dinances, and  all  human  means  of  improvement. 

The  great  task  of  him  who  conducts  his  life 
by  the  precepts  of  religion,  is  to  make  the  future 
predominate  over  the  present,  to  impress  upon 
his  mind  so  strong  a  sense  of  the  importance  oi 
obedience  to  the  Divine  will,  of  the  value  of  the 
reward  promised  to  virtue,  and  the  terrors  of 
the  punishment  denounced  against  crimes,  as 
may  overbear  all  the  temptations  which  tem- 
poral hope  or  fear  can  bring  in  his  way,  and  en- 
able him  to  bid  equal  defiance  to  joy  and  sorrow, 
to  turn  away  at  one  time  from  the  allurements 
of  ambition,  and  push  forward  at  another  against 
the  threats  of  calamity. 

It  is  not  without  reason  that  the  apostle  re- 
presents our  passage  through  this  stage  of  our 
existence  by  images  drawn  from  the  alarms  and 
solicitude  of  a  military  life ;  for  we  are  placed 
in  such  a  state,  that  almost  every  thing  about  us 
conspires  against  our  chief  interest.  We  are  in 
danger  from  whatever  can  get  possession  of  our 
thoughts ;  all  that  can  excite  in  us  either  pain  or 
pleasure,  has  a  tendency  to  obstruct  the  way 
that  leads  to  happiness,  and  either  to  turn  us 
aside,  or  retard  our  progress. 

Our  sens°s,  our  appetites,  and  our  passions, 
are  our  lawful  and  faithful  guides,  in  most  things 
that  relate  solely  to  this  life ;  and,  therefore, 
by  the  hourly  necessity  of  consulting  them,  we 
gradually  sink  into  an  implicit  submission,  and 
habitual  confidence.  Every  act  of  compliance 
with  their  motions  facilitates  a  second  compli- 
ance every  new  step  towards  depravity  is  made 
with  less  reluctance  than  the  former,  and  thus 
the  descent  to  life  merely  sensual  is  perpetually 
accelerated. 


No.  8.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


23 


The  senses  have  not  only  that  advantage  over 
conscience,  which  things  necessary  must  always 
have  over  things  chosen,  but  they  have  likewise 
a  kind  of  prescription  in  their  favour.  We  feared 
pain  much  earlier  than  we  apprehended  guilt,  and 
were  delighted  with  the  sensations  of  pleasure, 
before  we  had  capacities  to  be  charmed  with  the 
beauty  of  rectitude.  To  this  power,  thus  early  es- 
tablished, and  incessantly  increasing,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  almost  every  man  has,  in  some 
part  of  his  life,  added  new  strength  by  a  volun- 
tary or  negligent  subjection  of  himself;  for  who 
is  there  that  has  not  instigated  his  appetites  by 
indulgence,  or  suffered  them,  by  an  unresisting 
neutrality,  to  enlarge  their  dominion,  and  multi- 
ply their  demands  ? 

From  the  necessity  o/  dispossessing  the  sensi- 
tive faculties  of  the  influence  which  they  must 
naturally  gain  by  this  pre-occupation  of  the  soul, 
arises  that  conflict  between  opposite  desires  in 
the  first  endeavours  after  a  religious  life  ;  which, 
however  enthusiastically  it  may  have  been  de- 
scribed, or  however  contemptuously  ridiculed, 
will  naturally  be  felt  in  some  degree,  though  va- 
ried without  end,  by  different  tempers  of  mind, 
and  innumerable  circumstances  of  health  or  con- 
dition, greater  or  less  fervour,  more  or  fewer 
temptations  to  relapse. 

From  the  perpetual  necessity  of  consulting  the 
animal  faculties,  in  our  provision  for  the  present 
life,  arises  the  difficulty  of  withstanding  their  im- 
pulses, even  in  cases  where  they  ought  to  be  of 
no  weight ;  for  the  motions  of  sense  are  instanta- 
neous, its  objects  strike  unsought,  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  follow  its  directions,  and  therefore  often 
submit  to  the  sentence  without  examining  the 
authority  of  the  judge. 

Thus  it  appears,  upon  a  philosophical  estimate, 
that,  supposing  the  mind,  at  any  certain  time,  in 
an  equipoise  between  the  pleasures  of  this  life, 
and  the  hopes  of  futurity,  present  objects  falling- 
more  frequently  into  the  scale,  would  in  time  pre- 
ponderate, and  that  our  regard  for  an  invisible 
state  would  grow  every  moment  weaker,  till  at 
last  it  would  lose  all  its  activity,  and  become  ab- 
solutely without  effect. 

To  prevent  this  dreadful  event,  the  balance  is 
put  into  our  own  hands,  and  we  have  power  to 
transfer  the  weight  to  either  side.  The  motives 
to  a  life  of  holiness  are  infinite,  not  less  than  the 
favour  or  anger  of  Omnipotence,  not  less  than  the 
eternity  of  happiness  or  misery.  But  these  can 
only  influence  our  conduct  as  they  gain  our  atten- 
tion, which  the  business  or  diversions  of  the  world 
are  always  calling  off  by  contrary  attractions. 

The  great  art  therefore  of  piety,  and  the  end 
for  which  all  the  rites  of  religion  seem  to  be  insti- 
tuted, is  the  perpetual  renovation  of  the  motives 
to  virtue,  by  a  voluntary  employment  of  our  mind 
in  the  contemplation  of  its  excellence,  its  import- 
ance, and  its  necessity,  which,  in  proportion  a 
they  are  more  frequently  and  more  willingly  re- 
volved, gain  a  more  forcible  and  permanent  in- 
fluence, till  in  time  they  become  the  reigning 
ideas,  the  standing  principles  of  action,  and  the 
test  by  which  every  thing  proposed  to  the  judg- 
ment is  rejected  or  approved. 

To  facilitate  this  change  of  our  affections,  it  is 
necessary  that  we  weaken  the  temptations  of  the 
world,  by  retiring  at  certain  seasons  from  it ;  for 
its  influence  arising  only  from  its  presence,  i 
much  lessened  when  it  becomes  the  object  of  so- 


litary meditation.  A  constant  residence  amidst 
noise  and  pleasure,  inevitably  obliterates  tho  im- 
pressions of  piety,  and  a  frequent  abstraction  of 
ourselves  into  a  state,  where  this  life,  like  the 
next,  operates  only  upon  the  reason,  will  rein- 
state religion  in  its  just  authority,  even  without 
those  irradiations  from  above,  the  hope  of  which 
I  have  no  intention  to  withdraw  from  the  sincere 
and  the  diligent. 

This  is  that  conquest  of  the  world  and  of  our- 
selves, which  has  been  always  considered  as  the 
perfection  of  human  nature ;  and  this  is  only  to 
be  obtained  by  fervent  prayer,  steady  resolu- 
tions, and  frequent  retirement  from  folly  and  va- 
nity, from  the  cares  of  avarice  and  the  joys  of  in- 
temperance, from  the  lulling  sounds  of  deceitful 
flattery,  and  the  tempting  sight  of  prosperous 
wickedness. 


No.  8.]      SATURDAY,  APRIL  14,  1750. 

Patitur  pccnas  peccandi  sola  voluntas ; 

Nam  sc flus  intra  se  taciturn  qui  cogitat  ullitm, 
Facti  crimcn  habet. 

JUT 

For  he  that  but  conceives  a  crime  in  thought, 
Contracts  the  danger  of  an  actual  fault. 

CREECH. 

IF  the  most  active  and  industrious  of  mankind 
was  able,  at  the  close  of  life,  to  recollect  distinctly 
his  past  moments,  and  distribute  them  in  a  regu- 
lar account  according  to  the  manner  in  which 
they  have  been  spent,  it  is  scarcely  to  be  imagin- 
ed how  few  would  be  marked  out  to  the  mind, 
by  any  permanent  or  visible  effects,  how  small  a 
proportion  his  real  action  would  bear  to  his  seem 
ing  possibilities  of  action,  how  many  chasms 
he  would  find  of  wide  and  continued  vacuity, 
and  how  many  interstitial  spaces  unfilled,  even 
in  the  most  tumultuous  hurries  of  business,  and 
the  most  eager  vehemence  of  pursuit. 

It  is  said  by  modern  philosophers,  that  not  only 
the  great  globes  of  matter  are  thinly  scattered 
through  the  universe,  but  the  hardest  bodies  are 
so  porous,  that,  if  all  matter  were  compressed  to 
perfect  solidity,  it  might  be  contained  in  a  cube 
of  a  few  feet  In  like  manner,  if  all  the  employ- 
ment of  life  were  crowded  into  the  time  which  it 
really  occupied,  perhaps  a  few  weeks,  days,  or 
hours,  would  be  sufficient  for  its  accomplishment, 
so  far  as  the  mind  was  engaged  in  the  perform- 
ance. For  such  is  the  inequality  of  our  corporeal 
to  our  intellectual  faculties,  that  we  contrive  in 
minutes  what  we  execute  in  years,  and  the  soul 
often  stands  an  idle  spectator  of  the  labour  of  the 
hands,  and  expedition  of  the  feet 

For  this  reason  the  ancient  generals  often 
found  themselves  at  leisure  to  pursue  the  study 
of  philosophy  in  the  camp ;  and  Lucan,  with 
historical  veracity,  makes  Caesar  relate  of  him- 
self that  he  noted  the  revolutions  of  the  stars  in 
the  midst  of  preparations  for  battle. 

Media  inter  prclia  semper 

Sideribas  ccclique  plagis,  guperisgue  vacavi. 

Amid  the  storms  of  war,  with  curious  eyes 
I  trace  the  planets,  and  survey  the  skies. 

That  the  soul  always  exerts  her  peculiar  pow- 
ers, with  greater  or  less  force,  is  very  probable, 
though  the  common  occasions  of  our  present  con- 


24 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  8 


dition  require  but  a  small  part  of  that  incessant 
cogitation  ;  and  by  the  natural  frame  of  our  bo- 
dies, and  general  combination  of  the  world,  we 
are  so  frequently  condemned  to  inactivity,  that 
as  through  all  our  time  we  are  thinking,  so  for  a 
great  part  of  our  time  we  can  only  think. 

Lest  a  power  so  restless  should  be  either  un- 
proritably  or  hurtfully  employed,  and  the  super- 
fluities of  intellect  run  to  waste,  it  is  no  vain 
speculation  to  consider  how  we  may  govern  our 
thoughts,  restrain  them  from  irregular  motions, 
or  confine  them  from  boundless  dissipation. 

How  the  understanding  is  best  conducted  to 
the  knowledge  of  science,  by  what  steps  it  is  to 
be  led  forwards  in  its  pursuit,  how  it  is  to  be 
cured  of  its  defects,  and  habituated  to  new  stu- 
dies, has  been  the  inquiry  of  many  acute  and 
learned  men,  whose  observations  I  shall  not 
either  adopt  or  censure :  my  purpose  being  to 
consider  the  moral  discipline  of  the  mind,  and 
to  promote  the  increase  of  virtue  rather  than  of 
learning. 

This  inquiry  seems  to  have  been  neglected  for 
want  of  remembering,  that  all  action  has  its  ori- 
gin in  the  mind,  and  that  therefore  to  suffer  the 
thoughts  to  be  vitiated,  is  to  poison  the  foun- 
tains of  morality  ;  irregular  desires  will  produce 
licentious  practices ;  what  men  allow  themselves 
to  wish  they  will  soon  believe,  and  will  be  at  last 
incited  to  execute  what  they  please  themselves 
with  contriving. 

For  this  reason  the  casuists  of  the  Roman 
church,  who  gain,  by  confession,  great  opportu- 
nities of  knowing  human  nature,  have  generally 
determined  that  what  is  a  crime  to  do,  it  is  a 
crime  to  think.*  Since  by  revolving  with  plea- 
sure the  facility,  safety,  or  advantage  of  a  wicked 
deed,  a  man  soon  begins  to  find  his  constancy  re- 
iax,  and  his  detestation  soften ;  the  happiness  of 
success  glittering  before  him,  withdraws  his  at- 
tention from  the  atrociousness  of  the  guilt,  and 
acts  are  at  last  confidently  perpetrated,  of  which 
the  first  conception  only  crept  into  the  mind,  dis- 
guised in  pleasing  complications,  and  permitted 
rather  than  invited. 

No  man  has  ever  been  drawn  to  crimes  by  love 
or  jealousy,  envy  or  hatred,  but  he  can  tell  how 
easily  he  might  at  first  have  repelled  the  tempta- 
tion, how  readily  his  mind  would  have  obeyed  a 
call  to  any  other  object,  and  how  weak  his  pas- 
sion has  been  after  some  casual  avocation,  till  he 
has  recalled  it  again  to  his  heart,  and  revived  the 
viper  by  too  warm  a  fondness. 

Such,  therefore,  is  the  importance  of  keeping 
reason  a  constant  guard  over  imagination,  that 
we  have  otherwise  no  security  for  our  own  virtue, 
but  may  corrupt  our  hearts  in  the  most  recluse  so- 
litude, with  more  pernicious  and  tyrannical  appe- 
tites and  wishes  than  the  commerce  of  the  woild 
will  generally  produce ;  for  we  are  easily  shocked 
by  crimes  which  appear  at  once  in  theirfull  mag- 
nitude, but  the  gradual  growth  of  our  own  wicked- 
ness, endeared  by  interest,  and  palliated  by  all 
the  artifices  of  self-deceit,  gives  us  time  to  form 
distinctions  in  our  own  favour,  and  reason  by  de- 
grees submits  to  absurdity,  as  the  eye  is  in  time 
accommodated  to  darkness. 

In  this  disease  of  the  soul,  it  is  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  apply  remedies  at  the  beginning . 


*  This  was  determined  before  their  time.     See  Matt. 


C. 


and  therefore  I  shall  endeavour  to  show  what 
thoughts  are  to  be  rejected  or  improved,  as  they 
regard  the  past,  present,  or  future ;  in  hopes  that 
some  may  be  awakened  to  caution  and  vigilance, 
who,  perhaps,  indulge  themselves  in  dangerous 
dreams,  so  much  the  more  dangerous,  because, 
being  yet  only  dreams,  they  are  concluded  in- 
nocent. 

The  recollection  of  the  past  is  only  useful  by 
way  of  provision  for  the  future  ;  and,  therefore, 
in  reviewing  all  occurrences  that  fall  under  a  re- 
ligious consideration,  it  is  proper  that  a  man  stop 
at  the  first  thoughts,  to  remark  how  he  was  led 
thither,  and  why  he  continues  the  reflection.  If 
he  is  dwelling  with  delight  upon  a  stratagem  of 
successful  fraud,  a  night  of  licentious  riot,  or  an 
intrigue  of  guilty  pleasure,  let  him  summon  off 
his  imagination  as  from  an  unlawful  pursuit,  ex- 
pel those  passages  from  his  remembrance,  of 
which,  though  he  cannot  seriously  approve  them, 
the  pleasure  overpowers  the  guilt,  and  refer  them 
to  a  future  hour,  when  they  may  be  considered 
with  greater  safety.  Such  an  hour  will  certainly 
come:  for  the  impressions  of  past  pleasure  are  al- 
ways lessening,  but  the  sense  of  guilt,  which  re- 
spects futurity,  continues  the  same. 

The  serious  and  impartial  retrospect  of  our 
conduct,  is  indisputably  necessary  to  the  confirm- 
ation or  recovery  of  virtue,  and  is,  therefore,  re 
commended  under  the  name  of  self-examination, 
by  divines,  as  the  first  act  previous  to  repe:  *nnce. 
It  is,  indeed,  of  so  great  use,  that  without  it  we 
should  always  be  to  begin  life,  be  seduced  for 
ever  by  the  same  allurements,  and  misled  by  the 
same  fallacies.  But  in  order  that  we  may  not  lose 
the  advantage  of  our  experience,  we  must  endea- 
vour to  see  every  thing  in  its  proper  form,  and 
excite  in  ourselves  those  sentiments,  which  the 
great  Author  of  nature  has  decreed  the  concomi- 
tants or  followers  of  good  or  bad  actions. 


)e$a  ;  T(  uoi  < 

og  &' airb  irpwrov  iirfi-i6i'  Kai  pe , 

attna  /iiv  eKirpij^as,  t;ri7rA>7cr<r£0,  ^pjjrra  Si,  Ttoitou. 

Let  not  sleep  (says  Pythagoras )  fall  upon  thy  eyes 
till  thou  hast  thrice  reviewed  the  transactions  of  the 
past  day.  Where  have  I  turn  ed  aside  from  rectitude  1 
What  have  I  been  doing  ?  What  have  I  left  undone, 
which  I  ought  to  have  done?  Begin  thus  from  the 
first  act,  and  proceed;  and  in  conclusion,  at  the  ill 
which  thou  hast  done  be  troubled,  and  rejoice  for  the 
gocd. 

Our  thoughts  on  present  things  being  deter- 
mined by  the  objects  before  us,  fall  not  undei 
those  indulgences,  or  excursions,  which  I  am  now 
considering.  But  I  cannot  forbear,  under  this 
head,  to  caution  pious  and  tender  minds,  that  arc 
disturbed  by  the  irruptions  of  wicked  imagina 
t  ions,  against  too  great  dejection,  and  too  anxious 
alarms;  for  thoughts  are  only  criminal,  when 
they  are  first  chosen,  and  then  voluntarily  con 
tmued. 

Evil  into  the  mind  of  God  or  man 

May  come  and  go,  so  unapproved,  and  leave 

No  spot  or  stain  behind,  MILTON. 

In  futurity  chiefly  are  the  snares  lodged,  by 
which  the  imagination  is  entangled.  Futurity  is 
the  proper  abode  of  hope  and  fear,  with  all  their 


No.  9.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


25 


train  and  progeny  of  subordinate  apprehensions 
and  desires.  In  futurity  events  and  chances  are 
yet  floating  at  large,  without  apparent  connexion 
with  their  causes,  and  we  therefore  easily  indulge 
the  liberty  of  gratifying  ourselves  with  a  pleas- 
ing choice.  To  pick  and  cull  among  possible 
advantages  is,  as  the  civil  law  terms  it  in  vacuum 
venire,  to  take  what  belongs  to  nobody ;  but  it 
has  this  hazard  in  it,  that  we  shall  be  unwilling 
to  quit  what  we  have  seized,  though  an  owner 
should  be  found.  It  is  easy  to  think  on  that 
which  may  be  gained,  till  at  last  we  resolve  to 
gain  it,  and  to  image  the  happiness  of  particular 
conditions,  till  we  can  be  easy  in  no  other.  We 
ought,  at  least,  to  let  our  desires  fix  upon  no- 
thing in  another's  power  for  the  sake  of  our  quiet, 
or  in  another's  possession,  forthe  sake  of  our  in- 
nocence. When  a  man  finds  himself  led  though 
by  a  train  of  honest  sentiments,  to  wish  for  that 
to  which  he  has  no  right,  he  should  start  back 
as  from  a  pitfal  covered  with  flowers.  He  that 
fancies  he  should  benefit  the  public  more  in  a 
great  station  than  the  man  that  fills  it,  will  in 
time  imagine  it  an  act  of  virtue  to  supplant  him ; 
and  as  opposition  readily  kindles  into  hatred,  his 
eagerness  to  do  that  good,  to  which  he  is  not 
called,  will  betray  him  to  crimes,  which  in  his 
original  scheme  were  never  proposed. 

He  therefore  that  would  govern  his  actions  by 
the  law  s  of  virtue,  must  regulate  his  thoughts  by 
those  of  reason ;  he  must  keep  guilt  from  the  re- 
cesses of  his  heart,  and  remember  that  the  pleas- 
ures of  fancy,  and  the  emotions  of  desire,  are 
more  dangerous  as  they  are  more  hidden,  since 
they  escape  the  awe  of  observation,  and  operate 
equally  in  every  situation,  without  the  concur- 
rence of  external  opportunities. 


No.  9.]       TUESDAY,  APRIL  17,  1750. 

Quorf  sis  esse  velis,  nihilque  malis.  MART. 

Choose  what  you  are ;  no  other  state  prefer. 

ELPHINSTON. 

IT  is  justly  remarked  by  Horace,  that  howsoever 
every  man  may  complain  occasionally  of  the 
hardships  of  his  condition,  he  is  seldom  willing 
to  change  it  for  any  other  on  the  same  level ;  for 
whether  it  be  that  he,  who  follows  an  employ- 
ment, made  choice  of  it  at  first  on  account  of  its 
suitableness  to  his  inclination ;  or  that  when  ac- 
cident, or  the  determination  of  others,  have  placed 
him  in  a  particular  station,  he,  by  endeavouring 
to  reconcile  himself  to  it,  gets  the  custom  of  view- 
ing it  only  on  the  fairest  side ;  or  whether  every 
man  thinks  that  class  to  which  he  belongs  the 
most  illustrious,  merely  because  he  has  honoured 
it  with  his  name ;  it  is  certain  that,  whatever  be  the 
reason,  most  men  have  a  very  strong  and-  active 
prejudice  in  favour  of  their  own  vocation,  always 
working  upontheir  minds,  and  influencing  their 
behaviour. 

This  partiality  is  sufficiently  visible  in  every 
rank  of  the  human  species :  but  it  exerts  itself 
more  frequently  and  with  greater  force  among 
those  who  have  never  learned  to  conceal  their 
sentiments  for  reasons  of  policy,  or  to  model  their 
expressions  by  the  laws  of  politeness ;  and  there- 
fore the  chief  contests  of  wit  among  artificers 
and  handicraftsmen  arise  from  a  mutual  en- 


deavour to  exalt  one  trade  by  depreciating  an- 
other. 

From  the  same  principle  are  derived  many 
consolations  to  alleviate  the  inconveniences  to 
which  every  calling  is  peculiarly  exposed.  A 
blacksmith  was  lately  pleasing  himself  at  his  an 
vil,  with  observing  that  though  his  trade  was  hot 
and  sooty,  laborious  and  unhealthy,  yet  he  had 
the  honour  of  living  by  his  hammer,  he  got  his 
bread  like  a  man,  and  if  his  son  should  rise  in 
the  world,  and  keep  his  coach,  nobody  could  re 
proach  him  that  his  father  was  a  tailor. 

A  man,  truly  zea!ous  for  his  fraternity  is  never 
so  irresistibly  flattered,  as  when  some  rival  call- 
ing is  mentioned  with  contempt.  Upon  this 
principle  a  linen-draper  boasted  that  he  had  got 
a  new  customer,  whom  he  could  safely  trust, 
for  he  could  have  no  doubt  of  his  honesty,  since 
it  was  known,  from  unquestionable  authority, 
that  he  was  now  filing  a  bill  in  chancery  to  delay 
payment  for  the  clothes  wliich  he  had  worn  the 
last  seven  years ;  and  he  himself  had  heard  him 
declare,  in  a  public  coffee-house,  that  he  looked 
upon  the  whole  generation  of  woollen-drapers  to 
be  such  despicable  wretches,  that  no  gentleman 
ought  to  pay  them. 

It  has  been  observed  that  physicians  and  law- 
yers are  no  friends  to  religion ;  and  many  con- 
jectures have  been  formed  to  discover  the  reason 
of  such  a  combination  between  men  who  agree 
in  nothing  else,  and  who  seem  less  to  be  aft'ect- 
ed,  in  their  own  provinces,  by  religious  opinions, 
than  any  other  part  of  the  community.  The 
truth  is,  very  few  of  them  have  thought  about 
religion ;  but  they  have  all  seen  a  parson :  seen 
him  in  a  habit  different  from  their  own,  and  there- 
fore declared  war  against  him.  A  young  stu- 
dent from  the  inns  of  court,  who  has  often  attack- 
ed the  curate  of  his  father's  parish  with  such 
arguments  as  his  acquaintances  could  furnish, 
and  returned  to  town  without  success,  is  now 
gone  down  with  a  resolution  to  destroy  him ;  for 
he  has  learned  at  last  how  to  manage  a  prig,  and 
if  he  pretends  to  hold  him  again  to  syllogism,  he 
has  a  catch  in  reserve,  which  neither  logic  nor 
metaphysics  can  resist. 

I  laugh  to  think  how  your  unshaken  Cato 
Will  look  aghast,  when  unforeseen  destruction 
Pours  in  upon  him  thus. 

The  malignity  of  soldiers  and  sailors  against 
each  other  has  been  often  experienced  at  the  cost 
of  their  country ;  and,  perhaps,  no  orders  of  men 
have  an  enmity  of  more  acrimony,  or  longer  con. 
tinuance.  When,  upon  our  late  successes  at  sea, 
some  new  regulations  were  concerted  for  esta 
blishing  the  rank  of  the  naval  commanders,  a 
captain  of  foot  very  acutely  remarked,  that  no- 
thing was  more  absurd  than  to  give  any  honor- 
ary rewards  to  seamen ;  "  for  honour,"  says  he 
"ought  only  to  be  won  by  bravery,  and  all  the 
world  knows  that  in  a  sea-fight  there  is  no  dan- 
ger, and  therefore  no  evidence  of  courage." 

But  although  this  general  desire  of  aggrandiz- 
ing themselves,  by  raising  their  profession,  be- 
trays men  to  a  thousand  ridiculous  and  mischiev- 
ous acts  of  supplantation  and  detraction,  yet  as 
almost  all  passions  have  theirgood  as  well  as  bad 
effects,  it  likewise  excites  ingenuity,  and  some- 
times raises  an  honest  and  useful  emulation  ot 
diligence.  It  may  be  observed  in  general,  that 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  10 


no  trade  had  ever  reached  the  excellence  to  which 
it  is  now  improved,  had  its  professors  looked 
upon  it  with  the  eyes  of  indifferent  spectators ; 
the  advances,  from  the  first  rude  essays,  musf 
have  been  made  by  men  who  valued  themselves 
for  performances,  for  which  scarce  any  other 
would  be  persuaded  to  esteem  them. 

It  is  pleasing  to  contemplate  a  manufacture 
rising  gradually  from  its  first  mean  state  by  the 
successive  labours  of  innumerable  minds ;  to  con- 
sider the  first  hollow  trunk  of  an  oak  in  which, 
perhaps,  the  shepherd  could  scarce  venture  to 
cross  a  brook  swelled  with  a  shower,  enlarged 
at  last  into  a  ship  of  war,  attacking  fortresses, 
terrifying  nations,  setting  storms  and  billows  at 
defiance,  and  visiting  the  remotest  parts  of  the 
globe.  And  it  might  contribute  to  dispose  us  to 
a  kinder  regard  for  the  labours  of  one  another, 
if  we  were  to  consider  from  what  unpromising 
beginnings  the  most  useful  productions  of  art 
have  probably  arisen.^  Who,  when  he  saw  the 
first  sand  or  ashes,  by  a  casual  intenseness  of 
heat,  melted  into  a  metaline  form,  rugged  with 
excrescences,  and  clouded  with  impurities,  would 
have  imagined,  that  in  this  shapeless  lump  lay 
concealed  so  many  conveniences  of  life,  as  would 
in  time  constitute  a  great  part  of  the  happiness 
of  the  world?  Yet  by  some  such  fortuitous  li- 
quefaction was  mankind  taught  to  procure  a 
body  at  once  in  a  high  degree  solid  and  trans- 
parent, which  might  admit  the  light  of  the  sun, 
and  exclude  the  violence  of  the  wind ;  which 
might  extend  the  sight  of  the  philosopher  to  new 
ranges  of  existence,  and  charm  him  at  one  time 
with  the  unbounded  extent  of  the  material  crea- 
tion, and  at  another  with  the  endless  subordina- 
tion of  animal  life ;  and,  what  is  yet  of  more 
importance  might  supply  the  decays  of  nature, 
and  succour  old  age  with  subsidiary  sight.  Thus 
was  the  first  artificer  in  glass  employed,  though 
without  his  own  knowledge  or  expectation.  He 
was  facilitating  and  prolonging  the  enjoyment  of 
light,  enlarging  the  avenues  of  science,  and  con- 
ferring the  highest  and  most  lasting  pleasures ; 
he  was  enabling  the  student  to  contemplate  na- 
ture, and  the  beauty  to  behold  herself. 

This  passion  for  the  honour  of  a  profession, 
like  that  for  the  grandeur  of  our  own  country, 
is  to  be  regulated,  not  extinguished.  Every  man, 
from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  station,  ought  to 
warm  his  heart  and  animate  his  endeavours  with 
the  hopes  of  being  useful  to  the  world,  by  ad- 
vancing the  art  which  it  is  his  lot  to  exercise,  and 
for  that  end  he  must  necessarily  consider  the 
whole  extent  of  its  application,  and  the  whole 
weight  of  its  importance.  But  let  him  not  too 
readily  imagine  that  another  is  ill  employed,  be- 
cause, for  want  of  fuller  knowledge  of  his  busi- 
ness, he  is  not  able  to  comprehend  its  dignity. 
Every  man  ought  to  endeavour  at  eminence,  not 
by  pulling  others  down,  but  by  raising  himself, 
and  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  his  own  superiority, 
whether  imaginary  or  real,  without  interrupt- 
ing others  in  the  same  felicity.  The  philoso- 
pher may  very  justly  be  delighted  with  the  ex- 
tent of  his  views,  and  the  artificer  with  the 
readiness  of  his  hands  ;  but  let  the  one  re- 
member, that,  without  mechanical  performan- 
ces, refined  speculation  is  an  empty  dream  ; 
and  the  other,  that,  without  theoretical  reason- 
ing, dexterity  is  little  more  than  a  brute  in- 
Btmct. 


No.  10.]     SATURDAY,  APRIL  21,  1750. 

Posthabui  tamen  illorum  mea  seria  ludo. 

VIRO 

For  trifling  sports  I  quitted  grave  affairs. 

THE  number  of  correspondents  which  increases 
every  day  upon  me,  shows  that  my  paper  is  at 
least  distinguished  from  the  common  produc- 
tions of  the  press.  It  is  no  less  a  proof  of  emi- 
nence to  have  many  enemies  than  many  friends ; 
and  I  look  upon  every  letter,  whether  it  con- 
tains encomiums  or  reproaches,  as  an  equal  at- 
testation of  rising  credit.  The  only  pain,  which 
I  can  feel  from  my  correspondence,  is  the  fear 
of  disgusting  those,  whose  letters  I  shall  neglect; 
and  therefore  I  take  this  opportunity  of  remind- 
ing them,  that  in  disapproving  their  attempts, 
whenever  it  may  happen,  I  only  return  the  treat- 
ment which  I  often  receive.  Besides,  many 
particular  motives  influence  a  writer,  known 
only  to  himself,  or  his  private  friends ;  and  it  may 
be  justly  concluded,  that  not  all  letters  which  are 
postponed  are  rejected,  nor  all  that  are  rejected, 
critically  condemned. 

Having  thus  eased  my  heart  of  the  only  ap 
prehension  that  sat  heavy  on  it,  I  can  pleas 
myself  with  the  candour  of  Benevolus,  who  en- 
courages me  to  proceed,  without  sinking  under 
the  anger  of  Flirtilla,  who  quarrels  with  me  for 
being  old  and  ugly,  and  for  wanting  both  activity 
of  body  and  sprightliness  of  mind ;  feeds  her 
monkey  with  my  lucubrations,  and  refuses  any 
reconciliation  till  I  have  appeared  in  vindication 
of  masquerades.  That  she  may  not  however 
imagine  me  without  support,  and  left  to  rest 
wholly  upon  my  own  fortitude,  I  shall  now  pub- 
lish some  letters  which  I  have  received  from  men 
as  well  dressed,  and  as  handsome,  as  her  favour- 
ite ;  and  others  from  ladies,  whom  I  sincerely 
believe  as  young,  as  rich,  as  gay,  as  pretty,  as 
fashionable,  and  as  often  toasted  and  treated  as 
herself. 

"  A  SET  of  candid  readers  send  their  respects 
to  the  Rambler,  and  acknowledge  his  merit  in 
so  well  beginning  a  work  that  may  be  of  public 
benefit  But,  superior  as  his  genius  is  to  the  im- 
pertinences of  a  trifling  age,  they  cannot  but  have 
a  wish,  that  he  would  condescend  to  the  weak- 
ness of  minds  softened  by  perpetual  amuse- 
ments, and  now  and  then  throw  in,  like  liis  pre- 
decessors, some  papers  of  a  gay  and  humourous 
turn.  Too  fair  a  field  now  lies  open,  with  too 
plentiful  a  harvest  of  follies  !  let  the  cheerful 
Thalia  put  in  her  sickle,  and,  singing  at  her 
work,  deck  her  hair  with  red  and  blue." 

"  A  LADY  sends  her  compliments  to  the  Ram- 
bler, and  desires  to  know  by  what  other  name 
she  may  direct  to  him ;  what  are  his  set  of  friends, 
his  amusements ;  what  his  way  of  thinking,  with 
regard  -to  the  living  world,  and  its  ways ;  in 
short,  whether  he  is  a  person  now  alive,  and  in 
town?  If  he  be,  she  will  do  herself  the  honour 
to  write  to  him  pretty  often,  and  hopes,  from 
time  to  time,  to  be  the  better  for  his  advice  and 
animadversions;  for  his  animadversions  on  her 
neighbours  at  least.  But,  if  he  is  a  mere  essay- 
ist, and  troubles  not  himself  with  the  manners 
of  the  age,  she  is  sorry  to  tell  him,  that  even  the 
genius  and  correctness  of  an  Addison  will  no* 
secure  him  from  neglect" 

No  man  is  so  much  abstracted  from  common 


No.  10.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

life,  as  not  to  feel  a  particular  pleasure  from 
the  regard  of  the  female  world  ;  the  candid 
writers  of  the  first  billet  will  not  be  offended, 
that  my  haste  to  satisfy  a  lady  has  hurried  their 
address  too  soon  out  of  my  mind,  and  that  I  re- 
fer them  for  a  reply  t,o  some  future  paper,  in 
order  to  tell  this  curious  inquirer  after  my 
other  name,  the  answer  of  a  philosopher  to  a 
man,  who  meeting  him  in  the  street,  desired  to 
see  wnat  ne  carried  under  his  cloak  ;  "  I  carry 
it  there,"  says  he,  "  that  you  may  not  see  it." 
But,  though  she  is  never  to  know  my  name, 
she  may  often  see  my  face ;  for  I  am  of  her 
opinion,  that  a  diurnal  writer  ought  to  view 
the  world,  and  that  he  who  neglects  his  con- 
temporaries, may  be  with  justice  neglected  by 
them. 

"  LADY  RACKET  sends  compliments  to  the 
Rambler,  and  lets  him  know  she  shall  have  cards 
at  her  house,  every  Sunday,  the  remainder  of 
the  season,  where  he  will  be  sure  of  meeting 
all  the  good  company  in  town.  By  this  means 
she  hopes  to  see  his  papers  interspersed  with 
living  characters.  She  longs  to  see  the  torch  of 
Truth  produced  at  an  assembly,  and  to  admire 
the  charming  lustre  it  will  throw  on  the  jewels, 
complexions,  and  behaviour,  of  every  dear  crea- 
ture there." 

It  is  a  rule  with  me  to  receive  every  offer  with 
the  same  civility  as  it  is  made ;  and,  therefore, 
though  Lady  Racket  may  have  had  some  reason 
to  guess,  that  I  seldom  frequent  card-tables  on 
Sundays,  I  shall  not  insist  upon  an  exception, 
which  may  to  her  appear  of  so  little  force.  My 
business  has  been  to  view,  as  opportunity  was 
offered,  every  place  in  which  mankind  was  to 
be  seen  ;  but  at  card-tables,  however  brilliant,  I 
have  always  thought  my  visit  lost,  for  I  could 
know  nothing  of  the  company,  but  their  clothes 
and  their  faces.  I  saw  their  looks  clouded  at  the 
beginning  of  every  game  with  a  uniform  solici- 
tude, now  and  then  in  its  progress  varied  with  a 
short  triumph,  at  one  time  wrinkled  with  cun- 
ning, at  another  deadened  with  despondency,  or 
by  accident  flushed  with  rage  at  the  unskilful  or 
unlucky  play  of  a  partner.  From  such  assem- 
blies, in  whatever  humour  I  happened  to  enter 
them,  I  was  quickly  forced  to  retire ;  they  were 
too  trifling  for  me  when  I  was  grave,  and  too 
dull  when  I  was  cheerful. 

Yet  I  cannot  but  value  myself  upon  this  to- 
ken of  regard  from  a  lady  who  is  not  afraid  to 
stand  before  the  torch  of  Truth.  Let  her  not, 
however,  consult  her  curiosity  more  than  her 
prudence  ,  but  reflect  a  moment  on  the  fate  of 
Semele,  who  might  have  lived  the  favourite  of 
Jupiter,  if  she  could  have  been  content  without 
his  thunder.  It  is  dangerous  for  mortal  beauty, 
or  terrestrial  virtue,  to  be  examined  by  too  strong 
a  licht.  The  torch  of  Truth  shows  much  that 
we  cannot,  and  all  that  we  would  not  see.  In  a 
face  dimpled  with  smiles,  it  has  often  disco- 
vered malevolence  and  envy,  and  detected,  un- 
der jewels  and  brocade,  the  frightful  forms  of 
poverty  and  distress.  A  fine  hand  of  cards  have 
changed  before  it  into  a  thousand  spectres  of 
sickness,  misery  and  vexation ;  and  immense 
sums  of  monev,  while  the  winner  counted  them 
with  transport,  have  ai  the  first  glimpse  of  this 
unwelcome  lustre  vanished  from  before  him.  If 
her  ladyship  therefore  designs  to  continue  her 
assembly,  I  would  advise,  her  to  shun  such  dan- 


27 

gerous  experiments,  to  satisfy  herself  with  com- 
mon appearances,  and  to  light  up  her  apart- 
ments rather  with  myrtle  than  the  torch  of 
Truth. 

"  A  MODEST  young  man  sends  his  service  to 
the  author  of  the  Rambler,  and  will  be  very  will- 
ing to  assist  him  in  his  work,  but  is  sadly  afraid 
of  being  discouraged  by  having  his  first  essay 
rejected,  a  disgrace  he  has  wofully  experienced 
in  every  offer  he  had  made  of  it  to  every  new 
writer  of  every  new  paper ;  but  he  comforts  him- 
self by  thinking,  without  vanity,  that  this  has 
been  from  a  peculiar  favour  of  the  Muses,  who 
saved  his  performance  from  being  buried  in 
trash,  and  reserved  it  to  appear  with  lustre  in 
the  Rambler." 

I  am  equally  a  friend  to  modesty  and  enter- 
prise ;  and  therefore  shall  think  it  an  honour  tc 
correspond  with  a  young  man  who  possesse. 
both  in  so  eminent  a  degree.  Youth  is,  indeed 
the  time  in  which  these  qualities  ought  chiefly  tc 
be  found ;  modesty  suits  well  with  inexperience 
and  enterprise  with  health  and  vigour,  and  an 
extensive  prospect  of  life.  One  of  my  prede- 
cessors has  justly  observed,  that,  though  mo- 
desty has  an  amiable  and  winning  appearance, 
it  ought  not  to  hinder  the  exertion  of  the  active 
powers,  but  that  a  man  should  show  under  his 
blushes  a  latent  resolution.  This  point  of  per- 
fection, nice  as  it  is,  my  correspondent  seems  to 
have  attained.  That  he  is  modest,  his  own  de- 
claration may  evince ;  and,  I  think,  the  latent 
resolution  may  be  discovered  in  his  letter  by  an 
acute  observer.  1  will  advise  him,  since  he  so 
well  deserves  my  precepts,  not  to  be  discouraged 
though  the  Rambler  should  prove  equally  en- 
vious, or  tasteless,  with  the  rest  of  this  fraternity. 
If  his  paper  is  refused,  the  presses  of  England 
are  open,  let  him  try  the  judgment  of  the  public. 
If,  as  it  has  sometimes  happened  in  general  com- 
binations against  merit,  he  cannot  persuade  the 
world  to  buy  his  works,  he  may  present  them  to 
his  friends;  and  if  his  friends  are  seized  with  the 
epidemical  infatuation,  and  cannot  find  his  ge 
nius,  or  will  not  confess  it,  let  him  then  refer  his 
cause  to  posterity,  and  reserve  his  labours  for  a 
wiser  age. 

Thus  have  I  despatched  some  of  my  corres- 
pondents in  the  usual  manner,  with  fair  words 
and  general  civility.  But  to  Flirtilla,  the  gay 
Flirtilla,  what  shall  I  reply  ?  Unable  as  I  am  to 
fly  at  her  command,  over  land  and  seas,  or  to 
supply  her  from  week  to  week  with  the  fashions 
of  Paris,  or  the  intrigues  of  Madrid,  I  am  yet 
not  willing  to  incur  her  further  displeasure,  and 
would  save  my  papers  from  her  monkey  on  any 
reasonable  terms.  By  what  propitiation,  there- 
fore, may  I  atone  for  my  former  gravity,  and  open 
without  trembling,  the  future  letters  of  this 
sprightly  persecutor?  To  write  in  defence  of 
masquerades  is  no  easy  task;  yet  something 
difficult  and  daring  may  well  be  required,  as  the 
price  of  so  important  an  approbation.  I  there- 
fore, consulted,  in  this  great  emergency,  a  man  of 
high  reputation  in  gay  life,  who  having  added,  to 
his  other  acomplishments,  no  mean  proficiency 
in  the  minute  philosophy,  after  the  fifth  perusal 
of  her  letter,  broke  out  with  rapture  into  these 
words  :  "And  can  you,  Mr.  Rambler,  stand  out 
against  this  charming  creature  ?  Let  her  know, 
at  least,  that  from  this  moment  Nigrinus  devotes 
his  life  and  his  labours  to  her  service.  Is  there 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  1L 


any  stubborn  prejudice  of  education,  that  stands 
between  thee  and  the  most  amiable  of  mankind  ? 
Behold,  Flirtilla,  at  thy  feet,  a  man  grown  gray 
in  the  study  of  those  noble  arts  by  which  righ 
and  wrong  may  be  confounded;  by  which  reason 
may  be  blinded,  when  we  have  a  mind  to  escape 
from  her  inspection ;  and  caprice  and  appetite  in 
stated  in  uncontrolled  command  and  boundless 
dominion !  Such  a  casuist  may  surely  engage 
with  certainty  of  success,  in  vindication  of  an 
entertainment,  which  in  an  instant  gives  confi- 
dence to  the  timorous,  and  kindles  ardour  in  the 
cold ;  an  entertainment  where  the  vigilance  oi 
jealousy  has  so  often  been  eluded,  and  the  virgin 
is  set  free  from  the  necessity  of  languishing  in 
silence ;  where  all  the  outworks  of  chastity  are 
at  once  demolished ;  where  the  heart  is  laid  open 
without  a  blush ;  where  bashfulness  may  survive 
virtue,  and  no  wish  is  crushed  under  the  frown 
of  modesty.  Far  weaker  influence  than  Flir- 
tilla's  might  gain  over  an  advocate  for  such 
amusements.  It  was  declared  by  Pompey,  tha 
if  the  commonwealth  was  violated,  he  coulc 
stamp  with  his  foot,  and  raise  an  army  out  o 
the  ground ;  if  the  rights  of  pleasure  are  again 
invaded,  let  but  Flirtilla  crack  her  fan,  neither 
pens  nor  swords  shall  be  wanting  at  the  sum- 
mons ;  the  wit  and  the  colonel  shall  march  out 
at  her  command,  and  neither  law  nor  reason 
shall  stand  before  us."* 


No.  11.]      TUESDAY,  APRIL  24,  1750. 

JVon  Dindymene,  nan  adytis  quatit 
Mentem  sacerdotum  incola  Pythius, 
JVpn  Liber  ague,  non  acuta 
Sic  geminant  Corybantet  <tra, 

Tristes  ut  ira.  HOR. 

Vet  O !  remember,  nor  the  god  of  wine, 

Nor  Pythian  Ph&bus  from  his  inmost  shrine, 

Nor  Dindymene,  nor  her  priests  possess'd, 

Can  with  their  sounding  cymbals  shake  the  breast, 

Like  furious  anger.  FRANCIS. 

THE  maxim  which  Periander  of  Corinth,  one 
of  the  seven  sages  of  Greece,  left  as  a  memorial 
of  his  knowledge  and  benevolence,  was  ^<$Xo« 
Kfdrti,  Be  master  of  thy  anger.  He  considered 
anger  as  the  great  disturber  of  human  life,  the 
chief  enemy  both  of  public  happiness  and  private 
tranquillity,  and  thought  that  he  could  not  lay 
on  posterity  a  stronger  obligation  to  reverence 
his  memory,  than  by  leaving  them  a  salutary 
caution  against  this  outrageous  passion. 

To  what  latitude  Periander  might  extend  the 
word,  the  brevity  of  his  precept  will  scarce  al- 
low us  to  conjecture.  From  anger,  in  its  full 
import,  protracted  into  malevolence,  and  exert- 
ed in  revenge,  arise,  indeed,  many  of  the  evils  to 
which  the  life  of  man  is  exposed.  By  anger  ope- 
rating upon  power  are  produced  the  subversion 
of  cities,  the  desolation  of  countries,  the  mas- 
sacre of  nations,  and  all  those  dreadful  and  as- 
tonishing calamities  which  fill  the  histories  of 
Ihe  world,  and  which  could  not  be  read  at  any 
distant  point  of  time,  when  the  passions  stand 


The  four  billets  in  this  paper  were  written  by  Miss 
lulso  afterwards  Mrs.  Chapone,  who  survived  this  work 
5  than_half  a  century,  and  died  Dec.  25,  1801.     See  an 

Epi*ii  to  the  Adventurer-  "Briti8h 


neutral,  and  every  motive  and  principle  are  left 
to  its  natural  force,  without  some  doubt  of  the 
truth  of  the  relation,  did  we  not  see  the  same 
causes  still  tending  to  the  same  effects,  and  only 
acting  with  less  vigour  for  want  of  the  same 
concurrent  opportunities. 

But  this  gigantic  and  enormous  species  of  an- 
ger falls  not  properly  under  the  animadversion 
of  a  writer,  whose  chief  end  is  the  regulation  of 
common  life,  and  whose  precepts  are  to  recom- 
mend themselves  by  their  general  use.  Nor  is 
this  essay  intended  to  expose  the  tragical  or  fatal 
effects  even  of  private  malignity.  The  anger 
which  I  propose  now  for  my  subject,  is  such  as 
makes  those  who  indulge  it  more  troublesome 
than  formidable,  and  ranks  them  rather  with  hor- 
nets and  wasps,  than  with  basilisks  and  lions. 
I  have,  therefore,  prefixed  a  motto,  which  cha 
racterises  this  passion,  not  so  much  by  the  mis 
chief  that  it  causes,  as  by  the  noise  that  it  utters. 
There  is  in  the  world  a  certain  class  of  mor- 
tals known,  and  contentedly  known,  by  the  ap- 
pellation of  passionate  men,  who  imagine  them- 
selves entitled  by  that  distinction  to  be  provoked 
on  every  slight  occasion,  and  to  vent  their  rage 
in  vehement  and  fierce  vociferations,  in  furious 
menaces  and  licentious  reproaches.  Their  rage, 
indeed,  for  the  most  part,  fumes  away  in  outcries 
of  injury,  and  protestations  of  vengeance,  and 
seldom  proceeds  to  actual  violence,  unless  a 
drawer  or  linkboy  falls  in  their  way ;  but  they 
interrupt  the  quiet  of  those  that  happen  to  be 
within  the  reach  of  their  clamours,  obstruct  the 
course  of  conversation,  and  disturb  the  enjoyment 
of  society. 

Men  of  this  kind  are  sometimes  not  without 
understanding  or  virtue,  and  are,  therefore  not 
always  treated  with  the  severity  which  their 
neglect  of  the  ease  of  all  about  them  might  just- 
ly provoke ;  they  have  obtained  a  kind  of  pre- 
scription for  their  folly,  and  are  considered  by 
their  companions  as  under  a  predominant  in- 
fluence, that  leaves  them  not  masters  of  their 
conduct  or  language,  as  acting  without  con- 
sciousness, and  rushing  into  mischief  with  a  mis- 
before  their  eyes ;  they  are  therefore  pitied  rather 
than  censured,  and  their  sallies  are  passed  over 
as  the  involuntary  blows  of  a  man  agitated  by 
the  spasms  of  a  convulsion. 

It  is  surely  not  to  be  observed  without  indig- 
nation, that  men  may  be  found  of  minds  mean 
enough  to  be  satisfied  with  this  treatment ;  wretch- 
es who  are  proud  to  obtain  the  privilege  of  mad- 
men, and  can,  without  shame,  and  without  regret, 
Consider  themselves  as  receiving  hourly  pardons 
'rom  their  companions,  and  giving  them  conti- 
nual opportunities  of  exercising  their  patience, 
and  boasting  their  clemency. 

Pride  is  undoubtedly  the  original  of  anger; 
jut  pride,  like  every  other  passion,  if  it  once 
jreaks  loose  from  reason,  counteracts  its  own 
purposes.  A  passionate  man,  upon  the  review 
of  his  day,  will  have  very  few  gratifications  to 
otter  to  his  pride,  when  he  has  considered  how 
his  outrages  were  caused,  why  they  were  borne 
and  in  what  they  are  likely  to  end  at  last. 

Those  sudden  bursts  of  rage  generally  break 
out  upon  small  occasions ;  for  life,  unhappy  as  it 
s,  cannot  supply  great  evils  as  frequently  as  the 
man  of  fire  thinks  it  fit  to  be  enraged ;  therefore 
nrst  reflection  upon  his  violence,  must  show 
him  that  he  ie  mean  enough  to  be  driven  from  hi& 


No.  12.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


29 


post  by  every  petty  incident,  that  he  is  the  mere 
slave  of  casualty,  and  that  his  reason  and  virtue 
are  in  the  power  of  the  wind. 

One  motive  there  is  of  these  loud  extravagan- 
ces, which  a  man  is  careful  to  conceal  from  others, 
and  does  not  always  discover  to  himself.  He 
that  finds  his  knowledge  narrow,  and  his  argu- 
ments weak,  and  by  consequence  his  suffrage 
not  much  regarded,  is  sometimes  in  hope  of  gain- 
ing that  attention  by  his  clamours  which  he  can- 
not otherwise  obtain,  and  is  pleased  with  remem- 
bering, that  at  least  he  made  himself  heard,  that 
he  had  the  power  to  interrupt  those  whom  he 
could  not  confute,  and  suspend  the  decision 
which  he  could  not  guide. 

Of  this  kind  is  the  fury  to  which  many  men 
give  way  among  their  servants  and  domestics ; 
they  feel  their  own  ignorance,  they  see  their  own 
insignificance ;  and  therefore  they  endeavour,  by 
their  fury,  to  fright  away  contempt  from  before 
them,  when  they  know  it  must  follow  them  be- 
hind, and  think  themselves  eminently  masters, 
when  they  see  one  folly  tamely  complied  with, 
only  lest  refusal  or  delay  should  provoke  them  to 
a  greater. 

These  temptations  cannot  but  be  owned  to 
have  some  force.  It  is  so  little  pleasing  to  any 
man  to  see  himself  wholly  overlooked  in  the 
mass  of  things,  that  he  may  be  allowed  to  try  a 
few  expedients  for  procuring  some  kind  of  sup- 
plemental dignity,  and  use  some  endeavour  to 
add  weight,  by  the  violence  of  his  temper,  to  the 
lightness  of  his  other  powers.  But  this  has  now 
been  long  practised,  and  found,  upon  the  most 
exact  estimate,  not  to  produce  advantages  equal 
to  its  inconveniences ;  for  it  appears  not  that  a 
man  can  by  uproar,  tumult,  and  bluster,  alter 
any  one's  opinion  of  his  understanding,  or  gain 
influence,  except  over  those  whom  fortune  or 
nature  have  made  his  dependents.  He  may,  by 
a  steady  perseverance  in  his  ferocity,  fright  his 
children,  and  harass  his  servants,  but  the  rest 
of  the  world  will  look  on  and  laugh;  and  he 
will  have  the  comfort  at  last  of  thinking  that  he 
lives  only  to  raise  contempt  and  hatred,  emotions 
to  which  wisdom  and  virtue  would  be  always 
unwilling  to  give  occasion.  He  has  contrived 
only  to  make  those  fear  him,  whom  every  rea- 
sonable being  is  endeavouring  to  endear  by  kind- 
ness, and  must  content,  himself  with  the  pleasure 
of  a  triumph  obtained  by  trampling  on  them  who 
could  not  resist.  He  must  perceive  that  the  ap- 
prehension which  his  presence  causes  is  not  the 
awe  of  his  virtue,  but  the  dread  of  his  brutality, 
and  that  he  has  given  up  the  felicity  of  being 
loved,  without  gaining  the  honour  of  being  re- 
verenced. 

But  this  is  not  the  only  ill  consequence  of  the 
frequent  indulgence  of  this  blustering  passion, 
which  a  man,  by  often  calling  to  his  assistance, 
will  teach  in  a  short  time,  to  intrude  before  the 
summons,  to  rush  upon  him  with  resistless  vio- 
lence, and  without  any  previous  notice  of  its  ap- 
proach. He  will  find  himself  liable  to  be  inflam- 
ed at  the  first  touch  of  provocation,  and  unable 
to  retain  his  resentment,  till  he  has  a  full  con- 
viction of  the  offence,  to  proportion  his  anger  to 
the  cause,  or  to  regulate  it  by  prudence  or  by 
duty.  When  a  man  has  once  suffered  his  mind 
to  be  thus  vitiated,  he  becomes  one  of  the  most 
hateful  and  unhappy  beings.  He  can  give  no 
security  to  himself  that  he  shall  not,  at  the  next 


interview,  alienate  by  some  sudden  transport  his 
dearest  friend ;  or  break  out,  upon  so'.ne  slight 
contradiction,  into  such  terms  of  rudeiie-js  as  can 
never  be  perfectly  forgotten.  Whoever  con- 
verses with  him,  lives  with  the  suspicion  and 
solicitude  of  a  man  that  plays  with  a  tame  tiger, 
always  under  a  necessity  of  watching  the  mo- 
ment in  which  the  capricious  savage  shall  begin 
to  growl. 

It  is  told  by  Prior,  in  a  panegyric  on  the  Earl 
of  Dorset,  that  his  servants  used  to  put  them- 
selves in  his  way  when  he  was  angry,  because 
he  was  sure  to  recompense  them  for  any  indig- 
nities which  he  made  them  suffer.  This  is  the 
round  of  a  passionate  man's  life;  he  contracts 
debts  when  he  is  furious,  which  his  virtue,  if  he 
has  virtue,  obliges  him  to  discharge  at  the  return 
of  reason.  He  spends  his  time  in  outrage  and 
acknowledgment,  injury  and  reparation.  Or,  if 
there  be  any  who  hardens  himself  in  oppression, 
and  justifies  the  wrong,  because  he  has  done  it, 
his  insensibility  can  make  small  part  of  his  praise, 
or  his  happiness;  he  only  adds  deliberate  to 
hasty  folly,  aggravates  petulance  by  contumacy, 
and  destroys  the  only  plea  that  he  can  offer  for 
the  tenderness  and  patience  of  mankind. 

Yet  even  this  degree  of  depravity  we  may  be 
content  to  pity,  because  it  seldom  wants  a  pu- 
nishment equal  to  its  guilt  Nothing  is  more  des- 
picable or  more  miserable  than  the  old  age  of  a 
passionate  man.  When  the  vigour  of  youth 
fails  him,  and  his  amusements  pall  with  frequent 
repetition,  his  occasional  rage  sinks  by  decay  of 
strength  into  peevishness ;  that  peevishness,  for 
want  of  novelty  and  variety,  becomes  habitual ; 
the  world  falls  off  from  around  him,  and  he  is 
left,  as  Homer  expresses  it  QBiwOwv  Q&ov  iajp  to 
devour  his  own  heart  in  solitude  and  contempt 


No.  12-3       SATURDAY,  APRIL  23,  1750. 

Mieerum  parva  stipe  focillat,  ut  pudibundos 

Exercert  gales  inter  convivia  possit. 

Tu  mitis,  et  acri 

Aiperilatecarcns,  positoque  per  omniafastu 
Inter  ut  aqvales  units  numeraris  arnicas, 
Obsequiumque  daces,  et  amorem  quczris  amando. 

LUCANCS  ad  PISONEM. 

Unlike  the  ribald  whose  licentious  jest 

Pollutes  his  banquet,  and  insults  his  guest ; 

From  wealth  and  grandeur  easy  to  descend, 

Thou  joy 'st  to  lose  the  master  in  the  friend  : 

We  round  thy  board  the  cheerful  menials  see, 

Gay  with  the  smile  of  bland  equality : 

No  social  care  the  gracious  lord  disdains  ; 

Love  prompts  to  love,  and  reverence  reverence  gains. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

As  you  seem  to  have  devoted  your  labours  to 
virtue,  I  cannot  forbear  to  inform  you  of  one 
species  of  cruelty  with  which  the  life  of  a  man 
of  letters  perhaps  does  not  often  make  him  ac- 
quainted ;  and  which,  as  it  seems  to  produce  no 
other  advantage  to  those  that  practise  it  than  a 
short  gratification  of  thoughtless  vanity,  may  be- 
come less  common  when  it  has  been  once  expos- 
ed in  its  various  forms,  and  its  full  magnitude. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  a  country  gentleman, 
whose  family  is  numerous,  and  whose  estate,  not 
at  first  sufficient  to  supply  us  with  affluenco, 


30 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  12, 


has  been  lately  so  much  impaired  by  an  unsuc- 
cessful lawsuit,  that  all  the  younger  children  are 
obliged  to  try  such  means  as  their  education  af- 
fords them,  for  procuring  the  necessaries  of  life. 
Distress  and  curiosity  concurred  to  bring  me  to 
London,  where  I  was  received  by  a  relation 
rtith  the  coldness  which  misfortune  generally 
•»nds.  A  week,  a  long  week,  I  lived  with  my 
.•ousin,  before  the  most  vigilant  inquiry  could 
procure  us  the  least  hopes  of  a  place,  in  which 
time,  I  was  much  better  qualified  to  bear  all  the 
vexations  of  servitude.  The  first  two  days  she 
was  content  to  pity  me,  and  only  wished  I  had 
not  been  quite  so  well  bred;  but  people  must 
comply  with  their  circumstances.  This  lenity, 
however,  was  soon  at  an  end ;  and,  for  the  re- 
maining part  of  the  week,  I  heard  every  hour  of 
the  pride  of  my  family,  the  obstinacy  of  my 
father,  and  of  people  better  born  than  myself 
that  were  common  servants. 

At  last,  on  Saturday  noon,  she  told  me,  with 
very  visible  satisfaction,  that  Mrs.  Bombasine, 
the  great  silk  mercer's  lady,  wanted  a  maid,  and 
a  fine  place  it  would  be,  for  there  would  be  no- 
thing to  do  but  to  clean  my  mistress's  room,  get 
up  her  linen,  dress  the  young  ladies,  wait  at  tea 
in  the  morning,  take  care  of  a  little  miss  just 
come  from  nurse,  and  then  sit  down  to  my  nee- 
dle. But  madam  was  a  woman  of  great  spirit, 
and  would  not  be  contradicted,  and  therefore,  I 
should  take  care,  for  good  places  were  not  easily 
to  be  got. 

With  these  cautions  I  waited  on  Madam  Bom- 
basine, of  whom  the  first  sight  gave  me  no  ra- 
vishing ideas.  She  was  two  yards  round  the 
waist,  her  voice  was  at  once  loud  and  squeak- 
ing, and  her  face  brought  to  my  mind  the  picture 
of  the  full  moon.  Are  you  the  young  woman, 
says  she,  that  are  come  to  offer  yourself?  It  is 
strange  when  people  of  substance  want  a  serv- 
ant, how  soon  it  is  the  town-talk.  But  they 
know  they  shall  have  a  belly-full  that  live  with 
me.  Not  like  people  at  the  other  end  of  the 
lown,  we  dine  at  one  o'clock.  But  I  never  take 
any  body  without  a  character ;  what  friends  do 
you  come  off?  I  then  told  her  that  my  father 
was  a  gentleman,  and  that  we  had  been  unfor- 
tunate.— A  great  misfortune  indeed,  to  come  to 
me,  and  have  three  meals  a-day !  So  your  father 
was  a  gentleman,  and  you  are  a  gentlewoman 
I  suppose :  such  gentlewomen !  Madam,  I  did 
not  mean  to  claim  any  exemptions,  I  only  an- 
swered your  inquiry — Such  gentlewomen !  peo- 
ple should  set  their  children  to  good  trades,  and 
keep  them  off"  the  parish.  Pray  go  to  the  other 
end  of  the  town,  there  are  gentlewomen  if  they 
would  pay  their  debts :  I  am  sure  we  have  lost 
enough  by  gentlewomen.  Upon  this,  her  broad 
face  grew  broader  with  triumph,  and  I  was  afraid 
she  would  have  taken  me  for  the  pleasure  of  con- 
tinuing her  insult ;  but  happily  the  next  word  was, 
Pray,  Mrs.  gentlewoman,  troop  down  stairs. — 
You  may  believe  I  obeved  her. 

returned  and  met  with  a  better  reception  from 
my  cousin  than  I  expected ;  for  while  I  was  out, 
she  had  heard  that  Mrs.  Standish,  whose  hus- 
band had  lately  been  raised  from  a  clerk  in  an 
office,  to  be  commissioner  of  the  excise,  had  taken 
a  fine  house,  and  wanted  a  maid. 

To  Mrs.  Standish  I  went,  and,  after  having 
waited  six  hours,  was  at  last  admitted  to  the  top 
of  the  stairs,  when  she  came  out  of  her  room, 


with  two  of  her  company.  There  was  a  smell  of 
punch.  So,  young  woman,  you  want  a  place ; 
whence  do  you  come  ? — From  the  country,  Ma- 
dam.—Yes,  they  all  come  out  of  the  country. 
And  what  brought  you  to  town,  a  bastard? 
Where  do  you  lodge  ?— At  the  Seven-Dials. — 
What,  you  have  heard  of  the  foundling-house ! 
Upon  this  they  all  laughed  so  obstreperously, 
that  I  took  the  opportunity  of  sneaking  off  in  the 
tumult. 

I  then  heard  of  a  place  at  an  elderly  lady's. 
She  was  at  cards ;  but  in  two  hours,  I  was  told, 
she  would  speak  to  me.  She  asked  me  if  I  could 
keep  an  account,  and  ordered  me  to  write.  I 
wrote  two  lines  out  of  some  book  that  lay  by  her. 
She  wondered  what  people  meant  to  breed  up 
poor  girls  to  write  at  that  rate.  I  suppose,  Mrs. 
Flirt,  if  I  was  to  see  your  work,  it  would  be  fine 
stuff! — You  may  walk,  I  will  not  have  love-let- 
ters written  from  my  house  to  every  young  fellow 
in  the  street 

Two  days  after  I  went  on  the  same  pursuit  to 
Lady  Lofty,  dressed  as  I  was  directed,  in  what 
little  ornaments  I  had,  because  she  had  lately 
got  a  place  at  court.  Upon  the  first  sight  of  me, 
she  turns  to  the  woman  that  showed  me  in.  Is 
this  the  lady  that  wants  a  place?  Pray  what 
place  would  you  have,  Miss  ?  a  maid  of  honour's 
place?  Servants  now-a-days  ! — Madam,  I  heard 
you  wanted — Wanted  what  ?  Somebody  finer 
than  myself?  A  pretty  servant  indeed  !  I  should 
be  afraid  to  speak  to  her.  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Minx, 
these  fine  hands  cannot  bear  wetting — a  servant 
indeed !  Pray  move  off— I  am  resolved  to  be  the 
head  person  in  this  house.  You  are  ready 
dressed,  the  taverns  will  be  open. 

I  went  to  inquire  for  the  next  place  in  a  clean 
linen  gown,  and  heard  the  servant  tell  his  lady, 
there  was  a  young  woman,  but  he  saw  she  would 
not  do.  I  was  brought  up,  however.  Are  you 
the  trollop  that  has  the  impudence  to  come  for 
my  place  ?  What,  you  have  hired  that  nasty 
gown,  and  are  come  to  steal  a  better. — Madam. 
I  have  another,  but  being  obliged  to  walk. — 
Then  these  are  your  manners,  with  your  blushes 
and  your  courtesies,  to  come  to  me  in  your  worst 
gown. — Madam,  give  me  leave  to  wait  upon  you 
in  my  other. — Wait  on  me,  you  saucy  slut !  Then 
you  are  sure  of  coming.  I  could  not  let  such  a 
drab  come  near  me.  Here,  you  girl  that  came 
up  with  her,  have  you  touched  her?  If  you  have, 
wash  your  hands  before  you  dress  me.  Such 
trollops!  Get  you  down.  What,  whimpering? 
Pray  walk. 

I  went  away  with  tears ;  for  my  cousin  had  lost 
all  patience.  However,  she  told  me,  that  having 
a  respect  for  my  relations,  she  was  willing  to 
keep  me  out  of  the  street,  and  would  let  me  have 
another  week. 

The  first  day  of  this  week  I  saw  two  places. 
At  one  I  was  asked  where  I  had  lived  ?  And 
upon  iny  answer,  was  told  by  the  lady,  that  peo 
pie  should  qualify  themselves  in  ordinary  places-, 
for  she  should  never  have  done  if  she  was  to  fol- 
low girls  about.  At  the  other  house  I  was  a 
smirking  hussy,  and  that  sweet  face  I  might  make 
money  of— For  her  part,  it  was  a  rule  with  her 
never  to  take  any  creature  that  thought  herself 
handsome. 

The  three  next  days  were  spent  in  Lady  Bluff's 
entry,  where  I  waited  six  hours  every  day  for  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  servants  peep  at  me,  and 


No.  13.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


go  away  laughing. — Madam  will  stretch  her 
small  shanks  in  the  entry;  she  will  know  the 
house  again. — At  sunset  the^wo  first  days  I  wa: 
told,  that  my  lady  would  see  me  to-morrow,  and 
on  the  third,  that  her  woman  stayed. 

A Ly  week  was  now  near  its  end,  and  I  had  no 
hopes  of  a  place.  My  relation,  who  always  laid 
upon  me  the  blame  of  every  miscarriage,  told 
me  that  I  must  learn  to  humble  myself,  and  that 
all  great  ladies  had  particular  ways :  that  if  I 
went  on  in  that  manner,  she  could  not  tell  who 
would  keep  me ;  she  had  known  many  that  had 
refused  places,  sell  their  clothes  and  beg-  in  the 
streets. 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  the  refusal  was  de- 
clared by  me  to  be  never  on  my  side ;  I  was  rea- 
soning against  interest  and  against  stupidity ; 
and  therefore  I  comforted  myself  with  the  hope 
of  succeeding  better  in  my  next  attempt,  and 
went  to  Mrs.  Courtly,  a  very  fine  lady,  who  had 
routes  at  her  house,  and  saw  the  best  company 
in  town. 

I  had  not  waited  two  hours  before  I  was  called 
up,  and  found  Mr.  Courtly  and  his  lady  at  pi- 
quet, in  the  height  of  good  humour.  This  I 
looked  on  as  a  favourable  sign,  and  stood  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  room,  in  expectation  of  the  com- 
mon questions.  At  last  Mr.  Courtly  called  out, 
after  a  whisper,  Stand  facing  the  light,  that  one 
may  see  you. — I  changed  my  place  and  blushed. 
They  frequently  turned  their  eyes  upon  me,  and 
seemed  to  discover  many  subjects  of  merriment; 
for  at  every  look  they  whispered  and  laughed 
with  the  most  violent  agitations  of  delight.  At 
last  Mr.  Courtly  cried  out,  Is  that  colour  your 
own,  child? — Yes,  says  the  lady,  if  she  has  not 
robbed  the  kitchen  hearth. — This  was  so  happy  a 
conceit,  that  it  renewed  the  storm  of  laughter, 
and  they  threw  down  their  cards  in  hopes  of  bet- 
ter sport.  The  lady  then  called  me  to  her,  and 
began  with  an  affected  gravity  to  inquire  what  I 
could  do  ?  But  first  turn  about,  and  let  us  see 
your  fine  shape.  Well,  what  are  you  fit  for, 
Mrs.  Mum  ?  You  would  find  your  tongue,  I  sup- 
pose, in  the  kitchen. — No,  no,  says  Mr.  Courtly, 
the  girl's  a  good  girl  yet,  but  I  am  afraid  a  brisk 
young  fellow,  with  fine  tags  on  his  shoulder — 
Come,  child,  hold  up  your  head  ;  What!  you 
have  stole  nothing. — Not  yet,  says  the  lady,  but 
she  hopes  to  steal  your  heart  quickly.  Here 
was  a  laugh  of  happiness  and  triumph,  prolong- 
ed by  the  confusion  which  I  could  no  longer  re- 
press. At  last  the  lady  recollected  herself: 
Stole  !  no — but  if  I  had  her,  I  should  watch  her: 
for  that  downcast  eye — why  cannot  you  look 
people  in  the  face  ? — Steal !  says  her  husband, 
she  would  steal  nothing  but,  perhaps,  a  few  ri- 
bands before  they  were  left  offby  her  lady. — Sir, 
answered  I,  why  should  you,  by  supposing  me  a 
thief,  insult  one  from  whom  you  have  received 
no  injury  ? — Insult !  says  the  lady ;  are  you  come 
here  to  be  a  servant,  you  saucy  baggage,  and  talk 
of  insulting  !  What  will  this  world  come  to,  if  a 
gentleman  may  not  jest  with  a  servant !  Well, 
such  servants !  pray  be  gone,  and  see  when  you 
will  have  the  honour  to  be  so  insulted  again. 
Sen-ants  insulted  ! — a  fine  time  ! — Insulted  !  Get 
nown  stairs,  you  slut,  or  the  footman  shall  insult 
you. 

The  last  day  of  the  last  week  was  now  com- 
ing, and  my  kind  cousin  talked  of  sending  me 
doi»n  in  the  wagon  to  preserve  me  from  bad 


courses.  But  in  the  morning  she  came  and  tola 
me  that  she  had  one  trial  more  for  me  ;  Euphe- 
mia  wanted  a  maid,  and  perhaps  I  might  do  for 
her ;  for,  like  me,  she  must  fall  her  crest,  being 
forced  to  lay  down  her  chariot  upon  the  loss  of 
half  her  fortune  by  bad  securities,  and  with  her 
way  of  giving  her  money  to  every  body  that  pre- 
tended to  want  it,  she  could  have  little  before- 
hand ;  therefore  I  might  serve  her  ;  for,  with  all 
her  fine  sense,  she  must  not  pretend  to  be  nice. 
I  went  immediately,  and  met  at  the  door  a 
young  gentlewoman,  who  told  me  she  had  her- 
self been  hired  that  morning,  but  that  she  was 
ordered  to  bring  any  that  offered  up  stairs.  I 
was  accordingly  introduced  to  Euphemia,  who, 
when  I  came  in,  laid  down  her  book,  and  told  rne 
that  she  sent  for  me  not  to  gratify  an  idle  curiosi- 
ty, but  lest  my  disappointment  might  be  made 
still  more  grating  by  incivility ;  that  she  was  in 
pain  to  deny  any  thing,  much  more  what  was  no 
favour ;  that  she  saw  nothing  in  my  appearance 
which  did  not  make  her  wish  for  my  company ; 
but  that  another,  whose  claims  might  perhaps  be 
equal,  had  come  before  me.  The  thought  of  be- 
ing so  near  to  such  a  place,  and  missing  it,  brought 
tears  into  my  eyes,  and  my  sobs  hindered  me 
from  returning  my  acknowledgments.  She  rose 
up  confused,  and  supposing  by  my  concern  that 
I  was  distressed,  placed  me  by  her,  and  made 
me  tell  her  my  story  ;  which  when  she  had 
heard,  she  put  two  guineas  in  my  hand,  order- 
ing me  to  lodge  near  her,  and  make  use  of  her 
table  till  she  could  provide  for  me.  J  am  now 
under  her  protection,  and  know  not  how  to  show 
my  gratitude  better  than  by  giving  this  account 
to  the  Rambler. 

ZOSIMA. 


No.  13.]       TUESDAY,  MAT  1,  1750. 

Commissumquf.  teges,  et  vino  tortut  et  ira. —  HOR. 

And  let  not  wine  or  anger  wrest 

Th'  intrusted  secret  from  your  breast. —     FRANCIS. 

It  is  related  by  duintus  Curtius,  that  the  Per- 
sians always  conceived  an  invincible  contempt 
of  a  man  who  had  violated  the  laws  of  secrecy ; 
for  they  thought  that,  however  he  might  be  de- 
ficient in  the  qualities  requisite  to  actual  excel- 
lence, the  negative  virtues  at  least  were  in  his 
power,  and  though  he  perhaps  could  not  speak 
well  if  he  was  to  try,  it  was  still  easy  for  him  not 
to  speak. 

In  forming  this  opinion  of  the  easiness  of  se- 
crecy, they  seem  to  have  considered  it  as  oppos- 
ed, not  to  treachery,  but  loquacity,  and  to  have 
conceived  the  man  whom  they  thus  censured,  not 
frighted  by  menaces  to  reveal,  or  bribed  by  pro- 
mises to  betray, but  incited  by  the  mere  pleasure 
of  talking,  or  some  other  motive  equally  trifling, 
to  lay  open  his  heart  without  reflection  and  to 
let  whatever  he  knew  slip  from  him,  only  for 
want  of  power  to  retain  rt.  Whether,  by  their 
settled  and  avowe.d  scorn  of  thoughtless  talkers, 
the  Persians  were  able  to  diffuse  to  any  great 
extent  the  virtue  of  taciturnity,  we  are  hindered 
by  the  distance  of  those  times  from  being  able 
to  discover,  there  being  very  few  memoirs  re- 
maining of  the  court  of  Persepolis,  nor  any  dis- 
tinct accounts  handed  down  to  us  of  their  office- 


iq 

i  - 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  13 


clerks,  their  ladies  of  the  bed-chamber,  their  at- 
torneys, their  chamber-maids,  or  their  footmen. 

In  these  latter  ages,  though  the  old  animosity 
against  a  prattler  is  still  retained,  it  appears 
wholly  to  have  lost  its  effect  upon  the  conduct 
of  mankind ;  for  secrets  are  so  seldom  kept,  that 
it  may  with  some  reason  be  doubted,  whether 
the  ancients  were  not  mistaken  in  their  first 
postulate,  whether  the  quality  of  retention  be  so 
generally  bestowed,  and  whether  a  secret  has 
not  some  subtle  volatility,  by  which  it  escapes 
imperceptibly  at  the  smallest  vent,  or  some 
power  of  fermentation,  by  which  it  expands  it- 
self so  as  to  burst  the  heart  that  will  not  give 
it  way. 

Those  that  study  either  the  body  or  the  mind 
of  man,  very  often  find  the  most  specious  and 
pleasing  theory  falling  under  the  weight  of  con- 
trary experience ;  and,  instead  of  gratifying  their 
vanity  by  inferring  effects  from  causes,  they  are 
always  reduced  at  last  to  conjecture  causes  from 
effects.  That  it  is  easy  to  be  secret,  the  specu- 
latist  can  demonstrate  in  his  retreat,  and  there- 
fore thinks  himself  justified  in  placing  confi- 
dence ;  the  man  of  the  world  knows,  that,  whe- 
ther difficult  or  not,  it  is  uncommon,  and  there- 
fore finds  himself  rather  inclined  to  search  after 
the  reason  of  this  universal  failure  in  one  of  the 
most  important  duties  of  society. 

The  vanity  of  being  known  to  be  trusted  with 
a  secret,  is  generally  one  of  the  chief  motives  to 
disclose  it;  for  however  absurd  it  may  be 
thought  to  boast  an  honour  by  an  act  which 
shows  that  it  was  conferred  without  merit,  yet 
most  men  seem  rather  inclined  to  confess  the 
want  of  virtue  than  of  importance,  and  more 
willingly  show  their  influence,  though  at  the 
expense  of  their  probity,  than  glide  through  life 
with  no  other  pleasure  than  the  private  con- 
sciousness of  fidelity ;  which,  while  it  is  pre- 
served,must  be  without  praise,  except  from  the 
single  person  who  tries  and  knows  it. 

There  are  many  ways  of  telling  a  secret,  by 
which  a  man  exempts  himself  from  the  re- 
proaches of  his  conscience,  and  gratifies  his 
pride,  without  suffering  himself  to  believe  that  he 
impairs  his  virtue.  He  tells  the  private  affairs 
of  his  patron,  or  his  friend,  only  to  those  from 
whom  he  would  not  conceal  his  own  ;  he  tells 
them  to  those  who  have  no  temptation  to  betray 
the  trust,  or  with  a  denunciation  of  a  certain  for- 
feiture of  his  friendship,  if  he  discovers  that  they 
become  public. 

Secrets  are  very  frequently  told  in  the  first  ar- 
dour of  kindness,  or  of  love,  for  the  sake  of 
proving,  by  so  important  a  sacrifice,  sincerity  or 
tenderness ;  but  with  this  motive,  though  it  be 
strong  in  itself,  vanity  concurs,  since  every  man 
desires  to  be  most  esteemed  by  those  whom  he 
loves,  or  with  whom  he  converses,  with  whom 
he  passes  his  hours  of  pleasure,  and  to  whom  he 
retires  from  business  and  from  care. 

When  the  discovery  of  secrets  is  under  consi- 
deration, there  is  always  a  distinction  carefully 
to  be  made  between  our  own  and  those  of  an- 
other ;  those  of  which  we  are  fully  masters,  as 
they  affect  only  our  own  interest,  and  those 
which  are  reposited  with  us  in  trust,  and  involve 
the  happiness  or  convenience  of  such  as  we  have 
no  right  to  expose  to  hazard.  To  tell  our  own 
secrets  is  generally  folly,  but  that  folly  is  with- 
out guilt ;  to  communicate  those  with  which  we 


are  intrusted  is  always  treachery,  and  treachery 
for  the  most  part  combined  with  folly. 

There  have,  indeed,  been  some  enthusiastic 
and  irrational  zealots  for  friendship,  who  have 
maintained,  and  perhaps  believed,  that  one 
friend  has  a  right  to  all  that  is  in  possession  of 
another ;  and  that,  therefore,  it  is  a  violation  of 
kindness  to  exempt  any  secret  from  this  bound- 
less confidence.  Accordingly,  a  late  female 
minister  of  state*  has  been  shameless  enough  to 
inform  the  world,  that  she  used,  when  she 
wanted  to  extract  any  thing  from  her  sovereign, 
to  remind  her  of  Montaigne's  reasoning,  who  has 
determined,  that  to  tell  a  secret  to  a  friend  is  no 
breach  of  fidelity,  because  the  number  of  persons 
trusted  is  not  multiplied,  a  man  and  his  friend 
being  virtually  the  same. 

That  such  a  fallacy  could  be  imposed  upon 
any  human  understanding,  or  that  an  author 
could  have  advanced  a  position  so  remote  from 
truth  and  reason,  any  other  ways  than  as  a  de- 
claimer,  to  show  to  what  extent  he  could  stretch 
his  imagination,  and  with  what  strength  he 
could  press  his  principle,  would  scarcely  have 
been  credible,  had  not  this  lady  kindly  shown 
us  how  far  weakness  may  be  deluded,  or  in- 
dolence amused.  But  since  it  appears,  that  even 
this  sophistry,  has  been  able,  with  the  help  of  a 
strong  desire,  to  repose  in  quiet  upon  the  under- 
standing of  another  to  mislead  honest  intentions, 
and  an  understanding  not  contemptible,!  it  may 
not  be  superfluous  to  remark,  that  those  things 
which  are  common  among  friends  are  only  such 
as  either  possesses  in  his  own  right,  and  can 
alienate  or  destroy  without  injury  to  any  other 
person.  Without  this  limitation,  confidence 
must  run  on  without  end,  the  second  person 
may  teH  the  secret  to  the  third,  upon  the  same 
principle  as  he  received  it  from  the  first,  and  a 
third  may  hand  it  forward  to  a  fourth,  till  at  last 
it  is  told  in  the  round  of  friendship  to  them  from 
whom  it  was  the  first  intention  to  conceal  it. 

The  confidence  which  Caius  has  of  the  faith- 
fulness of  Titius  is  nothing  more  than  an  opinion 
which  himself  cannot  know  to  be  true,  and 
which  Claudius,  who  first  tells  his  secret  to 
Caius,  may  know  to  be  false  ;  and  therefore  the 
trust  is  transferred  by  Caius,  if  he  reveal  what 
has  been  told  him,  to  one  from  whom  the  person 
originally  concerned  would  have  withheld  it, 
and  whatever  may  be  the  event,  Caius  has  ha- 
zarded the  happiness  of  his  friend,  without  ne- 
cessity and  without  permission,  and  has  put  that 
trust  in  the  hand  of  fortune  which  was  given 
only  to  virtue. 

All  the  arguments  upon  which  a  man  who  is 
telling  the  private  affairs  of  another  may  ground 
his  confidence  of  security,  he  must  upon  reflec- 
tion know  to  be  uncertain,  because  he  finds  them 
without  effect  upon  himself.  When  he  is  ima- 
gining that  Titius  will  be  cautious,  from  a  re- 
gard to  his  interest,  his  reputation,  or  his  duty, 
he  ought  to  reflect  that  he  is  himself  at  that 
instant  acting  in  opposition  to  all  these  reasons, 
and  revealing  what  interest, reputation,  and  duty, 
direct  him  to  conceal. 

Every  one  feels  that  in  his  own  case  he  should 
consider  the  man  incapable  of  trust,  who  believed 
himself  at  liberty  to  tell  whatever  he  knew  to  the 


*  Sarah,  Dutchess  of  Marlborough.-^C. 
f  That  of  Queen  Anne.— C. 


No.  14.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

first  whom  he  should  conclude  deserving  of  his 
own  confidence  ;  therefore  Caius,  in  admitting 
Titius  to  the  affairs  imparted  only  to  himself  musl 
know  that  he  violates  his  faith,  since  he  acts  con- 
trary to  the  intention  of  Claudius,  to  whom  that 
faith  was  given.  For  promises  of  friendship  are 
like  all  others,  useless  and  vain,  unless  they  are 
made  in  some  known  sense,  adjusted  and  ac- 
knowledged by  both  parties. 

I  am  not  ignorant  that  many  questions  may  be 
started  relating  to  the  duty  of  secrecy,  where  the 
affairs  are  of  public  concern  ;  where  subsequent 
reasons  may  arise  to  alter  the  appearance  and 
nature  of  the  trust ;  that  the  manner  in  which 
the  secret  was  told  may  change  the  degree  of 
obligation,  and  that  the  principles  upon  which  a 
man  is  chosen  for  a  confidant  may  not  always 
equally  constrain  him.  But  these  scruples,  if  not 
too  intricate,  are  of  too  extensive  consideration 
for  my  present  purpose,  nor  are  they  such  as  ge- 
nerally occur  in  common  life ;  and  though  casu- 
istical knowledge  be  useful  in  proper  hands,  yet 
it  ought  by  no  means  to  be  carelessly  exposed, 
since  most  will  use  it  rather  to  lull  than  to  awak- 
en their  own  consciences;  and  the  threads  of 
reasoning,  on  which  truth  is  suspended,  are  fre- 
quently drawn  to  such  subtilty,  that  common 
eyes  cannot  perceive,  and  common  sensibility 
cannot  feel  them. 

The  whole  doctrine  as  well  as  practice  of  se- 
crecy, is  so  perplexing  and  dangerous,  that,  next 
to  him  who  is  compelled  to  trust,  I  think  him  un- 
happy who  is  chosen  to  be  trusted ;  for  he  is 
often  involved  in  scruples  without  the  liberty  of 
calling  in  the  help  of  any  other  understanding; 
he  is  frequently  drawn  into  guilt  under  the  ap- 
pearance of  friendship  and  honesty;  and  some- 
times subjected  to  suspicion,  by  the  treachery  of 
others,  who  are  engaged  without  his  knowledge 
in  the  same  schemes ;  for  he  that  has  one  confi- 


dant  has  generally  more,  and  when  he  is  at  last 
betrayed,  is  in  doubt  on  whom  he  shall  fix  the 
crime. 

The  rules  therefore  that  I  shall  propose  con- 
cerning secrecy,  and  from  which  I  think  it  not 
safe  to  deviate,  without  long  and  exact  delibera- 
tion, are — Never  to  solicit  the  knowledge  of  a 
secret.  Not  willingly,  nor  without  many  limita- 
tions, to  accept  such  confidence  when  it  is  offer- 
ed. When  a  secret  is  once  admitted,  to  consi- 
der the  trust  as  of  a  very  high  nature,  important 
as  society,  and  sacred  as  truth,  and  therefore  not 
to  be  violated  for  any  incidental  convenience,  or 
slight  appearance  of  contrary  fitness. 


No.  14]        SATURDAY,  MAT  5,  1750. 
-Nil  fuit  unquam 


Sic  impar  Sibi- 
Sure  such  a  various  creature  ne'er  was  known. 

FRANCIS. 

AMONG  the  many  inconsistencies  which  folly 
produces,  or  infirmity  suffers,  in  the  human  mind, 
there  has  often  been  observed  a  manifest  and 
striking  contrariety  between  the  life  of  an  author 
and  his  writings;  and  Milton,  in  a  letter  to  a 
(earned  stranger,  by  whom  he  had  been  visited, 
with  great  reason  congratulates  himself  upon  the 
consciousness  of  being  found  equal  to  his  own 
E 


character,  and  having  preserved  in  a  private  and 
familiar  interview,  that  reputation  which  his 
works  had  procured  him. 

Those  whom  the  appearance  of  virtue,  or  the 
evidence  of  genius,  have  tempted  to  a  nearer 
knowledge  of  the  writer  in  whose  performances 
they  may  be  found,  have  indeed  had  frequent 
reason  to  repent  their  curiosity:  the  bubble  that 
sparkled  before  them  has  become  common  wa- 
ter at  the  touch;  the  phantom  of  perfection  has 
vanished  when  they  wished  to  press  it  to  their 
bosom.  They  have  lost  the  pleasure  of  imagin- 
ing how  far  humanity  may  be  exalted,  and,  per- 
haps, felt  themselves  less  inclined  to  toil  up  the 
steeps  of  virtue,  when  they  observe  those  who 
seem  best  able  to  point  the  way,  loitering  below, 
as  either  afraid  of  the  labour,  or  doubtful  of  the 
reward. 

It  has  long  been  the  custom  of  the  oriental  mo 
narchs  to  hide  themselves  in  gardens  and  palaces, 
to  avoid  the  conversation  of  mankind,  and  to  be 
known  to  their  subjects  only  by  their  edicts.  The 
same  policy  is  no  less  necessary  to  him  that 
writes,  than  to  him  that  governs ;  for  men  would 
not  more  patiently  submit  to  be  taught  than  com- 
manded, by  one  known  to  have  the  same  follies 
and  weaknesses  with  themselves.  A  sudden 
intruder  into  the  closet  of  an  author  would  per- 
haps feel  equal  indignation  with  the  officer,  who 
having  long  solicited  admission  into  the  presence 
of  Sardanapalus,  saw  him  not  consulting  upon 
.aws,  inquiring  into  grievancee,  or  modelling  ar- 
mies, but  employed  in  feminine  amusements, 
and  directing  the  ladies  in  their  work. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  conceive,  however,  that  for 
many  reasons  a  man  writes  much  better  than  he 
"ives.  For  without  entering  into  refined  specula- 
ions,  it  may  be  shown  much  easier  to  design 
;han  to  perform.  A  man  proposes  his  schemes 
of  life  in  a  state  of  abstraction  and  disengage- 
ment, exempt  from  the  enticements  of  hope,  the 


solicitations  of  affection,  the  importunities  of  ap- 
>etite,  or  the  depressions  of  fear,  and  is  in  the 
same  state  with  him  that  teaches  upon  land  the 
art  of  navigation,  to  whom  the  sea  is  always 
smooth,  and  the  wind  always  prosperous. 

The  mathematicians  are  well  acquainted  with 

he  difference  between  pure  science,  which  has  to 
do  only  with  ideas,  and  the  application  of  its 
aws  to  the  use  of  life,  in  which  they  are  con- 
strained to  submit  to  the  imperfection  of  mattei 
and  the  influence  of  accidents.  Thus,  in  mora\ 
discussions,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  many  im- 
>ediments  obstruct  our  practice,  which  very  easilj 
jive  way  to  theory.  The  speculatist  is  only  in 
danger  of  erroneous  reasoning ;  but  the  man  in- 

olved  in  life  has  his  own  passions  and  those  of 
others  to  encounter,  and  is  embarrassed  with  a 
thousand  inconveniences  which  confound  hiaa 
with  variety  of  impulse,  and  either  perplex  or  ob« 
struct  his  way.  He  is  forced  to  act  without  de  • 
liberation,  and  obliged  to  choose  before  he  can 
examine ;  he  is  surprised  by  sudden  alterations 
of  the  state  of  things,  and  changes  his  measures 
according  to  superficial  appearances ;  he  is  led 
by  others,  either  because  he  is  indolent,  or  be- 
cause he  is  timorous ;  he  is  sometimes  afraid  to 
know  what  is  right,  and  sometimes  finds  friends 
or  enemies  diligent  to  deceive  him. 

We  are,  therefore,  not  to  wonder  that  most 
fail,  amidst  tumult,  and  snares,  and  danger,  in 
the  observance  of  those  precepts,  which  they  lay 


31 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  14. 


down  in  solitude,  safety,  and  tranquillity,  with  a 
mind  unbiassed,  and  with  liberty  unobstructed. 
It  is  the  condition  of  our  present  state  to  see  more 
than  we  can  attain  ;  the  ^oxactest  vigilance  and 
caution  can  never  maintain  a  single  day  of  un- 
mingled  innocence,  much  less  can  the  utmost  ef- 
forts of  incorporated  mind  reach  the  summits  of 
speculative  virtue. 

It  is,  however,  necessary  for  the  idea  of  perfec- 
tion to  be  proposed,  that  we  may  have  some  ob- 
ject to  which  our  endeavours  are  to  be  directed ; 
and  he  that  is  the  most  deficient  in  the  duties  of 
life,  makes  some  atonement  for  his  faults,  if  he 
warns  others  against  his  own  failings,  and  hin- 
ders, by  the  salubrity  of  his  admonitions,  the  con- 
tagion of  his  example. 

Nothing  is  more  unjust,  however  common, 
lhan  to  charge  with  hypocrisy  him  that  expresses 
teal  for  those  virtues  which  he  neglects  to  prac- 
tise ;  since  he  may  be  sincerely  convinced  of  the 
advantages  of  conquering  his  passions,  without 
having  yet  obtained  the  victory,  as  a  man  may 
be  confident  of  the  advantages  of  a  voyage,  or  a 
journey,  without  having  courage  or  industry  to 
undertake  it,  and  may  honestly  recommend  to 
others  those  attempts  which  he  neglects  himself. 

The  interest  which  the  corrupt  part  of  man- 
kind have  in  hardening  themselves  against  every 
motive  to  amendment,  has  disposed  them  to  give 
to  these  contradictions,  when  they  can  be  pro- 
duced against  the  cause  of  virtue,  that  weight 
which  they  will  not  allow  them  in  any  other  case. 
They  see  men  act  in  opposition  to  their  interest, 
without  supposing  that  they  do  not  know  it; 
those  who  give  way  to  the  sudden  violence  of 
passion,  and  forsake  the  most  important  pur- 
suits for  petty  pleasures,  are  not  supposed  to  have 
changed  their  opinions,  or  to  approve  their  own 
conduct  In  moral  or  religious  questions  alone, 
they  determine  the  sentiments  by  the  actions, 
and  charge  every  man  with  endeavouring  to  im- 
pose upon  the  world,  whose  writings  are  not  con- 
firmed by  his  life.  They  never  consider  that 
themselves  neglect  or  practise  something  every 
day  inconsistently  with  their  own  settled  judg- 
ment, nor  discover  that  the  conduct  of  the  advo- 
cates for  virtue  can  little  increase  or  lessen  the 
obligations  of  their  dictates  ;  argument  is  to  be 
invalidated  only  by  argument,  and  is  in  itself  of 
the  same  force,  whether  or  not  it  convinces  him 
by  whom  it  is  proposed. 

Yet  since  this  prejudice,  however  unreasona- 
ble, is  always  likely  to  have  some  prevalence, 
it  is  the  duty  of  every  man  to  take  care  lest  he 
should  hinder  the  efficacy  of  his  own  instructions. 
When  he  desires  to  gain  the  belief  of  others,  he 
should  show  that  he  believes  himself;  and  when 
he  teaches  the  fitness  of  virtue  by  his  reasonings, 
h"e  should,  by  his  example,  prove  its  possibility. 
Thus  much  at  least  maybe  required  of  him,  that 
he  shall'  not  act  worse  than  others,  because  he 
writes  better ;  nor  imagine  that,  by  the  merit  of 
his  genius,  he  may  claim  indulgence,  beyond 
mortals  of  the  lower  classes,  and  be  excused  for 
want  of  prudence,  or  neglect  of  virtue. 

Bacon,  in  his  history  of  the  winds,  after  having 
offered  something  to  the  imagination  as  desirable, 
often  proposes  lower  advantages  in  its  place  to 
the  reason  as  attainable.  The  same  method 
may  be  sometime  pursued  in  moral  endeavours, 
which  this  philosopher  has  observed  in  natural 
inquiries  ;  having  first  set  positive  and  absolute 


excellence  before  us,  we  may  be  pardoned  though 
we  sink  down  to  humbler  virtue,  trying,  however 
to  keep  our  point  always  in  view,  and  struggling 
not  to  lose  ground,  though  we  cannot  gain  it. 

It  is  recorded  of  Sir  Matthew  Hale,  that  he, 
for  a  long  time,  concealed  the  consecration  of 
himself  to  the  stricter  duties  of  religion,  lest,  by 
some  flagitious  and  shameful  actions,  he  should 
bring  piety  into  disgrace.  For  the  same  reason 
it  may  be  prudent  for  a  writer,  who  apprehends 
that  he  shall  not  enforce  his  own  maxims  by  his 
domestic  character,  to  conceal  his  name  that  he 
may  not  injure  them. 

There  are,  indeed,  a  great  number  whose  curi- 
osity to  gain  a  more  familiar  knowledge  of  suc- 
cessful writers,  is  not  so  much  prompted  by  an 
opinion  of  their  power  to  improve  as  to  delight, 
and  who  expect  from  them  not  arguments  against 
vice,  or  dissertations  on  temperance  or  justice, 
but  flights  of  wit,  and  sallies  of  pleasantry,  or,  a' 
least,  acute  remarks,  nice  distinctions,  justness 
of  sentiment,  and  elegance  of  diction. 

This  expectation  is,  indeed,  specious  and  pro- 
bable, and  yet,  such  is  the  fate  of  all  human 
hopes,  that  it  is  very  often  frustrated,  and  those 
who  raise  admiration  by  their  books,  disgust  by 
their  company.  A  man  of  letters,  for  the  most 
part  spends,  in  the  privacies  of  study,  that  season 
of  life  in  which  the  manners  are  to  be  softened 
into  ease,  and  polished  into  elegance  ;  and,  when 
he  has  gained  knowledge  enough  to  be  respected, 
has  neglected  the  minuter  acts  by  which  he  might 
have  pleased.  When  he  enters  life,  if  his  tem- 

Eerbe  soft  and  timorous,  he  is  diffident  and  bash- 
il,  from  the  knowledge  of  his  defects:  or  if  he 
was  born  with  spirit  and  resolution,  he  is  fero- 
cious and  arrogant,  from  the  consciousness  of  his 
merit ;  he  is  either  dissipated  by  the  awe  of  com- 
pany, and  unable  to  .recollect  his  reading,  and 
arrange  his  arguments  ;  or  he  is  hot  and  dogma- 
tical, quick  in  opposition,  and  tenacious  in  de- 
fence, disabled  by  his  own  violence,  and  confused 
by  his  haste  to  triumph. 

The  graces  of  writing  and  conversation  are  of 
different  kinds ;  and  though  he  who  excels  in 
one  might  have  been,  with  opportunities  and  ap- 
plication, equally  successful  in  the  other,  yet  as 
many  please,  by  extemporary  talk,  though  utterly 
unacquainted  with  the  more  accurate  method, 
and  more  laboured  beauties,  which  composition 
requires ;  so  it  is  very  possible  that  men,  w  holly 
accustomed  to  works  of  study,  may  be  without 
that  readiness  of  conception,  and  affluence  of 
language,  always  necessary  to  colloquial  enter- 
tainment. They  may  want  address  to  watch 
the  hints  which  conversation  offers  for  the  display 
of  their  particular  attainments,  or  they  may  be  so 
much  unfurnished  with  matter  on  common  sub- 
jects, that  discourse  not  professedly  literary  glides 
over  them  as  heterogeneous  bodies,  without 
admitting  their  conceptions  to  mix  in  the  circu- 
lation. 

A  transition  from  an  author's  book  to  his  con- 
versation, is  too  often  like  an  entrance  into  a 
large  city,  after  a  distant  prospect.  Remotely, 
we  see  nothing  but  spires  of  temples  and  turrets 
of  palaces,  and  imagine  it  the  residence  of  splen- 
dour, grandeur  and  magnificence ;  but,  when  we 
have  passed  the  gates,  we  find  it  perplexed  with 
narrow  passages,  disgraced  with  despicable  cot- 
tages, embarrassed  with  obstructions,  and  cloud- 
with  smoke. 


No.  15.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

No.  15.]       TUESDAY,  MAY  3,  1751. 


Et  quando  uberior  vitiorum  copia .-  Qumitlo 
Major  avaritite patuit  sinus?  Alca  quando 
Has  animus  }  JUV. 

What  age  so  large  a  crop  of  vices  bore  ? 

Or  when  was  avarice  extended  more  ? 

When  were  the  dice  with  more  profusion  thrown  ? 

DRYDEN. 

THERE  is  no  grievance,  public  or  private,  of 
which,  since  I  took  upon  me  the  office  of  a  pe- 
riodical monitor,  I  have  received  so  many  or  so 
earnest  complaints,  as  of  the  predominance  of 
play ;  of  a  fatal  passion  for  cards  and  dice,  which 
seems  to  have  overturned,  not  only  the  ambition 
of  excellence,  but  the  desire  of  pleasure;  to  have 
extinguished  the  flames  of  the  lover,  as  well  as  of 
the  patriot ;  and  threatens,  in  its  further  progress, 
to  destroy  all  distinctions,  both  of  rank  and  sex, 
to  crush  all  emulation  but  that  of  fraud,  to  cor- 
rupt all  those  classes  of  our  people  whose  an- 
cestors have,  by  their  virtue,  their  industry,  or 
their  parsimony,  given  them  the  power  of  living 
in  extravagance,  idleness,  and  vice,  and  to  leave 
them  without  knowledge,  but  of  the  modish 
games,  and  without  wishes,  but  for  lucky  hands. 

I  have  found,  by  long  experience,  that  there 
are  few  enterprises  so  hopeless  as  contests  with 
the  fashion,  in  which  the  opponents  are  not  only 
made  confident  by  their  numbers,  and  strong  by 
their  union,  but  are  hardened  by  contempt  of 
their  antagonist,  whom  they  always  look  upon 
as  a  wretch  of  low  notions,  contracted  views, 
mean  conversation,  and  narrow  fortune,  who  en- 
vies the  elevations  which  he  cannot  reach,  who 
would  gladly  embitter  the  happiness  which  his 
inelegance  or  indigence  deny  him  to  partake,  and 
who  has  no  other  end  in  his  advice  than  to  re- 
venge his  own  mortification  by  hindering  those 
whom  their  birth  and  taste  have  set  above  him, 
from  the  enjoyment  of  their  superiority,  and 
bringing  them  down  to  a  level  with  himself. 

Though  I  have  never  found  myself  much  af- 
fected by  this  formidable  censure,  which  I  have 
incurred  often  enough  to  be  acquainted  with  its 
full  force,  yet  I  shall,  in  some  measure,  obviate  it 
on  this  occasion,  by  offering  very  little  in  my 
own  name,  either  of  argument  or  entreaty,  since 
those  who  suffer  by  this  general  infatuation  may 
be  supposed  best  able  to  relate  its  effects. 

SIR, 

There  seems  to  be  so  little  knowledge  left  in 
the  world,  and  so  little  of  that  reflection  prac- 
tised, by  which  knowledge  is  to  be  gained,  that  I 
am  in  doubt,  whether  I  shall  be  understood,  when 
I  complain  of  want  of  opportunity  for  thinking; 
or  whether  a  condemnation,  which  at  present 
seems  irreversible,  to  perpetual  ignorance,  will 
raise  any  compassion,  either  in  you  or  your  read- 
ers :  yet  I  will  venture  to  lay  my  state  before 
you,  because  I  believe  it  is  natural  to  most  minds, 
to  take  some  pleasure  in  complaining  of  evils,  of 
which  they  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  a  man  of  great  fortune, 
whose  diffidence  of  mankind,  and  perhaps  the 
pleasure  of  continual  accumulation,  incline  him 
to  reside  upon  his  own  estate,  and  to  educate  his 
children  in  his  own  house,  where  I  was  bred,  if 
not  with  the  most  brilliant  examples  of  virtue 
before  my  eyes,  at  least  remote  enough  from  any 
incitements  to  vice  ;  and,  wanting  neither  leisure 


35 

nor  books,  nor  the  acquaintance  of  some  persons 
of  learning  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  endeavoured 
to  acquire  such  knowledge  as  might  most  recom- 
mend me  to  esteem,  and  thought  myself  able  to 
support  a  conversation  upon  most  of  the  sub- 
jects, which  my  sex  and  condition  made  it  propel 
for  me  to  understand. 

I  had,  besides  my  knowledge,  as  my  mamma 
and  my  maid  told  me,  a  very  fine  face  Did  ele- 
gant shape,  and  with  all  these  advantages  had 
been  seventeen  months  the  reigning  toast  for 
twelve  miles  round,  and  nevercame  to  the  month- 
ly assembly,  but  I  heard  the  old  ladies  that  sat 
by  wishing  that  it  might  end  well,  and  their 
daughters  criticising  my  air,  my  features,  or  my 
dress. 

You  know,  Mr.  Rambler,  that  ambition  is  na 
tural  to  youth,  and  curiosity  to  understanding, 
and  therefore  will  hear,  without  wonder,  that  I 
was  desirous  to  extend  my  victories  over  those 
who  might  give  more  honour  to  the  conqueror  ; 
and  that  I  found  in  a  country  life  a  continual  re- 
petition of  the  same  pleasures,  which  was  not 
sufficient  to  fill  up  the  mind  for  the  present,  or 
raise  any  expectations  of  the  future  ;  and  I  will 
confess  to  you,  that  I  was  impatient  for  a  sight 
of  the  town,  and  filled  my  thoughts  with  the  dis- 
coveries which  I  should  make,  the  triumphs  that 
I  should  obtain,  and  the  praises  that  I  should 
receive. 

At  last  the  time  came.  My  aunt,  whose  hus- 
band has  a  seat  in  Parliament,  and  a  place  at 
court,  buried  her  only  child,  and  sent  for  me  to 
supply  the  loss.  The  hope  that  I  should  so  far 
insinuate  myself  into  their  favour,  as  to  obtain  a 
considerable  augmentation  to  my  fortune,  pro- 
cured me  every  convenience  for  my  departure, 
with  great  expedition  ;  and  I  could  not,  amidst 
all  my  transports,  forbear  some  indignation  to 
see  with  what  readiness  the  natural  guardians  of 
my  virtue  sold  me  to  a  state,  which  they  thought 
more  hazardous  than  it  really  was,  as  soon  as  a 
new  accession  of  fortune  glittered  in  their  eyes. 

Three  days  I  was  upon  the  road,  and  on  the 
fourth  morning  my  heart  danced  at  the  sight  of 
London.  I  was  set  down  at  my  aunt's  and  en- 
tered upon  the  scene  of  action.  I  expected  now, 
from  the  age  and  experience  of  my  aunt,  some 
prudential  lessons ;  but,  after  the  first  civilities 
and  first  tears  were  over,  was  told  what  pity  it 
was  to  have  kept  so  fine  a  girl  so  long  in  the 
country;  for  the  people  who  did  not  begin  young, 
seldom  dealt  their  cards  handsomely,  or  played 
them  tolerably. 

Young  persons  are  commonly  inclined  to 
slight  the  remarks  and  counsels  of  their  elders. 
I  smiled,  perhaps,  with  too  much  contempt,  and 
was  upon  the  point  of  telling  her  that  my  time 
had  not  been  passed  in  such  trivial  attainments. 
But  I  soon  found  that  things  are  to  be  estimated, 
not  by  the  importance  of  their  effects,  but  the 
frequency  of  their  use. 

A  few  days  after,  my  aunt  gave  me  notice,  that 
some  company,  which  she  had  been  six  weeks 
in  collecting,  was  to  meet  that  evening,  and  she 
expected  a  finer  assembly  than  had  been  seen  all 
the  winter.  She  expressed  this  in  the  jargon  of 
a  gamester,  and,  when  I  asked  an  explication  of 
her  terms  of  art,  wondered  where  I  had  lived. 
I  had  already  found  my  aunt  so  incapable  of  any 
rational  conclusion,  and  so  ignorant  of  every 
thing,  whether  great  or  little,  that  I  had  lost  all 


36 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  16. 


regard  to  her  opinion,  and  dressed  myself  with 
great  expectations  of  an  opportunity  to  display 
my  charms  among  rivals,  whose  competition 
would  not  dishono  ir  me.  The  company  came 
in,  and  after  the  cursory  compliments  of  saluta- 
tion, alike  easy  to  the  lowest  and  the  highest  un- 
derstanding, what  was  the  result?  The  cards 
were  broken  open,  the  parties  were  formed,  the 
whole  night  passed  in  a  game,  upon  which  the 

{oung  and  ola  were  equally  employed ;  nor  was 
able  to  attract  an  eye,  or  gain  an  ear,  but  be- 
ing compelled  to  play  without  skill  I  perpetually 
embarrassed  my  partner,  and  soon  perceived 
the  contempt  of  the  whole  table  gathering  upon 
me. 

I  cannot  but  suspect,  Sir,  that  this  odious 
fashion  is  produced  by  a  conspiracy  of  the  old, 
the  ugly,  and  the  ignorant,  against  the  young  and 
beautiful,  the  witty  and  the  gay,  as  a  contrivance 
to  level  all  distinctions  of  nature  and  of  art,  to 
confound  the  world  in  a  chaos  of  folly,  and  to 
take  from  those  who  could  outshine  them  all  the 
advantages  of  mind  and  body,  to  withhold  youth 
from  its  natural  pleasures,  deprive  wit  of  its  influ- 
ence, and  beauty  of  its  charms,  to  fix  those  hearts 
upon  monev,  to  which  love  has  hitherto  been  en- 
titled, to  sink  life  into  a  tedious  uniformity,  and 
to  allow  it  no  other  hopes  or  fears,  but  those  of 
robbing,  and  being  robbed. 

Be  pleased,  Sir,  to  inform  those  of  my  sex  who 
have  minds  capable  of  nobler  sentiments,  that, 
if  they  will  unite  in  vindication  of  their  pleasures 
and  their  prerogatives,  they  may  fix  a  time,  at 
which  cards  shall  cease  to  be  in  fashion,  or  be 
left  only  to  those  who  have  neither  beauty  to  be 
loved,  nor  spirit  to  be  feared  ;  neither  knowledge 
to  teach,  nor  modesty  to  learn ;  and  who,  having 
passed  their  youth  in  vice,  are  justly  condemned 
to  spend  their  age  in  folly. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c.  CLEORA. 

SIR, 

VEXATION  will  burst  my  heart,  if  I  do  not  give 
it  vent.  As  you  publish  a  paper,  I  insist  upon  it 
that  you  insert  this  in  your  next,  as  ever  you  hope 
for  the  kindness  and  encouragement  of  any  wo- 
man of  taste,  spirit,  and  virtue.  I  would  have  it 
published  to  the  world,  how  deserving  wives  are 
rfsed  by  imperious  coxcombs,  that  henceforth  no 
woman  may  marry  who  has  not  the  patience  of 
Grizzel.  Nay,  if  even  Grizzel  had  been  married 
to  a  gamester,  her  temper  would  never  have  held 
out  A  wretch  that  loses  his  good  humour  and 
humanity  along  with  his  money,  and  will  not  aK 
low  enough  from  his  own  extravagances  to  support 
a  woman  of  fashion  in  the  necessary  amusements 
of  life  !  Why  does  not  he  employ  his  wise  head 
to  make  a  figure  in  parliament,  raise  an  estate, 
and  get  a  title  ?  That  would  be  fitter  for  the 
master  of  a  family,  than  rattling  a  noisy  dice-box; 
and  then  he  might  indulge  his  wife  in  a  few 
slight  expenses  and  elegant  diversions. 

What  if  I  was  unfortunate  at  brag?  should  he 
not  have  stayed  to  see  how  luck  would  turn  ano- 
ther time  ?  Instead  of  that,  what  does  he  do,  but 
picks  a  quarrel,  upbraids  me  with  loss  of  beauty, 
abuses  my  acquaintance,  ridicules  my  play,  and 
insults  my  understanding;  says  forsooth,  that 
women  have  not  heads  enough  to  play  with  any 
thing  but  dolls,  and  that  they  should  be  employed 
in  things  proportionable  to  their  understanding, 
keep  at  home,  and  mind  family  affairs. 


I  do  stay  at  home,  Sir,  and  all  the  world  knows 
I  am  at  home  every  Sunday.  I  have  had  six 
routes  this  winter,  and  sent  out  ten  packs  of 
cards  in  invitations  to  private  parties.  As  for 
management,  I  am  sure  he  cannot  call  me  ex- 
travagant, or  say  I  do  not  mind  my  family.  The 
children  are  out  at  nurse  in  villages  as  cheap  as 
any  two  little  brats  can  be  kept,  nor  have  I  ever 
seen  them  since  ;  so  he  has  no  trouble  about  them. 
The  servants  live  at  board  wages.  My  own  din- 
ners come  from  the  Thatched  House  ;  and  I  have 
never  paid  a  penny  for  any  thing  I  have  bought 
since  I  wtes  married.  As  for  play,  I  do  think  I 
may,  indeed,  indulge  in  that,  now  I  am  my  own 
mistress.  Papa  made  me  drudge  at  whist  till  I 
was  tired  of  it ;  and,  far  from  wanting  a  head, 
Mr.  Hoyle,  when  he  had  not  given  me  above 
forty  lessons,  said  I  was  one  of  his  best  scholars. 
I  thought  then  with  myself,  that,  if  once  I  was  at 
liberty,  I  would  leave  play,  and  take  to  reading 
romances,  things  so  forbidden  at  our  house,  and 
so  railed  at,  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  fancy 
them  very  charming.  Most  fortunately,  to  save 
me  from  absolute  undutifulness,  just  as  I  was 
married,  came  dear  brag  into  fashion,  and  ever 
since  it  has  been  the  joy  of  my  life ;  so  easy,  so 
cheerful  and  careless,  so  void  of  thought,  and  so 
genteel !  Who  can  help  loving  it  ?  Yet  the  per- 
fidious thing  has  used  me  very  ill  of  late,  and  to- 
morrow I  should  have  changed  it  for  faro.  But, 
oh!  this  detestable  to-morrow,  a  thing  always  ex- 
pected, and  never  found. Within  these  few 

hours  must  I  be  dragged  into  the  country.  The 
wretch,  Sir,  left  me  in  a  fit,  which  his  throaten- 
ings  had  occasioned,  and  unmercifully  ordered  a 
post-chaise.  Stay  I  cannot,  for  money  I  have 
none,  and  credit  I  cannot  get. — But  I  will  make 
the  monkey  play  with  me  at  picquet  upon  the 
road  for  all  I  want.  I  am  almost  sure  to  beat 
him,  and  his  debts  of  honour  I  know  he  will  pay. 
Then  who  can  tell  but  I  may  still  come  back 
and  conquer  Lady  Packer;  Sir,  you  need  not 
print  this  last  scheme;  and,  upon  second  thoughts, 

you  may. Oh,  distraction !  the  post  chaise  is 

at  the  door,  Sir,  publish  what  you  will,  only  let 
it  be  printed  without  a  name. 


No.  16.]     SATURDAY,  MAT  12,  1750. 


-Torrcns  dicendi  copia  multis, 


Et  sua  mortifera  estfacundia 

Some  who  the  depths  of  eloquence  have  found, 
In  that  unnavigable  stream  were  drown'd. 


SIR, 

I  AM  the  modest  young  man  whom  you  favour- 
ed with  your  advice  in  a  late  paper ;  and  as  I  am 
very  far  from  suspecting  that  you  foresaw  the 
numberless  inconveniences  which  I  have,  by 
following  it,  brought  upon  myself,  I  will  lay  my 
condition  open  before  you,  for  you  seem  bound 
to  extricate  me  from  the  perplexities  in  which 
your  counsel,  however  innocent  in  the  intention, 
has  contributed  to  involve  me. 

Faeilis  deacincus  Averni, 

Nodes  atque  ditspatet  atrijanua  Ditis.  vino 

The  gates  of  hell  are  open  night  and  day  j 
Smooth  the  descent  and  easy  is  the  way. 


No.  16.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


The  means  of  doing  hurt  to  ourselves  are  al- 
ways at  hand.  I  immediately  sent  to  a  printer, 
and  contracted  with  him  for  an  impression  of 
several  thousands  of  my  pamphlet.  While  it 
was  at  the  press,  I  was  seldom  absent  from  the 
printing-house,  and  continually  urged  the  work- 
men, to"  haste,  by  solicitations,  promises,  and 
rewards.  From  the  day  all  other  pleasures  were 
excluded,  by  the  delightful  employment  of  cor- 
recting the  sheets ;  and  from  the  night,  sleep 
was  generally  banished,  by  anticipations  of  the 
happiness  which  every  hour  was  bringing  nearer. 

At  last  the  time  of  publication  approached, 
and  my  heart  beat  with  the  raptures  of  an  author. 
I  was  above  all  little  precautions,  and,  in  defiance 
of  envy  or  of  criticism,  set  my  name  upon  the 
title,  without  sufficiently  considering,  that  what 
has  once  passed  the  press  is  irrevocable,  and 
that  though  the  printing-house  may  properly  be 
compared  to  the  infernal  regions,  for  the  facility 
of  its  entrance,  and  the  difficulty  with  which 
authors  return  from  it ;  yet  there  is  this  difference, 
that  a  great  genius  can  never  return  to  his  for- 
mer state,  by  a  happy  draught  of  the  waters  of 
oblivion. 

I  am  now,  Mr.  Rambler,  known  to  be  an  au- 
thor, and  am  condemned,  irreversibly  condemned, 
to  all  the  miseries  of  high  reputation.  The  first 
morning  after  publication  my  friends  assembled 
about  me ;  1  presented  each,  as  is  usual,  with  a 
copy  of  my  book.  They  looked  into  the  first 
pages,  but  were  hindered,  by  their  admiration, 
from  reading  further.  The  first  pages  are,  in- 
deed, very  elaborate.  Some  passages  they  par- 
ticularly dwelt  upon,  as  more  eminently  beautiful 
than  the  rest;  and  some  delicate  strokes,  and 
secret  elegancies,  I  pointed  out  to  them,  which 
had  escaped  their  observation.  I  then  begged 
of  them  to  forbear  their  compliments,  arid  invit- 
ed them,  I  could  do  no  less,  to  dine  with  me  at 
a  tavern.  After  dinner,  the  book  was  resumed ; 
but  their  praises  very  often  so  much  overpower- 
ed my  modesty,  that  I  was  forced  to  put  about 
the  glass,  and  had  often  no  means  of  repressing 
the  clamours  of  their  admiration,  but  by  thunder- 
ing to  the  drawer  for  another  bottle. 

.Next  morning  another  set  of  my  acquaintance 
congratulated  me  upon  my  performance,  with 
such  importunity  of  praise,  that  I  was  again  forc- 
ed to  obviate  their  civilities  by  a  treat.  On  the 
third  day,  I  had  yet  a  greater  number  of  applaud- 
ers  to  put  to  silence  in  the  same  manner;  and, 
on  the  fourth,  those  whom  I  had  entertained  the 
first  day  came  again,  having,  in  the  perusal  of  the 
remaining  part  of  the  book,  discovered  so  many 
forcible  sentences  and  masterly  touches,  that  it 
was  impossible  for  me  to  bear  the  repetition  of 
their  commendations.  I  therefore  persuaded 
them  once  more  to  adjourn  to  the  tavern,  and 
choose  some  other  subject,  on  which  I  might 
share  in  their  conversation.  But  it  was  not  in 
their  power  to  withhold  their  attention  from  my 
performance,  which  had  so  entirely  taken-  pos- 
session of  their  minds,  that  no  entreaties  of  mine 
could  change  their  topic,  and  I  was  obliged  to 
stifle,  with  claret,  that  praise,  which  neither  my 
modesty  could  hinder,  nor  my  uneasiness  re- 
press. 

The  whole  week  was  thus  spent  in  a  kind  of 
literary  revel,  and  I  have  now  found  that  nothing 
is  so  expensive  as  great  abilities,  unless  there  is 
joined  with  them  an  insatiable  eagerness  of  praise ; 


for  to  escape  from  the  pain  of  hearing  myself 
exalted  above  the  greatest  names,  dead  and  liv- 
ing, of  the  learned  world,  it  has  already  cost  me 
two  hogsheads  of  port,  fifteen  gallons  of  arrack, 
ten  dozen  of  claret,  and  five-and-forty  bottles  of 
champaign. 

I  was  resolved  to  stay  at  home  no  longer,  and 
therefore  rose  early  and  went  to  the  coffee- 
house ;  but  found  that  I  had  now  made  myself 
too  eminent  for  happiness,  and  that  I  was  no 
longer  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  mixing,  upon 
equal  terms,  with  the  rest  of  the  world.  As  soon 
as  I  enter  the  room,  I  see  part  of  the  company 
raging  with  envy,  which  they  endeavour  to  con- 
ceal, sometimes  withjthe  appearance  of  laughter, 
and  sometimes  with  that  of  contempt ;  but  the 
disguise  is  such,  that  I  can  discover  the  secret 
rancour  of  their  hearts,  and  as  envy  is  deserv- 
edly its  own  punishment,  I  frequently  indulge 
myself  in  tormenting  them  with  my  presence. 

But  though  there  may  be  some  slight  satisfac- 
tion received  from  the  mortification  of  my  ene- 
mies, yet  my  benevolence  will  not  suffer  me  to 
take  any  pleasure  in  the  terrors  of  my  friends,  1 
have  been  cautious,  since  the  appearance  of  my 
work,  not  to  give  myself  more  premeditated  airs 
of  superiority,  than  the  most  rigid  humility  might 
allow.  It  is,  indeed,  not  impossible  that  I  may 
sometimes  have  laid  down  my  opinion,  in  a 
manner  that  showed  a  consciousness  of  my  ability 
to  maintain  it,  or  interrupted  the  conversation, 
when  I  saw  its  tendency,  without  suffering  the 
speaker  to  waste  his  time  in  explaining  lu's  senti- 
ments ;  and,  indeed,  I  did  indulge  myself  for  two 
days  in  a  custom  of  drumming  with  my  fingers, 
when  the  company  began  to  lose  themselves  in 
absurdities,  or  to  encroach  upon  subjects  which 
I  knew  them  unqualified  to  discuss.  But  I  ge- 
nerally acted  with  great  appearance  of  respect, 
even  to  those  whose  stupidity  I  pitied  in  my 
heart.  Yet,  notwithstanding  this  exemplary  mo- 
deration, so  universal  is  the  dread  of  uncommon 
powers,  and  such  the  unwillingness  of  mankind 
to  be  made  wiser,  that  I  have  now  for  some  days 
found  myself  shunned  by  all  my  acquaintance. 
If  I  knock  at  a  door,  nobody  is  at  home ;  if  I 
enter  a  coffee-house,  I  have  the  box  to  myself. 
I  live  in  the  town  like  a  lion  in  his  desert,  or  an 
eagle  on  his  rock,  too  great  for  friendship  or 
society,  and  condemned  to  solitude  by  unhappy 
elevation  and  dreaded  ascendency. 

Nor  is  my  character  only  formidable  to  others, 
but  burdensome  to  myself.  I  naturally  love  to 
talk  without  much  thinking,  to  scatter  my  mer- 
riment at  random,  and  to  relax  my  thoughts 
with  ludicrous  remarks  and  fanciful  images  ;  but 
such  is  now  the  importance  of  my  opinion,  that 
I  am  afraid  to  offer  it,  lest,  by  being  established 
too  hastily  into  a  maxim,  it  should  be  the  occa- 
sion of  error  to  half  the  nation ;  and  such  is  the 
expectation  with  which  I  am  attended,  when  I 
am  going  to  speak,  that  I  frequently  pause  to  re- 
flect, whether  what  I  am  about  to  utter  is  worthy 
of  myself. 

This,  Sir,  is  sufficiently  miserable  ;  but  there 
are  still  greater  calamities  behind.  You  must 
have  read  in  Pope  and  Swift  how  men  of  parts 
have  had  their  closets  rifled,  and  their  cabinets 
broken  open,  at  the  instigation  of  piratical  book- 
sellers, for  the  profit  of  their  works ;  and  it  is 
apparent  that  there  are  many  prints  now  sold  in 
the  shops,  of  men  whom  you  cannot  suspect  of 


38 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  17. 


sitting  for  that  purpose,  and  whose  likenesses 
must  have  been  certainly  stolen  when  their  names 
made  their  faces  vendible.  These  considerations 
at  first  put  me  on  my  guard  and  I  have,  indeed, 
found  sufficient  reason  for  my  caution,  for  I  have 
discovered  many  people  examining  my  counte- 
nance, with  a  curiosity  thatshowed  their  intention 
to  draw  it ;  I  immediately  left  the  house,  but  find 
the  same  behaviour  in  another. 

Others  may  be  persecuted,  but  I  am  haunted  ; 
I  have  good  reason  to  believe  that  eleven  paint- 
ers are  now  dogging  me,  for  they  know  that  he 
who  can  get  my  face  first  will  make  his  fortune. 
I  often  change  my  wig,  and  wear  my  hat  over 
my  eyes,  by  which  T  hope  somewhat  to  confound 
them ;  for  you  know  it  is  not  fair  to  sell  my  face, 
without  admitting  me  to  share  the  profit 

I  am,  however,  not  so  much  in  pain  for  my 
face  as  for  my  papers,  which  I  dare  neither  carry 
with  me  nor  leave  behind.  I  have  indeed,  taken 
some  measures  for  their  preservation,  having  put 
them  in  an  iron  chest,  and  fixed  a  padlock  upon 
my  closet  I  change  my  lodgings  five  times  a 
week,  and  always  remove  at  the  dead  of  night 

Thus  I  live,  in  consequence  of  having  given 
too  great  proofs  of  a  predominant  genius,  in  the 
solitude  of  a  hermit,  with  the  anxiety  of  a  miser, 
and  the  caution  of  an  outlaw ;  afraid  to  show  my 
face  lest  it  should  be  copied ;  afraid  to  speak,  lest 
I  should  injure  my  character,  and  to  write,  lest  my 
correspondents  should  publish  my  letters;  al- 
ways uneasy  lest  my  servants  should  steal  my 
papers  for  the  sake  of  money,  or  my  friends  for 
that  of  the  public.  This  it  is  to  soar  above  the 
rest  of  mankind;  and  this  representation  I  lay 
before  you,  that  I  may  be  informed  how  to  divest 
myself  of  the  laurels  which  are  so  cumbersome 
to" the  wearer,  and  descend  to  the  enjoyment  of 
that  quiet,  from  which  I  find  a  writer  of  the  first 
class  so  fatally  debarred. 

MISELLUS. 


No.  17.]     TUESDAY,  MAT  15,  1750. 

Me  non  oracula  cerium, 

Sedmors  certafacit.  LUCAN. 

Let  those  weak  minds,  who  live  in  doubt  and  fear, 
To  juggling  priests  for  oracles  repair ; 
One  certain  hour  of  death  to  each  decreed, 
My  fix'd,  my  certain  soul,  from  doubt  has  freed. 

HOWE. 

IT  is  recorded  of  some  eastern  monarch,  that  he 
kept  an  officer  in  his  house,  whose  employment 
it  was  to  remind  him  of  his  mortality,  by  calling 
out  every  morning,  at  a  stated  hour,  Remember, 
prince,  that  thou  shall  die !  And  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  frailness  and  uncertainty  of  our  pre- 
sent state  appeared  of  so  much  importance  to 
Solon  of  Athens,  that  he  left  this  precept  to 
future  ages :  Keep  thine  eye  fixed  upon  the  end  of 
life. 

A.  frequent  and  attentive  prospect  of  that  mo- 
ment, which  must  put  a  period  to  all  our  schemes, 
and  deprive  us  of  all  our  acquisitions,  is  indeec 
of  the  utmost  efficacy  to  the  just  and  rational 
regulation  of  our  lives;  nor  would  ever  any 
thing  wicked,  or  often  anything  absurd,  be  under- 
taken or  prosecuted  by  him  who  should  begin 
every  day  with  a  serious  reflection  that  he  is  born 
to  die. 


The  disturbers  of  our  happiness,  in  this  world, 
are  our  desires,  our  griefs,  and  our  fears  ;  and  to 
ill  these,  the  consideration  of  mortality  is  a  cer- 
ain  and  adequate  remedy.  Think,  says  Epic- 
.etus,  frequently  on  poverty,  banishment,  and 
death,  and  thou  wilt  then  never  indulge  violent  de- 
sires or  give  up  thy  heart  to  mean  sentiments,  ol6ev 
ovdeiroTC  raTravdi/ £yS«/»}<n7,  oiirt  ayav  tTuSvufjcrets  rivrfj. 

That  the  maxim  of  Epictetus  is  founded  on 
ust  observation  will  easily  be  granted,  when  we 
•effect,  how  that  vehemence  of  eagerness  after 
the  common  objects  of  pursuit  is  kindled  in  our 
minds.  We  represent  to  ourselves  the  pleasures 
of  some  future  possession,  and  suffer  our  thoughts 
to  dwell  attentively  upon  it,  till  it  has  wholly  en- 
Crossed  the  imagination,  and  permits  us  not  to 
conceive  any  happiness  but  its  attainment,  or  any 
misery  but  its  loss ;  every  other  satisfaction  which 
;he  bounty  of  Providence  has  scattered  over  life 
is  neglected  as  inconsiderable,  in  comparison 
of  the  great  object  which  we  have  placed  before 
us,  and  is  thrown  from  us  as  incumbering  our 
activity,  or  trampled  under  foot  as  standing  in 
our  way. 

Every  man  has  experienced  how  much  of  this 
ardour  has  been  remitted,  when  a  sharp  or  tedious 
sickness  has  set  death  before  his  eyes.  The  ex- 
tensive influence  of  greatness,  the  glitter  of  wealth, 
the  praises  of  admirers,  and  the  attendance  of 
supplicants,  have  appeared  vain  and  empty  things, 
when  the  last  hour  seemed  to  be  approaching  ; 
and  the  same  appearance  they  would  always 
have,  if  the  same  thought  was  always  predomi- 
nant. We  should  then  find  the  absurdity  of 
stretching  out  our  arms  incessantly  to  grasp  that 
which  we  cannot  keep,  and  wearing  out  our  lives 
in  endeavours  to  add  new  turrets  to  the  fabric  of 
ambition,  when  the  foundation  itself  is  shaking, 
and  the  ground  on  which  it  stands  is  mouldering 
away. 

All  envy  is  proportionate  to  desire  ;  we  are 
uneasy  at  the  attainments  of  another,  according 
as  we  think  our  own  happiness  would  be  ad- 
vanced by  the  addition  of  that  which  he  with- 
holds from  us ;  and  therefore  whatever  depresses 
immoderate  wishes,  will,  at  the  same  time,  set 
the  heart  free  from  the  corrosion  of  envy,  and  ex- 
empt us  from  that  vice  which  is,  above  most 
others,  tormenting  to  ourselves,  hateful  to  the 
world,  and  productive  of  mean  artifices  and  sor- 
did projects.  He  that  considers  how  soon  he 
must  close  his  life,  will  find  nothing  of  so  much 
importance  as  to  close  it  well ;  and  will,  there- 
fore, look  with  indifference  upon  whatever  is  use- 
less to  that  purpose.  Whoever  reflects  frequent- 
ly upon  the  uncertainty  of  his  own  duration,  will 
find  out,  that  the  state  of  others  is  not  more  per- 
manent, and  that  what  can  confer  nothing  on 
himself  very  desirable,  cannot  so  much  improve 
the  condition  of  a  rival,  as  to  make  him  much 
superior  to  those  from  whom  he  has  carried  the 
prize,  a  prize  too  mean  to  deserve  a  very  obsti- 
nate opposition. 

Even  grief,  that  passion  to  which  the  virtuous 
and  tender  mind  is  particularly  subject,  will  be 
obviated  or  alleviated  by  the  same  thoughts.  It 
will  be  obviated,  if  all  the  blessings  of  our  condi- 
tion are  enjoyed  with  a  constant  sense  of  this  un- 
certain tenure.  If  we  remember,  that  whatever 
we  possess  is  to  be  in  our  hands  but  a  very  little 
time,  and  that  the  little,  which  our  most  lively 
hopes  can  promise  us,  may  be  made  less  by  ten 


No.  18.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


thousand  accidents ;  we  shall  not  much  repine 
at  a  loss,  of  which  we  cannot  estimate  the  value, 
but  of  which,  though  we  are  not  able  to  tell  the 
least  amount,  we  know,  with  sufficient  certainty, 
the  greatest,  and  are  convinced  that  the  greatest 
is  not  much  to  be  regretted. 

But,  if  any  passion  has  so  much  usurped  our 
understanding,  as  not  to  suffer  us  to  enjoy  advan- 
tages with  the  moderation  prescribed  by  reason, 
it  is  not  too  late  to  apply  this  remedy,  when  we 
find  ourselves  sinking  under  sorrow,  and  inclined 
to  pine  for  that  which  is  irrecoverably  vanished. 
We  may  then  usefully  revolve  the  uncertainty  of 
our  OWP  condition,  and  the  folly  of  lamenting 
that  from  which,  if  it  had  stayed  a  little  longer, 
we  should  ourselves  have  been  taken  away. 

With  regard  to  the  sharpest  and  most  melting 
sorrow,  that  which  arises  from  the  loss  of  those 
whom  we  have  loved  with  tenderness,  it  may  be 
observed,  that  friendship  between  mortals  can  be 
contracted  on  no  other  terms,  than  that  one  must 
some  time  mourn  for  the  other's  death :  and  this 
grief  will  always  yield  to  the  survivor  one  conso- 
lation proportionate  to  his  affliction  ;  for  the  pain, 
whatever  it  be,  that  he  himself  feels,  his  friend 
has  escaped. 

ISTor  is  fear,  the  most  overbearing  and  resist- 
less of  all  our  passions,  less  to  be  temperated  by 
this  universal  medicine  of  the  mind.  The  fre- 
quent contemplation  of  death,  as  it  shows  the 
vanity  of  all  human  good,  discovers  likewise  the 
lightness  of  all  terrestrial  evil,  which  certainly  can 
last  no  longer  than  the  subject  upon  which  it 
acts  ;  and,  according  to  the  old  observation,  must 
be  shorter,  as  it  is  more  violent.  The  most  cruel 
calamity  which  misfortune  can  produce,  must, 
by  the  necessity  of  nature,  be  quickly  at  an  end. 
The  soul  cannot  long  be  held  in  prison,  but  will  fly 
away,  and  leave  a  lifeless  body  to  human  malice. 

Ridetque  sui  ludibria  trunci. 

And  soaring  mocks  the  broken  frame  below. 

The  utmost  that  we  can  threaten  to  one  ano- 
ther is  that  death,  which,  indeed,  we  may  preci- 
pitate, but  cannot  retard,  and  from  which,  there- 
fore, it  cannot  become  a  wise  man  to  buy  a  re- 
prieve at  the  expense  of  virtue,  since  he  knows 
not  how  small  a  portion  of  time  he  can  purchase, 
but  knows,  that  whether  short  or  long,  it  will  be 
made  less  valuable  by  the  remembrance  of  the 
price  at  which  it  has  been  obtained.  He  is  sure 
that  he  destroys  his  happiness,  but  is  not  sure 
that  he  lengthens  his  life. 

The  known  shortness  of  life,  as  it  ought  to  mo- 
derate our  passions,  may  likewise,  with  equal 
propriety,  contract  our  designs.  There  is  not 
time  for  the  most  forcible  genius,  and  most  active 
industry,  to  extend  its  effects  beyond  a  certain 
sphere.  To  project  the  conquest  of  the  world, 
is  the  madness  of  mighty  princes ;  to  hope  for 
excellence  in  every  science,  has  been  the  folly  of 
literary  heroes  ;  and  both  have  found  at  last,  that 
they  have  panted  for  a  height  of  eminence  denied 
to  humanity,  and  have  lost  many  opportunities 
of  making  themselves  useful  and  happy,  by  a 
vain  ambition  of  obtaining  a  species  of  honour, 
which  the  eternal  laws  of  Providence  have  placed 
beyond  the  reach  of  man. 

The  miscarriages  of  the  great  designs  of  princes 
are  recorded  in  the  histories  of  the  world,  but  are 
of  little  use  to  the  bulk  of  mankind,  who  seem 


very  little  interested  in  admonitions  against  er- 
rors which  they  cannot  commit.  But  the  fate  of 
learned  ambition  is  a  proper  subject  for  every 
scholar  to  consider  ;  for  who  has  not  had  occa- 
sion to  regret  the  dissipation  of  great  abilities  in 
a  boundless  multiplicity  of  pursuits,  to  lament 
the  sudden  desertion  of  excellent  designs,  upon 
the  offer  of  some  other  subject  made  inviting  by 
its  novelty,  and  to  observe  the  inaccuracy  and 
deficiencies,  of  works  left  unfinished  by  too  great 
an  extension  of  the  plan? 

It  is  always  pleasing  to  observe,  how  much 
more  our  minds  can  conceive,  than  our  bodies 
can  perform  !  yet  it  is  our  duty,  while  we  con- 
tinue in  this  complicated  state,  to  regulate  one 
part  of  our  composition  by  some  regard  to  the 
other.  We  are  not  to  indulge  our  corporeal  ap- 
petites with  pleasures  that  impair  our  intellectual 
vigour,  nor  gratify  our  minds  with  schemes  which 
we  know  our  lives  must  fail  in  attempting  to  exe- 
cute. The  uncertainty  of  our  duration  ought  at 
once  to  set  bounds  to  our  designs,  and  add  in- 
citements to  our  industry ;  and  when  we  find 
ourselves  inclined  either  to  immensity  in  our 
schemes,  or  sluggishness  in  our  endeavours,  we 
may  either  check  or  animate  ourselves,  by  recol- 
lecting, with  the  father  of  physic,  that  art  is  long, 
and  life  is  short. 


No.  18.]     SATURDAY,  MAT  19,  1750 

Illic  matre  carentibiu, 

Privignis  mulier  temperat  innocent, 
Aec  dotata  re<;it  virum 

Conjux,  nee  nitidiijidit  aduJtero : 
Dos  est  magna  parcntium 

Virtus,  et  metucns  alterius  tori 
Certofccdere  castitas.  HOR. 

Not  there  the  guiltless  step-dame  knows 
The  baleful  draught  for  orphans  to  compose ; 

No  wife  high  portion'd  rules  her  spouse, 
Or  trusts  her  essencpd  lover's  faithless  vows : 

The  lovers  there  for  dowry  claim 
The  father's  virtue,  and  the  spotless  fame, 

Which  dares  not  break  the  nuptial  tie. 

FRANCIS. 

THERE  is  no  observation  more  frequently  made 
by  such  as  employ  themselves  in  surveying  the 
conduct  of  mankind,  than  that  marriage  though 
the  dictate  of  nature,  and  the  institution  of  Pro- 
vidence, is  yet  very  often  the  cause  of  misery, 
and  that  those  who  enter  into  that  state  can  sel- 
dom forbear  to  express  their  repentance,  and 
their  envy  of  those  whom  either  chance  or  cau- 
tion hath  withheld  from  it. 

This  general  unhappiness  has  given  occasion 
to  many  sage  maxims  among  the  serious,  and 
smart  remarks  among  the  gay ;  the  moralist  and 
the  writer  of  epigrams  have  equally  shown  their 
abilities  upon  it ;  some  have  lamented,  and  some 
have  ridiculed  it ;  but  as  the  faculty  of  writing 
has  been  chiefly  a  masculine  endowment,  the  re- 
proach of  making  the  world  miserable  has  been 
always  thrown  upon  the  women,  and  the  grave 
and  the  merry  have  equally  thought  themselves 
at  liberty  to  conclude  either  with  declamatory 
complaints,  or  satirical  censures,  of  female  folly 
or  fickleness,  ambition  or  cruelty,  extravagance 
or  lust. 

Led  by  such  a  number  of  examples,  and  incited 
by  my  share  in  the  common  interest,  I  sometimes 
venture  to  consider  this  universal  grievance,  hav 


40 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  18. 


ing  endeavoured  to  divest  my  heart  of  all  par- 
tiality, and  place  myself  as  a  kind  of  neutral  be- 
ing between  the  sexes,  whose  clamours  being 
equally  vented  on  both  sides  with  all  the  vehe- 
mence of  distress,  all  the  apparent  confidence  of 
justice,  and  all  the  indignation  of  injured  virtue 
seem  entitled  to  equal  regard.  The  men  have, 
indeed,  by  their  superiority  of  writing,  been  able 
to  collect  the  evidence  of  many  ages,  and  raise 
prejudices  in  their  favour  by  the  venerable  testi- 
monies of  philosophers,  historians,  and  poets,  but 
the  plea  of  the  ladies  appeal  to  passions  of  more 
forcible  operation  than  the  reverence  of  antiquity 
If  they  have  not  so  great  names  on  their  side  they 
have  stronger  arguments  ;  it  is  to  little  purpose, 
that  Socrates,  or  Euripides,  are  produced  againsi 
the  sighs  of  softness  and  the  tears  of  beauty. 
The  most  frigid  and  inexorable  judge  would  at 
least  stand  suspended  between  equal  powers,  as 
Lucan  was  perplexed  in  the  determination  of  the 
cause,  where  the  deities  were  on  one  side,  and 
Cato  on  the  other. 

But  I,  who  have  long  studied  the  severest  and 
most  abstracted  philosophy,  have  now,  in  the 
cool  maturity  of  life,  arrived  at  such  command 
over  my  passions,  that  I  can  hear  the  vocifera- 
tions from  either  sex,  without  catching  any  of 
the  fire  from  those  that  utter  them.  For  I  have 
found,  by  long  experience,  that  a  man  will  some- 
times rage  at  his  wife,  when  in  reality  his  mis- 
tress has  offended  him  ;  and  a  lady  complain  of 
the  cruelty  of  her  husband,  when  she  has  no 
other  enemy  than  bad  cards.  I  do  not  suffer 
myself  to  be  any  longer  imposed  upon  by  oaths 
on  one  side,  or  fits  on  the  other,  nor  when  the 
husband  hastens  to  the  tavern,  and  the  lady  re- 
tires to  her  closet,  am  I  always  confident  that 
they  are  driven  by  their  miseries  ;  since  I  have 
sometimes  reason  to  believe,  that  they  purpose 
not  so  much  to  soothe  their  sorrows,  as  to  ani- 
mate their  fury.  But  how  little  credit  soever 
may  be  given  to  particular  accusations,  the  gene- 
ral accumulation  of  the  charge  shows,  with  too 
much  evidence,  that  married  persons  are  not 
very  often  advanced  in  felicity ;  and,  therefore, 
it  may  be  proper  to  examine  at  what  avenues  so 
many  evils  have  made  their  way  into  the  world. 
With  this  purpose,  I  have  reviewed  the  lives  of 
my  friends,  who  have  been  least  successful  in 
connubial  contracts,  and  attentively  considered 
by  what  motives  they  were  incited  to  marry,  and 
by  what  principles  they  regulated  their  choice. 

One  of  the  nrst  of  my  acquaintances  that  re- 
solved to  quit  the  unsettled  thoughtless  condition 
of  a  bachelor,  was  Prudentius,  a  man  of  slow 
parts,  but  not  without  knowledge  or  judgment  in 
things  which  he  had  leisure  to  consider  gradually 
before  he  determined  them.  Whenever  we  met 
at  a  tavern,  it  was  his  province  to  settle  the 
scheme  of  our  entertainment,  contract  with  the 
cook,  and  inform  us  when  we  had  called  for 
wine  to  the  sum  originally  proposed.  This  grave 
considerer  found,  by  deep  meditation,  that  a  man 
was  no  loser  by  marrying  early,  even  though  he 
contented  himself  with  a  less  fortune;  for  esti- 
mating the  exact  worth  of  annuities,  he  found 
that,  considering  the  constant  diminution  of  the 
value  of  life,  with  the  probable  fall  of  the  inter- 
est of  money,  it  was  not  worse  to  have  ten 
thousand  pounds  at  the  age  of  two  and  twenty 
years,  than  a  much  larger  fortune  at  thirty  ;  for 
many  opportunities,  says  he,  occur  of  improving 


money,  which  if  a  man  misses  he  may  not  after- 
wards recover. 

Full  of  these  reflections,  he  threw  his  eyes 
about  him,  not  in  search  of  beauty  or  elegance,  dig- 
nity or  understanding,  but  of  a  woman  with  ten 
thousand  pounds.  Such  a  woman,  in  a  wealthy 
part  of  the  kingdom,  it  was  not  very  difficult  to 
find ;  and  by  artful  management  with  her  father, 
whose  ambition  was  to  make  his  daughter  a 
gentlewoman,  my  friend  got  her,  as  he  boasted 
to  us  in  confidence  two  days  after  his  marriage, 
for  a  settlement  of  seventy-three  pounds  a  year 
less  than  her  fortune  might  have  claimed,  and 
less  than  he  would  himself  have  given,  if  the 
fools  had  been  but  wise  enough  to  delay  the 
bargain. 

Thus,  at  once  delighted  with  the  superiority  of 
his  parts  and  the  augmentation  of  his  fortune, 
he  carried  Furia  to  his  own  house,  in  which  he 
never  afterwards  enjoyed  one  hour  of  happiness. 
For  Furia  was  a  wretch  of  mean  intellects,  vio- 
lent passions,  a  strong  voice,  and  low  education, 
without  any  sense  of  happiness  .but  that  which 
consisted  in  eating  and  counting  money. — Furia 
was  a  scold.  They  agreed  in  the  desire  of  wealth, 
but  with  this  difference,  that  Prudentius  was  for 
growing  rich  by  gain,  Furia  by  parsimony.  Pru- 
dentius would  venture  his  money  with  chances 
very  much  in  his  favour ;  but  Furia  very  wisely 
observing,  that  what  they  had,  was  while  they 
had  it,  their  own,  thought  all  traffic  too  great  a 
hazard,  and  was  for  putting  it  out  at  low  interest, 
upon  good  security.  Prudentius  ventured  how- 
ever, to  insure  a  ship  at  a  very  unreasonable 
price,  but  happening  to  lose  his  money,  was  so 
tormented  with  the  clamours  of  his  wife,  that  he 
never  durst  try  a  second  experiment.  He  has 
now  grovelled  seven  and  forty  years  under  Fu- 
ria's  direction,  who  never  once  mentioned  him, 
since  his  bad  luck,  by  any  other  name  than  that 
of  the  insurer. 

The  next  that  married  from  our  society  was 
Florentius.  He  happened  to  see  Zephyretta  in 
a  chariot  at  a  horse-race,  danced  with  her  at 
night,  was  confirmed  in  his  first  ardour,  waited 
on  her  next  morning,  and  declared  himself  her 
lover.  Florentius  had  not  knowledge  enough  of 
the  world,  to  distinguish  between  the  flutter  of 
coquetry  and  the  sprightliness  of  wit,  or  between 
the  smile  of  allurement  and  that  of  cheerfulness. 
He  was  soon  waked  from  his  rapture,  by  con- 
viction that  his  pleasure  was  but  the  pleasure  of 
a  day.  Zephyretta  had  in  four  and  twenty  hours 
spent  her  stock  of  repartee,  gone  round  the  cir 
cle  of  her  airs,  and  had  nothing  remaining  for 
!iirn  but  childish  insipidity,  or  for  herself,  but  the 
practice  of  the  same  artifices  upon  new  men. 

Melissus  was  a  man  of  parts,  capable  of  en- 
oying  and  improving  life.  He  had  passed 
Jirough  the  various  scenes  of  gayety  with  that 
indifference  and  possession  of  himself,  natural  to 
men  who  have  something  higher  and  nobler  in 
their  prospect.  Retiring  to  spend  the  summer  in 
a  village  little  frequented,  he  happened  to  lodge 
n  the  same  house  with  lanthe,  and  was  una- 
voidably drawn  to  some  acquaintance,  which  her 
ivit  and  politeness  soon  invited  him  to  improve. 
Having  no  opportunity  of  any  other  company, 
;hey  were  always  together ;  and  as  they  owed 
their  pleasures  to  each  other,  they  began  to  for- 
get that  any  pleasure  was  enjoyed  before  their 
meeting.  Melissus,  from  being  delighted  with 


No.  19.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


4. 


her  company,  quickly  began  to  be  uneasy  in  her 
absence,  and  being  sufficiently  convinced  of  the 
force  of  her  understanding,  and  finding,  as  he 
imagined,  such  a  conformity  of  temper  as  de- 
clared them  formed  for  each  other,  addressed  her 
as  a  lover,  after  no  very  long  courtship  obtained 
her  for  his  wife,  and  brought  her  next  winter  to 
town  in  triumph. 

Now  began  their  infelicity.  Melissus  had 
only  seen  her  in  one  scene,  where  there  was  no 
variety  of  objects,  to  produce  the  proper  excite- 
ments to  contrary  desires.  They  had  both  loved 
solitude  and  reflection,  where  there  was  nothing 
but  solitude  and  reflection  to  be  loved;  but  when 
they  came  into  public  life,  Ian  the  discovered 
those  passions  which  accident  rather  than  hy- 
pocrisy had  hitherto  concealed.  She  was  in- 
deed, not  without  the  power  of  thinking,  but  was 
wholly  without  the  exertion  of  that  power  when 
either  gayety  or  splendour  played  on  her  ima- 
gination. She  was  expensive  in  her  diversions, 
vehement  in  her  passions,  insatiate  of  pleasure, 
however  dangerous  to  her  reputation,  and  eager 
of  applause,  by  whomsoever  it  might  be  given. 
This  was  the  wife  which  Melissus  the  philoso- 
pher found  in  his  retirement,  and  from  whom  he 
expected  an  associate  in  his  studies,  and  an  as- 
sistant to  his  virtues. 

Prosapius,  upon  the  death  of  his  younger  bro- 
ther, that  the  family  might  not  be  extinct,  married 
his  housekeeper,  and  has  ever  since  been  com- 
plaining to  his  friends  that  mean  notions  are  in- 
stilled into  his  children,  that  he  is  ashamed  to  sit 
at  his  own  table,  and  that  his  house  is  uneasy  to 
him  for  want  of  suitable  companions. 

Avaro,  master  of  a  very  large  estate,  took  a 
woman  of  bad  reputation,  recommended  to  him 
by  a  rich  uncle,  who  made  that  marriage  the 
condition  on  which  he  should  be  his  heir.  Avaro 
now  wonders  to  perceive  his  own  fortune,  his 
wife's  and  his  uncle's,  insufficient  to  give  him 
that  happiness  which  is  to  be  found  only  with 
a  woman  of  virtue. 

I  intend  to  treat  in  more  papers  on  this  import- 
ant article  of  life,  and  shall,  therefore,  make  no 
reflection  upon  these  histories,  except  that  all 
whom  I  have  mentioned  failed  to  obtain  happi- 
ness, for  want  of  considering  that  marriage  is  the 
strictest  tie  of  perpetual  friendship  ;  that  there 
can  be  no  friendship  without  confidence,  and  no 
confidence  without  integrity ;  and  that  he  must 
expect  to  be  wretched,  who  pays  to  beauty,  riches, 
or  politeness,  that  regard  which  only  virtue  and 
piety  can  claim. 


No.  19.]       TUESDAY,  MAT  22,  1750. 

Ihim  te  causidicum,  dum  te  modo  rhetorajlngis, 
Et  non  dccernis  Taurc,  quid  esse  vclis, 

Peleos  ft  Priami  transit,  vet  Nestoris  tetas, 
Et  serum  fuerat  jam  tibi  desincre. — 

Eja,  age,  rumpe  moras,  quo  te  spectabimus usque  ? 
Dum  quid  sis  dubitas,  poles  ease  nihil. —       MART. 

To  rhetoric  now,  and  now  to  law  inclined, 
Uncertain  where  to  fix  thy  changing  mind; 
Old  Priam's  age  or  ffestor's  may  be  out, 
And  thou,  O  Taurus  !  still  go  on  in  doubt. 
Come  then,  how  long  such  wavering  shall  we  see  ? 
Thou  inay'st  doubt  on  :  thou  uow  canst  nothing  be. 

r.  LEWIS. 

JT  is  never  without  very  melancholy  reflections, 
that  we  can  observe  the  misconduct,  or  miscar- 
riage, of  those  men,  who  seem,  by  the  force  of 


understanding,  or  extent  of  knowledge,  exempt- 
ed from  the  general  frailties  of  human  nature,  and 
privileged  from  the  common  infelicities  of  life. 
Though  the  world  is  crowded  with  scenes  of  ca 
lamity,  we  look  upon  the  general  mass  of  wretch-  < 
edness  with  very  little  regard,  and  fix  our  eyes 
upon  the  state  of  particular  persons,  whom  the 
eminence  of  their  qualities  marks  out  from  the 
multitude  ;  as  in  reading  an  account  of  a  battle, 
we  seldom  reflect  on  the  vulgar  heaps  of  slaugh 
ter,  but  follow  the  hero  with  our  whole  attention, 
through  all  the  varieties  of  his  fortune,  without  a. 
thought  of  the  thousands  that  are  falling  round 
him. 

With  the  same  kind  of  anxious  veneration  I 
have  for  many  years  been  making  observations 
on  the  life  of  Polyphilus,  a  man  whom  all  his  ac- 
quaintances have,  from  his  first  appearance  in 
the  world,  feared  for  the  quickness  of  his  discern- 
ment, and  admired  for  the  multiplicity  of  his  at- 
tainments, but  whose  progress  in  life,  and  use- 
fulness to  mankind,  have  been  hindered  by  the 
superfluity  of  his  knowledge,  and  the  celerity  of 
his  mind. 

Polyphilus  was  remarkable,  at  the  school,  for 
surpassing  all  his  companions,  without  any  visi 
ble  application,  and  at  the  university  was  distin- 
guished equally  for  his  successful  progress  as 
well  through  the  thorny  mazes  of  science,  as  the 
flowery  path  of  politer  literature,  without  any 
strict  confinement  to  hours  of  study,  or  remark- 
able forbearance  of  the  common  amusements  of 
young  men. 

When  Polyphilus  was  at  the  age  in  which  men 
usually  choose  their  profession,  and  prepare  to 
enter  into  a  public  character,  every  academical 
eye  was  fixed  upon  him ;  all  were  curious  to  in- 
quire what  this  universal  genius  would  fix  upon 
for  the  employment  of  his  life ;  and  no  doubt  was 
made  but  that  he  Would  leave  all  his  contempo- 
raries behind  him,  and  mount  to  the  highest  ho- 
nours of  that  class  in  which  he  should  enlist  him- 
self, without  those  delays  and  pauses  which  must 
be  endured  by  meaner  abilities. 

Polyphilus,  though  by  no  means  insolent  or  as- 
suming, had  been  sufficiently  encouraged  by  un- 
interrupted success,  to  place  great  confidence  in 
his  own  parts ;  and  was  not  below  his  companions 
in  the  indulgence  of  his  hopes,  and  expectations 
of  the  astonishment  with  which  the  world  would 
be  struck,  when  first  his  lustre  should  break  out 
upon  it ;  nor  could  he  forbeaf  (for  whom  does 
not  constant  flattery  intoxicate?)  to  join  some 
times  in  the  mirth  of  his  friends,  at  the  sudden 
disappearance  of  those,  who,  having  shone 
awhile,  and  drawn  the  eyes  of  the  public  upon 
their  feeble  radiance,  were  now  doomed  to  fade 
away  before  him. 

It  is  natural  for  a  man  to  catch  advantageous 
notions  of  the  condition  which  those  with  whom 
he  converses  are  striving  to  attain.  Polyphilus, 
in  a  ramble  to  London,  fell  accidentally  among 
the  physicians,  and  was  so  much  pleased  with 
the  prospect  of  turning  philosophy  to  profit,  and 
so  highly  delighted  with  a  new  theory  of  fevers 
which  darted  into  his  imagination,  and  which  af- 
ter having  considered  it  a  few  hours,  he  found 
himself  able  to  maintain  against  all  the  advocates 
for  the  ancient  system,  that  he  resolved  to  apply 
himself  to  anatomy,  botany,  and  chymistry,  and 
to  leave  no  part  unconquered,  either  of  the  ani 
mal,  mineral,  or  vegetable  kingdoms. 


42 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  I'J. 


He  tnerefore  read  authors,  constructed  systems, 
and  tried  experiments ;  but  unhappily,  as  he  was 
going  to  see  a  new  plant  in  flower  at  Chelsea,  he 
met,  in  crossing  Westminster  to  take  water,  the 
chancellor's  coach  ;  he  had  the  curiosity  to  follow 
him  into  the  hall,  where  a  remarkable  cause  hap- 
pened to  be  tried,  and  found  himself  able  to  pro- 
duce so  many  arguments,  which  the  lawyers  had 
omitted  on  both  sides,  that  he  determined  to  quit 
physic  for  a  profession  in  which  he  found  it  would 
be  so  easy  to  excel,  and  which  promised  higher 
honours,  and  larger  profits,  without  melancholy 
attendance  upon  misery,  mean  submission  to 
peevishness,  and  continual  interruption  of  rest 
and  pleasure. 

He  immediately  took  chambers  in  the  Temple, 
bought  a  common-place  book,  and  confined  him- 
self for  some  months  to  the  perusal  of  the  statutes, 
year-books,  pleadings,  and  reports ;  he  was  a 
constant  hearer  of  the  courts,  and  began  to  put 
cases  with  reasonable  accuracy.  But  he  soon 
discovered,  by  considering  the  fortune  of  lawyers, 
that  preferment  was  not  to  be  got  by  acuteness, 
learning,  and  eloquence.  He  was  perplexed  by 
the  absurdities  of  attorneys,  and  misrepresenta- 
tions made  by  his  clients  of  their  own  causes,  by 
the  useless  anxiety  of  one,  and  the  incessant  im- 
portunity of  another;  he  began  to  repent  of  hav- 
ing devoted  himself  to  a  study,  which  was  so  nar- 
row in  its  comprehension,  that  it  could  never 
carry  his  name  to  any  other  country,  and  thought 
it  unworthy  of  a  man  of  parts  to  sell  his  life  only 
for  money.  The  barrenness  of  his  fellow-stu- 
dents forced  him  generally  into  other  company 
at  his  hours  of  entertainment,  and  among  the  va- 
rieties of  conversation  through  which  his  curi- 
osity was  daily  wandering,  he,  by  chance,  min- 
gled at  a  tavern  with  some  intelligent  officers  of 
the  army.  A  man  of  letters  was  easily  dazzled 
with  the  gayety  of  their  appearance,  and  softened 
into  kindness  by  the  politeness  of  their  address ; 
he  therefore,  cultivated  this  new  acquaintance, 
and  when  he  saw  how  readily  they  found  in  every 
place  admission  and  regard,  and  how  familiarly 
they  mingled  with  every  rank  and  order  of  men, 
he  began  to  feel  his  heart  beat  for  military  ho- 
nours, and  wondered  how  the  prejudices  of  the 
university  should  make  him  so  long  insensible  of 
that  ambition,  which  has  fired  so  many  hearts  in 
every  age,  and  negligent  of  that  calling,  which  is, 
above  all  others,  universally  and  invariably  illus- 
trious, and  which  gives,  even  to  the  exterior  ap- 
pearance of  its  professors,  a  dignity  and  freedom 
unknown  to  the  rest  of  mankind. 

These  favourable  impressions  were  made  still 
deeper  by  his  conversation  with  ladies,  whose  re- 
gard for  soldiers  he  could  not  observe,  without 
wishing  himself  one  of  that  happy  fraternity,  to 
which  the  female  world  seemed  to  have  devoted 
their  charms  and  their  kindness.  The  love  of 
knowledge,  which  was  still  his  predominant  in- 
clination, was  gratified  by  the  recital  of  adven- 
tures, and  accounts  of  foreign  countries ;  and 
therefore  he  concluded  that  there  was  no  way  of 
life  in  which  all  his  views  could  so  completely 
concentre  as  in  that  of  a  soldier.  In  the  art  of 
war  he  thought  it  not  difficult  to  excel,  having  ob- 
served his  new  friends  not  very  much  versed  in 
the  principles  of  tactics  or  fortification  ;  he  there- 
fore studied  all  the  military  writers,  both  ancient 
and  modern,  and,  in  a  short  time,  could  tell  how 
to  have  gained  every  remarkable  battle  that  has 


been  lost  from  the  beginning  of  the  world.  He 
often  showed  at  table  how  Alexander  should  have 
been  checked  in  his  conquests,  what  was  the  fa- 
tal error  at  Pharsalia,  how  Charles  of  Sweden 
might  have  escaped  his  ruin  at  Pultowa,  and 
Marlborough  might  have  been  made  to  repent 
his  temerity  at  Blenheim.  He  intrenched  armies 
upon  paper  so  that  no  superiority  of  numbers 
could  force  them,  and  modelled  in  clay  many 
impregnable  fortresses,  on  which  all  the  present 
arts  of  attack  would  be  exhausted  without  ef- 
fect. 

Polyphilus,  in  a  short  time,  obtained  a  commis- 
sion; but  before  he  could  rub  off  the  solemnity 
of  a  scholar,  and  gain  the  true  air  of  military  vi- 
vacity, a  war  was  declared,  and  forces  sent  to 
the  continent.  Here  Polyphilus  unhappily 
found  that  study  alone  would  not  make  a  sol- 
dier; for  being  much  accustomed  to  think,  he 
let  the  sense  of  danger  sink  into  his  mind,  and 
felt  at  the  approach  of  any  action,  that  terror 
which  a  sentence  of  death  would  have  brought 
upon  him.  He  saw  that,  instead  of  conquering 
their  fears,  the  endeavour  of  his  gay  friends  was 
only  to  escape  them ;  but  his  philosophy  chained 
his  mind  to  its  object,  and  rather  loaded  him 
with  shackles  than  furnished  him  with  arms. 
He,  however,  suppressed  his  misery  in  silence, 
and  passed  through  the  campaign  with  honour, 
but  found  himself  utterly  unable  to  support 
another. 

He  then  had  recourse  again  to  his  books,  and 
continued  to  range  from  one  study  to  another. 
As  I  usually  visit  him  once  a  month,  and  am  ad- 
mitted to  him  without  previous  notice,  I  have 
found  him  within  this  last  half  year  deciphering 
the  Chinese  language,  making  a  farce,  collecting 
a  vocabulary  of  the  obsolete  terms  of  the  English 
law,  writing  an  inquiry  concerning  the  ancient 
Corinthian  brass,  and  forming  a  new  scheme  of 
the  variations  of  the  needle. 

Thus  is  this  powerful  genius,  which  might 
have  extended  the  sphere  of  any  science,  or  be- 
nefited the  world  in  any  profession,  dissipated 
in  a  boundless  variety,  without  profit  to  others  01 
himself!  He  makes  sudden  irruptions  into  the 
regions  of  knowledge,  and  sees  all  obstacles  give 
way  before  him :  but  he  never  stays  long  enough 
to  complete  his  conquest,  to  establish  laws,  or 
bring  away  the  spoils. 

Such  is  often  the  folly  of  men,  whom  nature 
has  enabled  to  obtain  skill  and  knowledge,  on 
terms  so  easy,  that  they  have  no  sense  of  the  va- 
lue of  the  acquisition  ;  they  are  qualified  to  make 
such  speedy  progress  in  learning,  that  they  think 
themselves  at  liberty  to  loiter  in  the  way,  and  by 
turning  aside  after  every  new  object,lose  the  race, 
like  Atalanta,  to  slower  competitors,  who  press 
diligently  forward,  and  whose  force  is  directed 
to  a  single  point. 

I  have  often  thought  those  happy  that  have 
been  fixed,  from  the  first  dawn  of  thought,  in  a 
determination  to  some  state  of  life,  by  the  choice 
of  one  whose  authority  may  preclude  caprice, 
and  whose  influence  may  prejudice  them  in  fa- 
vour of  his  opinion.  The  general  precept  of 
consulting  the  genius  is  of  little  use,  unless  we 
are  told  how  the  genius  can  be  known.  If  it  is 
to  be  discovered  only  by  experiment,  life  will  be 
lost  before  the  resolution  can  be  fixed ;  if  any 
other  indications  are  to  be  found,  they  may,  per- 
haps, be  very  early  discerned.  At  least,  if  to 


No  20.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

miscarry  in  an  attempt  be  a  proof  of  having  mis- 
taken the  direction  of  the  genius,  men  appear 
not  less  frequently  deceived  with  regard  to 
themselves  than  to  others  ;  and  therefore  no  one 
has  much  reason  to  complain  -that  his  life  was 
planned  out  by  his  friends,  or  to  be  confident 
that  he  should  have  had  either  more  honour  or 
happiness,  by  being  abandoned  to  the  chance  oi 
his  own  fancy. 

It  was  said  of  the  learned  Bishop  Sanderson, 
that  when  he  was  preparing  his  lectures,  he  he- 
sitated so  much,  and  rejected  so  often,  that,  at  the 
time  of  reading,  he  was  often  forced  to  produce, 
not  what  was  best,  but  what  happened  to  be  at 
hand.  This  will  be  the  state  of  every  man  who, 
in  the  choice  of  his  employment,  balances  all  the 
arguments  on  every  side ;  the  complication  is  so 
intricate,  the  motives  and  objections  so  numerous, 
there  is  so  much  play  for  the  imagination,  and 
so  much  remains  in  the  power  of  others,  that 
reason  is  forced  at  last  to  rest  in  neutrality,  the 
decision  devolves  into  the  hands  of  chance,  and 
after  a  great  part  of  life  spent  in  inquiries  which 
can  never  be  resolved,  the  rest  must  often  pass 
in  repenting  the  unnecessary  delay,  and  can  be 
useful  to  few  other  purposes  than  to  warn  others 
against  the  same  folly ;  and  to  show,  that  of  two 
states  of  life  equally  consistent  with  religion 
and  virtue,  he  who  chooses  earliest  chooses 
best 


No.  20.]       SATURDAY,  MAT  26,  1750. 

Adpopulumphaleras.   Ego  te  intus  et  in  cute  novi. 

PERSIUS. 

Such  pageantry  be  to  the  people  shown ; 
There  boast  thy  horse's  trappings  and  thy  own  ; 
I  know  thee  to  thy  bottom,  from  within 
Thy  shallow  centre,  to  thy  utmost  skin. 

DRYDEN. 

AMONG  the  numerous  stratagems,  by  which  pride 
endeavours  to  recommend  folly  to  regard,  there 
is  scarcely  one  that  meets  with  less  success  than 
affectation,  or  a  perpetual  disguise  of  the  real 
character,  by  fictitious  appearances  ;  whether  it 
be,  that  every  man  hates  falsehood,  from  the  na- 
tural congruity  of  truths  to  his  faculties  of  reason, 
or  that  every  man  is  jealous  of  the  honour  of  his 
understanding,  and  thinks  his  discernment  con- 
sequently called  in  question,  wheneverany  thing 
is  exhibited  under  a  borrowed  form. 

This  aversion  to  all  kinds  of  disguise,  what- 
ever be  its  cause,  is  universally  diffused,  and  in- 
cessantly in  action  ;  nor  is  it  necessary,  that  to 
exasperate  detestation  or  excite  contempt,  any 
interest  should  be  invaded,  or  any  competition 
attempted  ;  it  is  sufficient,  that  there  is  an  in- 
tention to  deceive,  an  intention  which  every 
heart  swells  to  oppose,  and  every  tongue  is  busy 
to  detect. 

This  reflection  was  awakened  in  my  mind  by 
a  very  common  practice  among  my  correspond- 
ents, of  writing  under  characters  which  they 
cannot  support,  whiph  are  p.f  no  use  to  the  ex- 
planation or  enforcement  of  that  which  they  de- 
scribe or  recommend ;  and  which,  therefore, 
since  they  assume  them  only  for  the  sake  of  dis- 
playing their  abilities,  I  will  advise  them  for  the 
future  to  forbear,  as  laborious  without  advan- 
tage. 


It  is  almost  a  general  ambition  of  those  who 
favour  me  with  their  advice  for  the  regulation  of 
my  conduct,  or  their  contribution  for  the  assist- 
ance of  my  understanding,  to  affect  the  style  and 
the  names  of  ladies.  And  I  cannot  always  with- 
hold some  expression  of  anger,  like  Sir  Hugh  in 
the  comedy,  when  I  happen  to  find  that  a  woman 
has  a  beard.  I  must  therefore  warn  the  gentle 
Phyllis,  that  she  send  me  no  more  letters  from  the 
Horse  Guards ;  and  require  of  Belinda,  that  she 
be  content  to  resign  her  pretensions  to  female 
elegance,  till  she  has  lived  three  weeks  without 
hearing  the  politics  of  Batson's  coffeehouse.  I 
must  indulge  myself  in  the  liberty  of  observation, 
that  there  were  some  allusions  in  Chloris's  pro- 
duction, sufficient  to  show  that  Bracton  and 
Plowden  are  her  favourite  authors  ;  and  that 
Euphclia  has  not  been  long  enough  at  home,  to 
wear  out  all  the  traces  of  the  phraseology,  which 
she  learned  in  the  expedition  to  Carthagena. 

Among  all  my  female  friends,  there  was  none 
who  gave  me  more  trouble  to  decypher  her  true 
character  than  Penthesilea,  whose  letter  lay 
upon  my  desk  three  days  before  I  could  fix  upon 
the  real  writer.  There  was  a  confusion  of  ima- 
ges, and  medley  of  barbarity,  which  held  me  long 
in  suspense ;  till  by  perseverance  I  disentangled 
the  perplexity,  and  found  that  Penthesilea  is  the 
son  of  a  wealthy  stock-jobber,  who  spends  his 
morning  under  his  father's  eye  in  Change-alley, 
dines  at  a  tavern  in  Covent-garden,  passes  his 
evening  in  the  play-house,  and  part  of  the  night 
at  a  gaming-table,  and  having  learned  the  dia- 
lects of  these  various  regions,  has  mingled  them 
all  in  a  studied  composition. 

When  Lee  was  once  told  by  a  critic,  that  it  was 
very  easy  to  write  like  a  madman ;  he  answered, 
that  it  was  difficult  to  write  like  a  madman,  but 
easy  enough  to  write  like  a  fool ;  and  I  hope  to 
be  excused  by  my  kind  contributors,  if  in  imita- 
tion of  this  great  author,  I  presume  to  remind 
them,  that  it  is  much  easier  not  to  write  like  a 
man,  than  to  write  like  a  woman. 

I  have,  indeed,  some  ingenious  well-wishers, 
who,  without  departing  from  their  sex,  have  found 
very  wonderful  appellations.  A  very  smart  let- 
ter has  been  sent  me  from  a  puny  ensign,  signed 
Ajax  Telamonius  ;  another,  in  recommendation 
of  a  new  treatise  upon  cards,  from  a  gamester, 
who  calls  himself  Sesostris  :  and  another  upon 
:he  improvements  of  the  fishery,  from  Dioclesian ; 
iut  as  these  seem  only  to  have  picked  up  their 
appellations  by  chance,  without  endeavouring  at 
any  particular  imposture,  their  improprieties  are 
rather  instances  of  blunder  than  of  affectation, 
and  are,  therefore,  not  equally  fitted  to  inflame 
,he  hostile  passions :  for  it  is  not  folly  but  pride, 
not  error,  but  deceit,  which  the  world  means  to 
>ersecute,  when  it  raises  the  full  cry  of  nature  to 
mnt  down  affectation. 

The  hatred  which  dissimulation  always  draws 
upon  itself  is  so  great,  that  if  I  did  not  know  how 
much  cunning  differs  from  wisdom,  I  should  won- 
der that  any  men  have  so  little  knowledge  of  their 
own  interest,  as  to  aspire  to  wear  a  mask  for 
ife  ;  to  try  to  impose  upon  the  world  a  charac- 
ter, to  which  they  feel  themselves  void  of  any 
ust  claim ;  and  to  hazard  their  quiet,  their  fame, 
and  even  their  profit,  by  exposing  themselves  to 
he  danger,  of  that  reproach,  malevolence,  and 
icglect,  which  such  a  discovery  as  they  have  al- 
ways to  fear  -mil  certainly  oring  upon  them. 


44 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  21. 


It  might  be  imagined  that  the  pleasure  of  repu- 
tation should  consist  in  the  satisfaction  of  having 
our  opinion  of  our  own  merit  confirmed  by  the 
suffrage  of  the  public  ;  and  that,  to  be  extolled 
for  a  quality,  which  a  man  knows  himself  to 
want,  should  give  him  no  other  happiness  than 
to  be  mistaken  for  the  owner  of  an  estate,  over 
which  he  chances  to  be  travelling.  But  he  who 
subsists  upon  affectation,  knows  nothing  of  this 
delicacy  ;  like  a  desperate  adventurer  in  com- 
merce, he  takes  up  reputation  upon  trust,  mort- 
gages possessions  which  he  never  had,  and  en- 
joys, to  the  fatal  hour  of  bankruptcy,  though  with 
a  thousand  terrors  and  anxieties,  the  unneces- 
sary splendour  of  borrowed  riches. 

Affectation  is  always  to  be  distinguished  from 
hypocrisy,  as  being  the  art  of  counterfeiting  those 
qualities  which  we  might  with  innocence  and 
safety,  be  known  to  want.  Thus  the  man  who, 
to  carry  on  any  fraud,  or  to  conceal  any  crime, 
pretends  to  rigours  of  devotion,  and  exactness  of 
life,  is  guilty  of  hypocrisy  ;  and  his  guilt  is  great- 
er, as  the  end,  for  which  he  puts  on  the  false  ap- 
pearance, is  more  pernicious.  B.ut  he^.hat,  with 
an  awkward  address,  and  unpleasing  counte- 
nance, boasts  of  the  conquests  made  by  him 
among  the  ladies,  and  counts  over  the  thousands 
which  he  might  have  possessed  if  he  would  have 
submitted  to  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  is  chargea- 
ble only  with  affectation.  Hypocrisy  is  the  ne- 
cessary burthen  of  villany,  affectation  part  of 
the  chosen  trappings  of  folly;  the  one  completes 
a  villain,  the  other  only  finishes  a  fop.  Con- 
tempt is  the  proper  punishment  of  affectation,  and 
detestation  the  just  consequence  of  hypocrisy. 

With  the  hypocrite  it  is  not  at  present  my  in- 
tention to  expostulate,  though  even  he  might  be 
taught  the  excellency  of  virtue,  by  the  necessity 
of  seeming  to  be  virtuous  ;  but  the  man  of  affect- 
ation may,  perhaps,  be  reclaimed,  by  finding 
how  little  he  is  likely  to  gain  by  perpetual  con- 
straint and  incessant  vigilance,  and  how  much 
more  securely  he  might  make  his  way  to  esteem, 
by  cultivating  real,  than  displaying  counterfeit 
qualities. 

Every  thing  future  is  to  be  estimated,  by  a  wise 
man,  in  proportion  to  the  probability  of  attaining 
it,  and  its  value,  when  attained  ;  and  neither  of 
these  considerations  will  much  contribute  to  the 
encouragement  of  affectation.  For,  if  the  pinna- 
cles of  fame  be,  at  best,  slippery,  how  unsteady 
must  his  footing  be  who  stands  upon  pinnacles 
without  foundation !  If  praise  be  made  by  the  in- 
constancy and  maliciousness  of  those  who  must 
confer  it,  a  blessing  which  no  man  can  promise 
himself  from  the  most  conspicuous  merit  and  vi- 
gorous industry,  how  faint  must  be  the  hope  of 
gaining  it,  when  the  uncertainty  is  multiplied  by 
the  weakness  of  the  pretensions !  He  that  pur- 
sues fame  with  just  claims,  trusts  his  happiness 
to  the  winds :  but  he  that  endeavours  after  it  by 
false  merit,  has  to  fear,  not  only  the  violence  of 
the  storm,  but  the  leaks  of  his  vessel.  Though 
he  should  happen  to  keep  above  water  for  a  time, 
by  the  help  of  a  soft  breeze,  and  a  calm  sea,  at  the 
first  gust  he  must  inevitably  founder,  with  this 
melancholy  reflection,  that,  if  he  would  have  been 
content  with  his  natural  station,  he  might  have 
escaped  his  calamity.  Affectation  may  possibly 
succeed  for  a  time,  and  a  man  may,  by  great  at- 
tention, persuade  others,  that  he  really  has  the 
qualities  of  which  he  presumes  to  boast ;  but  the 


hour  will  come  when  he  should  exert  them,  and 
then,  whatever  he  enjoyed  in  praise,  he  must  suf- 
fer in  reproach. 

Applause  and  admiration  are  by  no  means  to 
be  counted  among  the  necessaries  of  life,  and 
therefore  any  indirect  arts  to  obtain  them  have 
very  little  claim  to  pardon  or  compassion.  There 
is  scarcely  any  man  without  some  valuable  or 
improveable  qualities,  by  which  he  might  always 
secure  himself  from  contempt  And  perhaps  ex- 
emption from  ignominy  is  the  most  eligible  repu- 
tation, as  freedom  from  pain  is,  among  some  phi- 
losophers, the  definition  of  happiness. 

If  we  therefore  compare  the  value  of  the  praise 
obtained  by  fictitious  excellence,  even  while  the 
cheat  is  yet  undiscovered,  with  that  kindness 
which  every  man  may  suit  by  his  virtue,  and  that 
esteem  to  which  most  men  may  rise  by  common 
understanding  steadily  and  honestly  applied,  wa 
shall  find  that  when  from  the  adscititious  happi- 
ness all  the  deductions  are  made  by  fear  and 
casualty,  there  will  remain  nothing  equiponde- 
rant to  the  security  of  truth.  The  state  of  the 
possessor  of  humble  virtues,  to  the  affectcr  of 
great  excellences,  is  that  of  a  small  cottage  of 
stone,  to  the  palace  raised  with  ice  by  the  Em 
press  of  Russia ;  it  was  for  a  time  splendid  and 
luminous,  but  the  first  sunshine  melted  it  to  no- 
thing. 


No.  21.]      TUESDAY,  MAT  29,  1750. 

Terra  salutiferas  herbas,  eademque  nocenles 
Ntitrit;  et  urtica  proximo,  sape  rosa  est.        OVID 

Our  bane  and  physic  the  same  earth  bestows, 
And  near  the  noisome  nettle  blooms  the  rose. 

EVERT  man  is  prompted  by  the  love  of  himself  to 
imagine,  that  he  possesses  some  qualities  supe- 
rior, either  in  kind  or  in  degree,  to  those  which 
he  sees  allotted  to  the  rest  of  the  world  ;  and, 
whatever  apparent  disadvantages  he  may  suffer 
in  the  comparison  with  others,  he  has  some  invi- 
sible distinctions,  some  latent  reserve  of  excel- 
lence, which  he  throws  into  the  balance,  and  by 
which  he  generally  fancies  that  it  is  turned  in  his 
favour. 

The  studious  and  speculative  part  of  mankind 
always  seem  to  consider  their  fraternity  as 
placed  in  a  state  of  opposition  to  those  who  are 
engaged  in  the  tumult  of  public  business  ;  and 
have  pleased  themselves  from  age  to  age  with  ce 
lebrating  the  felicity  of  their  own  condition,  and 
without  recounting  the  perplexity  of  politics,  the 
dangers  of  greatness,  the  anxieties  of  ambition, 
and  the  miseries  of  riches. 

Among  the  numerous  topics  of  declamation, 
that  their  industry  has  discovered  on  this  subject, 
there  is  none  which  they  press  with  greater  ef- 
forts, or  on  which  they  have  more  copiously  laid 
put  their  reason  and  their  imagination,  than  the 
instability  of  high  stations,  and  the  uncertainty 
with  which  the  profits  and  honours  are  possess- 
ed, that  must  be  acquired  with  so  much  hazard, 
vigilance  and  labour. 

This  they  appear  to  consider  as  an  irrefraga- 
ble argument  against  the  choice  of  the  statesman 
and  the  warrior ;  and  swell  with  confidence  of 
victory,  thus  furnished  by  the  Muses  with  the 
arms  which  never  can  be  blunted,  and  which  no 


No.  21.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

art  or  strength  of  their  adversaries  can  elude  or 
resist. 

It  was  well  known  by  experience  to  the  na- 
tions which  employed  elephants  in  war,  that 
though  by  the  terror  of  their  bulk,  and  the  vio- 
lence of  their  impressions,  they  often  threw  the 
enemy  into  disorder,  yet  there  was  always  dan- 
ger in  the  use  of  them,  very  nearly  equivalent  to 
the  advantage ;  for  if  their  first  charge  could  be 
supported,  they  were  easily  driven  back  upon 
their  confederates  ;  they  then  broke  through  the 
troops  behind  them,  and  made  no  less  havoc  in 
the  precipitation  of  their  retreat,  than  in  the  fury 
of  their  onset. 

I  know  not  whether  those  who  have  so  vehe- 
mently urged  the  inconveniences  and  danger  of 
an  active  life,  have  not  made  use  of  arguments 
that  may  be  retorted  with  equal  force  upon  them- 
selves ;  and  whether  the  happiness  of  a  candi- 
date for  literary  fame  be  not  subject  to  the  same 
uncertainty  with  that  of  him  who  governs  pro- 
vinces, commands  armies,  presides  in  the  senate, 
or  dictates  in  the  cabinet. 

That  eminence  of  learning  is  not  to  be  gained 
without  labour,  at  least  equal  to  that  which  any 
other  kind  of  greatness  can  require,  will  be  al- 
lowed by  those  who  wish  to  elevate  the  charac- 
ter of  a  scholar;  since  they  cannot  but  know, 
that  every  human  acquisition  is  valuable  in  pro- 
portion to  the  difficulty  employed  in  its  attain- 
ment. And  that  those  who  have  gained  the  es- 
teem and  veneration  of  the  world,  by  their  know- 
ledge or  their  genius,  are  by  no  means  exempt 
from  the  solicitude  which  any  other  kind  of  dig- 
nity produces,  may  be  conjectured  from  the  in- 
numerable artifices  which  they  make  use  of  to 
degrade  a  superior,  to  repress  a  rival,  or  obstruct 
a  follower ;  artifices  so  gross  and  mean,  as  to 
prove  evidently  how  much  a  man  may  excel  in 
learning  without  being  either  more  wise  or  more 
virtuous  than  those  whose  ignorance  he  pities  or 
despises. 

Nothing  therefore  remains,  by  wlu'ch  the  stu- 
dent can  gratify  his  desire  of  appearing  to  have 
built  his  happiness  on  a  more  firm  basis  than  his 
antagonist,  except  the  certainty  with  which  his 
honours  are  enjoyed.  The  garlands  gained  by 
the  heroes  of  literature  must  be  gathered  from 
summits  equally  difficult  to  climb  with  those  that 
bear  the  civic  or  triumphal  wreaths,  they  must  be 
worn  with  equal  envy,  and  guarded  with  equal 
care  from  those  hands  that  are  always  employed 
in  efforts  to  tear  them  away ;  the  only  remaining 
hope  is,  that  their  verdure  is  more  lasting,  and 
that  they  are  less  likely  to  fade  by  time,  or  less 
obnoxious  to  the  blasts  of  accident. 

Even  this  hope  will  receive  very  little  encou- 
ragement from  the  examination  of  the  history  of 
learning,  or  observation  of  the  fate  of  scholars  in 
the  present  age.  If  we  look  back  into  past  times, 
we  find  innumerable  names  of  authors  once  in 
high  reputation,  read  perhaps  by  the  beautiful, 
quoted  by  the  witty,  and  commented  on  by  the 
grave ;  but  of  whom  we  now  know  only  that  they 
once  existed.  If  we  consider  the  distribution  of 
literary  fame  in  our  own  time,  we  shall  find  it  a 
possession  of  very  uncertain  tenure;  sometimes 
bestowed  by  a  sudden  caprice  of  the  public,  and 
again  transferred  to  a  new  favourite,  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  he  is  new ;  sometimes  refused 
to  long  labour  and  eminent  desert,  and  sometimes 
granted  to  very  slight  pretensions;  lost  some- 


times by  security  and  negligence,  and  sometimes 
by  too  diligent  endeavours  to  -etain  it. 

A  successful  author  is  equally  in  danger  of 
the  dimunition  of  his  fame,  whether  he  continues 
or  ceases  to  write.  The  regard  of  the  public  is 
not  to  be  kept  but  by  tribute,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  past  service  will  quickly  languish,  un- 
less successive  performances  frequently  revive  it. 
Yet  in  every  new  attempt  there  is  new  hazard, 
and  there  are  few  who  do  not,  at  some  unlucky 
time,  injure  their  own  characters  by  attempting 
to  enlarge  them, 

There  are  many  possible  causes  of  that  ine- 
quality which  we  may  so  frequently  observe  in 
the  performances  of  the  same  man,  from  the  in- 
fluence of  which  no  ability  or  industry  is  suffi- 
ciently secured,  and  which  have  so  often  sullied 
the  splendour  of  genius,  that  the  wit,  as  well  as 
the  conqueror,  may  be  properly  cautioned  not  to 
indulge  his  pride  with  too  early  triumphs,  but  to 
defer  to  the  end  of  life  his  estimate  of  happiness 


—  Ultima  semper 


Eipectanda  dies  homini,  dicique  beatus 
Antt  obitum  nemo  supremaquefunera  debet. 

But  no  frail  man,  however  great  or  high, 

Can  be  concluded  bless'd  before  he  die.         ADDISON. 

Among  the  motives  that  urge  an  author  to  un- 
dertakings by  which  his  reputation  is  impaired, 
one  of  the  most  frequent  must  be  mentioned  with 
tenderness,  because  it  is  not  to  be  counted  among 
his  follies,  but  his  miseries.  It  very  often  hap- 
pens that  the  works  of  learning  or  of  wit  are  per- 
formed .at  the  direction  of  those  by  whom  they 
are  to  be  rewarded ;  the  writer  has  not  always 
the  choice  of  his  subject,  but.  is  compelled  to  ac- 
cept any  task  which  is  thrown  before  him,  with- 
out much  consideration  of  his  own  convenience, 
and  without  time  to  prepare  himself  by  previous 
studies. 

Miscarriages  of  this  kind  are  likewise  frequent- 
ly the  consequence  of  that  acquaintance  with  the 
great,  which  is  generally  considered  as  one  of  the 
chief  privileges  of  literature  and  genius.  A  man 
who  has  once  learned  to  think  himself  exalted  by 
familiarity  with  those  whom  nothing  but  their 
birth,  or  their  fortunes,  or  such  stations  as  are 
seldom  gained  by  moral  excellence,  set  above 
him,  will  not  be  long  without  submitting  his  un- 
derstanding to  their  conduct;  he  will  suffer  them 
to  prescribe  the  course  of  his  studies,  and  employ 
him  for  their  own  purposes  either  of  diversion  or 
interest.  His  desire  of  pleasing  those  whose  fa- 
vour he  has  weakly  made  necessary  to  himself!, 
will  not  suffer  him  always  to  consider  how  little 
he  is  qualified  for  the  work  imposed.  Either  his 
vanity  will  tempt  him  to  conceal  his  deficiencies, 
or  that  cowardice,  which  always  encroaches  fast 
upon  such  as  spend  their  lives  in  the  company  of 
persons  higher  than  themselves,  will  not  leave 
him  resolution  to  assert  the  liberty  of  choice. 

But,  though  we  suppose  that  a  man  by  his  for- 
tune can  avoid  the  necessity  of  dependence,  and 
by  his  spirit  can  repel  the  usurpations  of  patron- 
age, yet  he  may  easily,  by  writing  long,  happen 
to  write  ill.  There  is  a  general  succession  of 
events  in  which  contraries  are  produced  by  peri- 
odical vicissitudes  ;  labour  and  care  are  reward- 
ed with  success,  success  produces  confidence, 
confidence  relaxes  industry,  and  negligence  ruins 
that  reputation  which  accuracy  had  raised, 


46 


THE  RAMBLER. 


No.  22.] 


He  that  happens  not  to  be  lulled  by  praise  in- 
to supineness,  may  be  animated  by  it  to  under- 
takings above  his  strength,  or  incited  to  fancy 
himself  alike  qualified  for  every  kind  of  compo- 
sition, and  able  to  comply  with  the  public  taste 
through  all  its  variations.  By  some  opinion  like 
this,  many  men  have  been  engaged,  at  an  ad- 
vanced age  in  attempts  which  they  had  not  time 
to  complete,  and  after  a  few  weak  efforts,  sunk 
into  the  grave  with  vexation,  to  see  the  rising  ge- 
neration gain  ground  upon  them.  From  these 
failures  the  highest  genius  is  not  exempt ;  that 
judgment  which  appears  so  penetrating,  when  it 
is  employed  upon  the  works  of  others,  very  often 
fails  where  interest  or  passion  can  exert  their  pow- 
er. We  are  blinded  in  examining  our  own  la- 
bours by  innumerable  prejudices.  Our  juvenile 
compositions  please  us,  because  they  bring  to  our 
minds  the  remembrance  of  youth;  our  later  per- 
formances we  are  ready  to  esteem,  because  we 
are  unwilling  to  think  that  we  have  made  no 
improvement;  what  flows  easily  from  the  pen 
charms  us,  because  we  read  with  pleasure  that 
which  flatters  our  opinion  of  our  own  powers ; 
what  was  composed  with  great  struggles  of  the 
mind  we  do  not  easily  reject,  because  we  cannot 
bear  that  so  much  labour  should  be  fruitless. 
But  the  reader  has  none  of  these  prepossessions, 
and  wonders  that  the  author  is  so  unlike  himself, 
without  considering  that  the  same  soil  will,  with 
different  culture,  afford  different  products. 


No.  22.]       SATURDAY,  JUNE  2,  1750. 

Ego  nee  studium  sine  divite  vena 

ffee  rude  quidprosit  video  ing enium ;  altering  sic 
Altera  poscit  opem  res  tt  conjurat  amice.  HOR. 

Without  a  genius  learning  soars  in  vain ; 
And  without  learning  genius  sinks  again  ; 
Their  force  united  crowns  the  sprightly  reign. 

ELFH1NSTON. 

WIT  and  Learning  were  the  children  of  Apollo, 
by  different  mothers :  Wit  was  the  offspring  of 
Euphrosyne,  and  resembled  her  in  cheerfulness 
and  vivacity :  Learning  was  born  of  Sophia,  and 
retained  her  seriousness  and  caution.  As  their 
mothers  were  rivals,  they  were  bred  up  by  them 
from  their  birth  in  habitual  opposition,  and  all 
means  were  so  incessantly  employed  to  impress 
upon  them  a  hatred  and  contempt  of  each  other, 
that  though  Apollo,  who  foresaw  the  ill  effects  of 
their  discord,  endeavoured  to  soften  them,  by  di- 
viding his  regard  equally  between  them,  yet  his 
impartiality  and  kindness  were  without  effect ; 
the  material  animosity  was  deeply  rooted,  having 
been  intermingled  with  their  first  ideas,  and  was 
confirmed  every  hour,  as  fresh  opportunities  oc- 
curred of  exerting  it.  No  sooner  were  they  of 
age  to  be  received  into  the  apartments  of  the 
other  celestials,  than  Wit  began  to  entertain  Ve- 
nus at  her  toilet,  by  aping  the  solemnity  of  Learn- 
ing, and  Learning  to  divert  Minerva  at  her  loom, 
by  exposing  the  blunders  and  ignorance  of  Wit. 
Thus  they  grew  up,  with  malice  perpetually 
increasing,  by  the  encouragement  which  each  re- 
ceived from  those  whom  their  mothers,  had  per- 
euaded  to  patronize  and  support  them ;  and  longed 
to  be  admitted  to  the  table  of  Jupiter,  not  so  much 
for  the  hope  of  gaining  honour,  as  of  excluding 
a  rival  from  all  pretensions  to  regard,  and  cf  put- 


ting an  everlasting  stop  to  the  progress  of  that 
influence  which  either  believed  the  other  to  have 
obtained  by  mean  arts  and  false  appearances. 

A  t  last  the  day  came,  when  they  were  both, 
with  the  usual  solemnities,  received  into  the  class 
of  superior  deities,  and  allowed  to  take  nectar 
from  the  hand  of  Hebe.  But  from  that  hour  Con- 
cord lost  her  authority  at  the  table  of  Jupiter. 
The  rivals,  animated  by  their  new  dignity,  and 
incited  by  the  alternate  applauses  of  the  associate 
powers,  harassed  each  other  by  incessant  con- 
tests, with  such  a  regular  vicissitude  of  victory, 
that  neither  was  depressed. 

It  was  observable,  that  at  the  beginning  of 
every  debate,  the  advantage  was  on  the  side  ot 
Wit ;  and  that,  at  the  first  sallies,  the  whole  as- 
sembly sparkled,  according  to  Homer's  expres- 
sion, with  unextinguishable  merriment.  But 
Learning  would  reserve  her  strength  till  the  burst 
of  applause  was  over,  and  the  languor  with  which 
the  violence  of  joy  is  always  succeeded,  began  to 
promise  more  calm  and  patient  attention.  She 
then  attempted  her  defence,  and  by  comparing 
one  part  of  her  antagonist's  objections  with  an- 
other, commonly  made  him  confute  himself;  or, 
by  showing  how  small  a  part  of  the  question  he 
had  taken  into  his  view,  proved  that  his  opinion 
could  have  no  weight.  The  audience  began 
gradually  to  lay  aside  their  prepossessions,  and 
rose,  at  last,  with  greater  veneration  for  Learn- 
tng,  but  with  greater  kindness  for  Wit. 

Their  conduct  was,  whenever  they  desired  to 
recommend  themselves  to  distinction,  entirely 
opposite.  Wit  was  daring  and  adventurous  ; 
Learning  cautious  and  deliberate.  Wit  thought 
nothing  reproachful  but  dulness ;  Learning  was 
afraid  of  no  imputation,  but  that  of  error.  Wit 
answered  before  he  understood,  lest  his  quickness 
of  apprehension  should  be  questioned  ;  Learning 
paused,  where  there  was  no  difficulty,  lest  any, 
insidious  sophism  should  lie  undiscovered.  Wit 
perplexed  every  debate  by  rapidity  and  confu- 
sion ;  Learning  tired  the  hearers  with  endless  dis- 
tinctions, and  prolonged  the  dispute  without  ad- 
vantage, by  proving  that  which  never  was  de- 
nied. Wit,  in  hopes  of  shining,  would  venture 
to  produce  what  he  had  not  considered,  and  oft- 
en succeeded  beyond  his  own  expectation,  by 
following  the  train  of  a  lucky  thought ;  Learning 
would  reject  every  new  notion,  for  fear  of  being 
entangled  in  consequences  which  she  could  not 
foresee,  and  was  often  hindered,  by  her  caution, 
from  pressing  her  advantages,  and  subduing  her 
opponent. 

Both  had  prejudices,  which  in  some  degree 
hindered  their  progress  towards  perfection,  and 
left  them  open  to  attacks.  Novelty  was  the  dar- 
ling of  Wit,  and  antiquity  of  Learning.  To  Wit, 
all  that  was  new  was  specious ;  to  Learning, 
whatever  was  ancient  was  venerable.  Wit,  how- 
ever, seldom  failed  to  divert  those  whom  he  could 
not  convince,  and  to  convince  was  not  often  his 
ambition  ;  Learning  always  supported  her  opi- 
nion with  so  many  collateral  truths,  that,  when  the 
cause  was  decided  against  her,  her  arguments 
were  remembered  with  admiration. 

Nothing  was  more  common,  on  either  side, 
than  to  quit  their  proper  characters,  and  to  hope 
for  a  complete  conquest  by  the  use  of  the  wea- 
pons which  had  been  employed  against  them. 
Wit  would  sometimes  labour  a  syllogism,  and 
Learning  distort  her  features  with  a  jest;  but 


No.  23.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


47 


they  always  suffered  by  the  experiment,  and  be- 
trayed themselves  to  confutation  or  contempt. 
The  seriousness  of  Wit  was  without  dignity,  and 
the  merriment  of  Learning  without  vivacity. 

Their  contests,  by  long  continuance,  grew  at 
last  important,  and  the  divinities  broke  into  par- 
ties. Wit  was  taken  into  the  protection  of  the 
laughter-loving  Venus,  had  a  retinue  allowed 
him  of  Smiles  and  Jests,  and  was  often  permit- 
ted to  dance  among  the  Graces.  Learning  still 
continued  the  favourite  of  Minerva,  and  seldom 
went  out  of  her  palace,  without  a  train  of  the  se- 
verer virtues,  Chastity,  Temperance,  Fortitude, 
and  Labour.  Wit,  cohabiting  with  Malice,  had 
a  son  named  Satyr,  who  followed  him,  carrying 
a  quiver  filled  with  poisoned  arrows,  which, 
where  they  once  drew  blood,  could  by  no  skill 
ever  be  extracted.  These  arrows  he  frequently 
shot  at  Learning,  when  she  was  most  earnestly 
or  usefully  employed,  engaged  in  abstruse  inqui- 
ries, or  giving  instructions  to  her  followers.  Mi- 
nerva therefore  deputed  Criticism  to  her  aid,  who 
generally  broke  the  point  of  Satyr's  arrows,  turn- 
ed them  aside,  or  retorted  them  on  himself. 

Jupiter  was  at  last  angry  that  the  peace  of  the 
heavenly  regions  should  be  in  perpetual  danger 
of  violation,  and  resolved  to  dismiss  these  trou- 
blesome antagonists  to  the  lower  world.  Hither 
therefore  they  came,  and  carried  on  their  ancient 
quarrel  among  mortals,  nor  was  either  long  with- 
out zealous  votaries.  Wit,  by  his  gayety,  capti- 
vated the  young ;  and  Learning,  by  her  authority, 
influenced  the  old.  Their  power  quickly  ap- 
peared by  very  eminent  effects ;  theatres  were 
built  for  the  reception  of  Wit;  and  colleges  en- 
dowed for  the  residence  of  Learning.  Each  party 
endeavoured  to  outvie  the  other  in  cost  and  mag- 
nificence, and  to  propagate  an  opinion,  that  it 
was  necessary,  from  the  first  entrance  into  life, 
to  enlist  in  one  of  the  factions  ;  and  that  none 
could  hope  for  the  regard  of  either  divinity,  who 
had  once  entered  the  temple  of  the  rival  power. 

There  were  indeed  a  class  of  mortals,  by  whom 
Wit  and  Learning  were  equally  disregarded  ; 
these  were  the  devotees  of  Plutus,  the  god  of 
riches :  among  these  it  seldom  happened  that 
the  gayety  of  Wit  could  raise  a  smile,  or  the  elo- 
quence of  Learning  procure  attention.  In  re- 
venge of  this  contempt  they  agreed  to  incite  their 
followers  against  them ;  but  the  forces  that  were 
sent  on  those  expeditions  frequently  betrayed 
their  trust ;  and,  in  contempt  of  the  orders  which 
they  had  received,  flattered  the  rich  in  public, 
while  they  scorned  them  in  their  hearts ;  and 
when,  by  this  treachery,  they  had  obtained  the 
favour  of  Plutus,  affected  to  look  with  an  air  of 
superiority  on  those  who  still  remained  in  the 
-ervice  of  Wit  and  Learning. 

Disgusted  with  these  desertions,  the  two  ri- 
vals, at  the  same  time,  petitioned  Jupiter  for  re- 
admission  to  their  native  habitations.  Jupiter 
thundered  on  the  right  hand,  and  they  prepared 
to  obey  the  happy  summons.  Wit  readily  spread 
his  wings  and  soared  aloft,  but  not  being  able  to 
see  far,  was  bewildered  in  the  pathless  immensi- 
ty of  the  ethereal  spaces.  Learning,  who  knew 
the  way,  shook  her  pinions  ;  but  for  want  of 
natural  vigour,  could  only  take  short  flights  ;  so, 
after  many  efforts,  they  both  sunk  again  to  the 
ground,  and  learned  from  their  mutual  distress 
the  necessity  of  union.  They  therefore  joined 
their  hands  and  renewed  their  flight ;  Learning 


was  borne  up  by  the  vigour  of  Wit,  and  Wit 
guided  by  the  perspicacity  of  Learning.  They 
soon  reached  the  dwellings  of  Jupiter,  and  were 
so  endeared  to  each  other,  that  they  lived  after- 
wards in  perpetual  concord.  Wit  persuaded 
Learning  to  converse  with  the  Graces,  and 
Learning  engaged  Wit  in  the  service  of  the  Vir- 
tues. They  were  now  the  favourites  of  all  the 
powers  of  heaven,  and  gladdened  every  banquet 
by  their  presence.  They  soon  after  married,  at 
the  command  of  Jupiter,  and  had  a  numerous 
progeny  of  Arts  and  Sciences. 


No.  23.]        TUESDAY,  JUNE  5,  1750. 

Trcs  mihi  conviva  prope  dissentire  videntur, 
Poscentcs  vario  mult  urn  diversa  palato.  HOR. 

Three  guests  I  have,  dissenting  at  my  feast, 

Requiring  each  to  gratify  his  taste 

With  different  food.  FRANCIS. 

THAT  every  man  should  regulate  his  actions  by 
his  own  conscience,  without  any  regard  to  the 
opinions  of  the  rest  of  the  world,  is  one  of  the 
first  precepts  of  moral  prudence  ;  justified  not 
only  by  the  suffrage  of  reason,  which  declares 
that  none  of  the  gifts  of  Heaven  are  to  lie  useless, 
but  by  the  voice  likewise  of  experience,  which 
will  soon  inform  us  that,  if  we  make  the  praise  or 
blame  of  others  the  rule  of  our  conduct,  we  shall 
be  distracted  by  a  boundless  variety  of  irrecon- 
cileable  judgments,  be  held  in  perpetual  suspense 
between  contrary  impulses,  and  consult  for  ever 
without  determination. 

I  know  not  whether,  for  the  same  reason,  it  is 
not  necessary  for  an  author  to  place  some  confi- 
dence in  his  own  skill,  and  to  satisfy  himself  in 
the  knowledge  that  he  has  not  deviated  from  the 
established  laws  of  composition,  without  submit- 
ting his  works  to  frequent  examinations  before 
he  gives  them  to  the  public,  or  endeavouring  to 
secure  success  by  a  solicitous  conformity  to  ad- 
vice and  criticism. 

It  is,  indeed,  quickly  discoverable,  that  con- 
sultation and  compliance  can  conduce  little  to 
the  perfection  of  any  literary  performance ;  for 
whoever  is  so  doubtful  of  his  own  abilities  as  to 
encourage  the  remarks  of  others,  will  find  him- 
self every  day  embarrassed  with  new  difficulties, 
and  will  harass  his  mind,  in  vain,  with  the  hope- 
less labour  of  uniting  heterogeneous  ideas,  di- 
gesting independent  hints,  and  collecting  into 
one  point  the  several  rays  of  borrowed  light, 
emitted  often  with  contrary  directions. 

Of  all  authors,  those  who  retail  their  labours 
in  periodical  sheets  would  be  most  unhappy,  if 
they  were  much  to  regard  the  censures  or  the 
admonitions  of  their  readers ;  for,  as  their  works 
are  not  sent  into  the  world  at  once,  but  by  small 
parts  in  gradual  succession,  it  is  always  imagin- 
ed, by  those  who  think  themselves  qualified  to 
give  instructions,  that  they  may  yet  redeem  their 
former  failings  by  hearkening  to  better  judges, 
and  supply  the  deficiencies  of  their  plan,  by  the 
help  of  the  criticisms  which  are  so  liberally  af- 
forded. 

I  have  had  occasion  to  observe,  sometimes  with 
vexation,  and  sometimes  with  merriment,  the 
different  temper  with  which  the  same  man  reads 
a  printed  and  manuscript  performance.  When 
a  book  is  once  in  the  hands  of  the  public,  it  is 


48 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  24. 


considered  as  permanent  and  unalterable,  and 
the  reader,  if  he  be  free  from  personal  prejudices, 
takes  it  up  with  no  other  intention  than  of  pleas- 
ing or  instructing  himself:  he  accommodates  his 
mind  to  the  author's  design  ;  and  having  no  inte- 
rest in  refusing  the  amusement  that  is  offeted 
him,  never  interrupts  his  own  tranquillity  by  stu- 
died cavils,  or  destroys  his  satisfaction  in  that 
which  is  already  well,  by  an  anxious  inquiry 
how  it  might  be  better;  but  is  often  contented 
without  pleasure,  and  pleased  without  perfection. 
But  if  the  same  man  be  called  to  consider  the 
merit  of  a  production  yet  unpublished,  he  brings 
an  imagination  heated  with  objections  to  pas- 
sages which  he  has  yet  never  heard  ;  he  invokes 
all  the  powers  of  criticism,  and  stores  his  me- 
mory with  Taste  and  Grace,  Purity  and  Delica- 
cy, Manners  and  Unities,  sounds  which,  having 
been  once  uttered  by  those  that  understood  them, 
have  been  since  re-echoed  without  meaning,  and 
kept  up  to  the  disturbance  of  the  World,  by  a 
constant  repercussion  from  one  coxcomb  to  ano- 
ther. He  considers  himself  as  obliged  to  show, 
by  some  proof  of  his  abilities,  that  he  is  not  con- 
sulted to  no  purpose,  and  therefore  watches  every 
opening  for  objection,  and  looks  round  for  every 
opportunity  to  propose  some  specious  alteration. 
Such  opportunities  a  very  small  degree  of  saga- 
city will  enable  him  to  find  ;  for,  in  every  work 
of  imagination,  the  disposition  of  parts,  the  in- 
sertion of  incidents,  and  use  of  decorations,  may 
be  varied  a  thousand  ways  with  equal  propriety  ; 
and  as  in  things  nearly  equal,  that  will  always 
seem  best  to  every  man  which  he  himself  pro- 
duces ;  the  critic,  whose  business  is  only  to  pro- 
pose, without  the  care  of  execution,  can  never 
want  the  satisfaction  of  believing  that  he  has 
suggested  very  important  improvements,  nor  the 
power  of  enforcing  his  advice  by  arguments, 
which,  as  they  appear  convincing  to  himself, 
either  his  kindness  or  his  vanity  will  press  obsti- 
nately and  importunately  without  suspicion  that 
he  may  possibly  judge  too  hastily  in  favour  of  his 
own  advice,  or  inquiry  whether  the  advantage  of 
the  new  scheme  be  proportionate  to  the  labour. 
It  is  observed  by  the  younger  Pliny,  that  an 
orator  ought  not  so  much  to  select  the  strongest 
arguments  which  his  cause  admits,  as  to  employ 
all  which  his  imagination  can  afford :  for,  in 
pleading,  those  reasons  are  of  most  Value,  which 
will  most  affect  the  judges ;  and  the  judges,  says 
he,  will  be  always  most  touched  with  that  which 
the?  had  before  conceived.  Every  man  who  is 
called  to  give  his  opinion  of  a  performance,  de- 
cides upon  the  same  principle:  he  first  suffers  him- 
self to  form  expectations,  and  then  is  angry  at  his 
disappointment  He  lets  his  imagination  rove 
at  large,  and  wonders  that  another,  equally  un- 
confined  in  the  boundless  ocean  of  possibility, 
takes  a  different  course. 

But,  though  the  rule  of  Pliny  be  judiciously 
laid  down,  it  is  not  applicable  to  the  writer's 
cause,  because  there  always  lies  an  appeal  from 
domestic  criticism  to  a  higher  judicature,  and  the 
public,  which  is  never  corrupted,  nor  often  de- 
ceived, is  to  pass  the  last  sentence  upon  literary 
claims. 

Of  the  great  force  of  preconceived  opinions  I 
had  many  proofs  when  I  first  entered  upon  this 
weekly  labour.  My  readers  having,  from  the 
performances  of  my  predecessors,  established  an 
idea  of  unconnected  essays,  to  which  they  be- 


lieved all  future  authors  under  a  necessity  of 
conforming,  were  impatient  cf  the  least  devia- 
tion from  their  system,  and  numerous  remon- 
strances were  accordingly  made  by  each,  as  he 
found  his  favourite  subject  omitted  or  delayed. 
Some  were  angry  that  the  Rambler  did  not,  like 
the  Spectator,  introduce  himself  to  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  public,  by  an  account  of  his  own 
birth  and  studies,  an  enumeration  of  his  adven- 
tures, and  a  description  of  his  physiognomy. 
Others  soon  began  to  remark  that  he  was  a  so- 
lemn, serious,  dictatorial  writer,  without  spright- 
liness  or  gayety,  and  called  out  with  vehemence 
for  mirth  and  humour.  Another  admonished 
him  to  have  a  special  eye  upon  the  various  clubs 
of  this  great  city,  and  informed  him  that  much  of 
the  Spectator's  vivacity  was  laid  out  upon  such 
assemblies.  He  has  been  censured  for  not  imi- 
tating the  politeness  of  his  predecessors,  having 
hitherto  neglected  to  take  the  ladies  under  his 
protection,  and  give  them  rules  for  the  just  oppo- 
sition of  colours,  and  the  proper  dimensions  of 
ruffles  and  pinners.  He  has  been  required  by 
one  to  fix  a  particular  censure  upon  those  ma- 
trons who  play  at  cards  with  spectacles :  and 
another  is  very  much  offended  whenever  he 
meets  with  a  speculation  in  which  naked  pre- 
cepts are  comprised  without  the  illustration  of 
examples  and  characters. 

I  make  not  the  least  question  that  all  these  mo- 
nitors intend  the  promotion  of  my  design,  and 
the  instruction  of  my  readers;  but  they  do  not 
know,  or  do  not  reflect,  that  an  author  has  a  rule 
of  choice  peculiar  to  himself;  and  selects  those 
subjects  which  he  is  best  qualified  to  treat,  by  the 
course  of  his  studies,  or  the  accidents  of  his  life ; 
that  some  topics  of  amusement  have  been  alrea- 
dy treated  with  too  much  success  to  invite  a  com- 
petition ;  and  that  he  who  endeavours  to  gain 
many  readers  must  try  various  arts  of  invitation, 
essay  every  avenue  of  pleasure,  and  make  fre- 
quent changes  in  his  methods  of  approach. 

I  cannot  but  consider  myself,  amidst  this  tu- 
mult of  criticism,  as  a  ship  in  a  poetical  tempest, 
impelled  at  the  same  time  by  opposite  winds, 
and  dashed  by  the  waves  from  every  quarter,  but 
held  upright  by  the  contrariety  of  the  assailants, 
and  secured  in  some  measure  by  multiplicity  of 
distress.  Had  the  opinion  of  my  censurers  been 
unanimous,  it  might  perhaps  have  overset  my  re- 
solution ;  but  since  I  find  them  at  variance  with 
each  other,  I  can,  without  scruple,  neglect  them, 
and  endeavour  to  gain  the  favour  of  the  public 
by  following  the  direction  of  my  own  reason,  and 
indulging  the  sallies  of  my  own  imagination. 


No.  24.]         SATURDAY,  JUNE  9,  1750. 

Nemo  in  sese  tentat  dcscendere. — PEKSIUS. 
None,  none  descends  into  himself. — DRYDEN. 

AMONG  the  precepts,  or  aphorisms  admitted  by 
general  consent,  and  inculcated  by  frequent  re- 
petition, there  is  none  more  famous  among  the 
masters  of  ancient  wisdom,  than  that  compendi- 
ous lesson,  TvAQi  acavrbv,  Be  acquainted  with  thy- 
self; ascribed  by  some  to  an  oracle,  and  by  oth- 
ers to  Chilo  of  Lacedemon. 

This  is,  indeed,  a  dictate,  which,  in  the  whole 
extent  of  its  meaning,  may  be  said  to  comprise 


No.  24.J 


THE  RAMBLER. 


49 


all  the  speculation  requisite  to  a  moral  agent. 
For  what  more  can  be  necessary  to  the  regula- 
tion of  life,  than  the  knowledge  of  our  original, 
our  end,  our  duties,  and  our  relation  to  other 
beings  ? 

It  is  however  very  improbable  that  the  first 
author,  whoever  he  was,  intended  it  to  be  under- 
stood in  this  unlimited  and  complicated  sense; 
for  of  the  inquiries,  which  in  so  large  an  accepta- 
tion it  would  seem  to  recommend,  soine  are  too 
extensive  for  the  powers  of  man,  and  some  re- 
quire light  from  above,  which  was  not  yet  in- 
dulged to  the  heathen  world. 

We  might  have  had  more  satisfaction  concern- 
ing the  original  import  of  this  celebrated  sen- 
tence, if  history  had  informed  us,  whether  it  was 
uttered  as  a  general  instruction  to  mankind,  or 
as  a  particular  caution  to  some  private  inquirer ; 
whether  it  was  applied  to  some  single  occasion, 
or  laid  down  as  the  universal  rule  of  life. 

There  will  occur,  upon  the  slightest  consider- 
ation, many  possible  circumstances,  in  which  this 
monition  might  very  properly  be  enforced ;  for 
every  error  in  human  conduct  must  arise  from 
ignorance  in  ourselves,  either  perpetual  or  tem- 
porary ;  and  happen  either  because  we  do  not 
know  what  is  best  and  fittest,- or  because  our 
knowledge  is  at  the  time  of  action  hot  present  to 
the  mind. 

When  a  man  employs  himself  upon  remote 
and  unnecessary  subjects,  and  wastes  his  life 
upon  questions  which  cannot  be  resolved,  and 
of  which  the  solution  would  conduce  very  little 
to  the  advancement  of  happiness :  when  he  la- 
vishes his  hours  in  calculating  the  weight  of  the 
terraqueous  globe,  or  in  adjusting  successive  sys- 
tems of  worlds  beyond  the  reach  of  the  telescope ; 
he  may  be  very  properly  recalled  from  his  excur- 
sions by  this  precept,  and  reminded,  that  there  is 
a  nearer  being  with  which  it  is  his  duty  to  be 
more  acquainted  ;  and  from  which  his  attention 
has  hitherto  been  withheld  by  studies,  to  which 
he  has  no  other  motive  than  vanity  or  curiosity. 

The  great  praise  of  Socrates  is,  that  he  drew 
the  wits  of  Greece,  by  his  instruction  and  exam- 
ple from  the  vain  pursuit  of  natural  philosophy  to 
moral  inquiries,  and  turned  their  thoughts  from 
stars  and  tides,  and  matter  and  motion,  upon  the 
various  modes  of  virtue  and  relations  of  life.  All 
his  lectures  were  but  commentaries  upon  this 
saving;  if  we  suppose  the  knowledge  of  our- 
selves recommeiided  by  Chilo,  in  opposition  to 
other  inquiries  less  suitable  to  the  state  of  man. 

The  great  fault  of  men  of  learning  is  still,  that 
they  offend  against  this  rule,  and  appear  willing 
to  study  any  thing  rather  than  themselves  ;  for 
which  reason  they  are  often  despised  by  those 
with  whom  they  imagine  themselves  above  com- 
parison ;  despised,  as  useless  to  common  pur- 
noses,  as  unable  to  conduct  the  most  trivial  af- 
fairs, and  unqualified  to  perform  those  offices  by 
which  the  concatenation  of  society  is  preserved", 
and  mutual  tenderness  excited  and  maintained. 

Gclidus  is  a  man  of  great  penetration  and  deep 
researches.  Having  a  mind  naturally  formed 
for  the  abstruser  sciences,  he  can  comprehend  in- 
tricate combinations  without  confusion,  and  be- 
ing of  a  temper  naturally  cool  and  equal,  he  is 
seldom  interrupted  by  his  passions  in  the  pur- 
suit of  the  longest  chain  of  unexpected  conse- 
quences. He  has,  therefore,  a  long  time  indulg- 
ed hopes,  that  the  solution  of  some  problems,  by 


which  the  professors  of  science  have  been  hither- 
to baffled,  is  reserved  for  his  genius  and  industry. 
He  spends  his  time  in  the  highest  room  of  his 
house,  into  which  none  of  his  family  are  suffered 
to  enter ;  and  when  he  comes  down  to  his  dinner, 
or  his  rest,  he  walks  about  like  a  stranger  that 
is  there  only  for  a  day,  without  any  tokens  of  re 
gard  or  tenderness.  He  has  totally  divestea 
himself  of  all  human  sensations  ;  he  has  neither 
eye  for  beauty,  nor  ear  for  complaint ;  he  neither 
rejoices  at  the  good  fortune  of  his  nearest  friend, 
nor  mourns  for  any  public  or  private  calamity. 
Having  once  received  a  letter,  and  given  it  his 
servant  to  read,  he  was  informed,  that  it  was 
written  by  his  brother,  who,  being  shipwrecked, 
had  swam  naked  to  land,  and  was  destitute  of 
necessaries  in  a  foreign  country.  Naked  and 
destitute!  says  Gelidus — reach  down  the  last 
volume  of  meteorological  observations,  extract  an 
exact  account  of  the  wind,  and  note  it  carefully 
in  the  diary  of  the  weather. 

The  family  of  Gelidus  once  broke  into  his 
study,  to  show  him  that  a  town  at  a  small  dis- 
tance was  on  fire,  and  in  a  few  moments  a  ser- 
vant came  up  to  tell  him,  that  the  flame  had 
caught  so  many  houses  on  both  sides,  that  the 
inhabitants  were  confounded,  and  began  to  think 
of  rather  escaping  with  their  lives  than  saving 
their  dwellings.  What  you  tell  me,  says  Geli- 
dus, is  very  probable,  for  fire  naturally  acts  in  a 
circle. 

Thus  lives  this  great  philosopher,  insensible  to 
every  spectacle  of  distress,  and  unmoved  by  the 
loudest  call  of  social  nature,  for  want  of  consi- 
dering that  men  are  designed  for  the  succour  and 
comfort  of  each  other;  that  though  there  are 
hours  which  may  be  laudably  spent  upon  know- 
ledge not  immediately  useful,  yet  the  first  atten- 
tion is  due  to  practical  virtue :  and  that  he  may 
be  justly  driven  out  from  the  commerce  of  man- 
kind, who  has  so  far  abstracted  himself  from  the 
species,  as  to  partake  neither  of  the  joys  nor 
griefs  of  others,  but  neglects  the  endearments  of 
fiis  wife,  and  the  caresses  of  his  children,  to 
count  the  drops  of  rain,  note  the  changes  of  the 
wind,  and  calculate  the  eclipses  of  the  moons  of 
Jupiter. 

I  shall  reserve  to  some  future  paper  the  reli- 
gious and  important  meaning  of  this  epitome  of 
wisdom,  and  only  remark,  that  it  may  be  applied 
to  the  gay  and  light,  as  well  as  to  the  grave  and 
solemn  parts  of  life  ;  and  that  not  only  the  philo- 
sopher may  forfeit  his  pretences  to  real  learning, 
tiut  the  wit  and  beauty  may  miscarry  in  their 
schemes,  by  the  want  of  this  universal  requisite, 
the  knowledge  of  themselves. 

It  is  surely  for  no  other  reason,  that  we  see 
such  numbers  resolutely  struggling  against  na- 
ture, and  contending  for  that  which  they  never 
can  attain,  endeavouring  to  unite  contradictions, 
and  determined  to  excel  in  characters  inconsist- 
nt  with  each  other;  that  stock-jobbers  affect 
dress,  gayety,  and  elegance,  and  mathematicians 
labour  to  be  wits ;  that  the  soldier  teases  his  ac- 
quaintance with  questions  in  theology,  and  the 
academic  hopes  to  divert  the  ladies  by  a  recital 
of  his  gallantries.  That  absurdity  of  pride  could 
proceed  only  from  ignorance  of  themselves,  by 
which  Garth  attempted  criticism,  and  Congreve 
waived  his  tide  to  dramatic  reputation,  and  de- 
sired to  be  considered  only  as  a  gentleman. 

Euphues,   with   great  parts,   and   extensive 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  25 


knowledge,  has  a  cioucled  aspect  and  ungracious 
form ;  yet  it  has  been  his  ambition,  from  his 
first  entrance  into  life,  to  distinguish  himself  by 
particularities  in  his  dress,  to  outvie  beaus  in 
embroidery,  to  import  new  trimmings,  and  to  be 
foremost  in  the  fashion.  Euphues  has  turned 
on  his  exterior  appearance  that  attention  which 
would  always  have  produced  esteem,  had  it  been 
fixed  upon  his  mind ;  and  though  his  virtues  and 
abilities  have  preserved  him  from  the  contempt 
which  he  has  so  diligently  solicited,  he  has,  at 
least,  raised  one  impediment  to  his  reputation ; 
since  all  can  judge  of  his  dress,  but  few  of  his 
understanding ;  and  many,  who  discern  that  he 
is  a  fop,  are  unwilling  to  believe  that  he  can  be 
wise. 

There  is  one  instance  in  which  the  ladies  are 
particularly  unwilling  to  observe  the  rule  of  Chi- 
lo.  They  are  desirous  to  hide  from  themselves 
the  advances  of  age,  and  endeavour  too  frequent- 
ly to  supply  the  spi  ightliness  and  bloom  of  youth 
by  artificial  beauty  and  forced  vivacity.  They 
hope  to  inflame  the  heart  by  glances  which  have 
lost  their  fire,  or  melt  it  by  languor  which  is  no 
longer  delicate ;  they  play  over  the  airs  which 
pleased  at  a  time  when  they  were  expected  only 
to  please,  and  forget  that  airs  ought  in  time  to 
give  place  to  virtues.  They  continue  to  trifle, 
because  they  could  once  trifle  agreeably,  till 
those  who  shared  their  early  pleasures  are  with, 
drawn  to  more  serious  engagements ;  and  are 
scarcely  awakened  from  their  dream  of  perpetu- 
al youth,  but  by  the  scorn  of  those  whom  they 
endeavour  to  rival.* 


No.  25.]      TUESDAY,  JUNE  12, 1750. 

Possuitt  qnia  posse  videntur.  VIRGIL. 

For  they  can  conquer  who  believe  they  can. 

DRYDEN. 

THERE  are  some  vices  and  errors  which,  though 
often  fatal  to  those  in  whom  they  are  found,  have 
yet,  by  the  universal  consent  of  mankind,  been 
considered  as  entitled  to  some  degree  of  respect, 
or  have,  at  least,  been  exempted  from  contemptu- 
ous infamy,  and  condemned  by  the  severest  mo- 
ralists with  pity  rather  than  detestation. 

A  constant  and  invariable  example  of  this  ge- 
neral partiality  will  be  found  in  the  different  re- 
gard which  has  always  been  shown  to  rashness 
and  cowardice  ;  two  vices,  of  which,  though  they 
may  be  conceived  equally  distant  from  the  mid- 
dle point,  where  true  fortitude  is  placed,  and  may 
equally  injure  any  public  or  private  interest,  yet 
the  one  is  never  mentioned  without  some  kind  of 
veneration,  and  the  other  always  considered  as 
a  topic  of  unlimited  and  licentious  censure,  on 
which  all  the  virulence  of  reproach  may  be  law- 
fully exerted. 

The  same  distinction  is  made,  by  the  common 
suffrage,  between  profusion  and  avarice,  and, 


*  Mrs.  Piozzi  says,  that  by  Gelidus,  in  this  paper   the 

suthor  meant  to  represent  Mr.  Coulson,  a  mathematician 

who  formerly  lived  at  Rochester.     This  is  not  very  probal 

'  £S  cc"8lder  the  character  Davies  gives  of  Mr.  Coul- 

£St£±!£  i!.hisTLife  «*  Garri<*.  "hich  was  certaialy 
written  under  Dr.  Jonnson's  inspection,  and,  what  relates 
lo  Colson,  probably  from  his  mformatitij.-C. 


perhaps,  between  many  other  opposite  vices  ; 
and  as  I  have  found  reason  to  pay  great  regard 
to  the  voice  of  the  people,  in  cases  where  know- 
ledge has  been  forced  upon  them  by  experience, 
without  long  deductions,  or  deep  researches,  I 
am  inclined  to  believe,  that  this  distribution  ol 
respect  is  not  without  some  agreement  with  the 
nature  of  things  ;  and  that  in  the  faults,  which 
are  thus  invested  with  extraordinary  privileges, 
there  are  generally  some  latent  principles  of  me- 
rit, some  possibilities  of  future  virtue,  which  may, 
by  degrees,  break  from  obstruction,  and  by  time 
and  opportunity  be  brought  into  act. 

It  may  be  laid  down  as  an  axiom,  that  it  is 
more  easy  to  take  away  superfluities  than  to  sup- 
ply defects ;  and  therefore  he  that  is  culpable, 
because  he  has  passed  the  middle  point  of  virtue, 
is  always  accounted  a  fairer  object  of  hope,  than 
he  who  fails  by  falling  short.  The  one  has  all 
that  perfection  requires,  and  more,  but  the  ex 
cess  may  be  easily  retrenched ;  the  other  wants 
the  qualities  requisite  to  excellence,  and  who  can 
tell  how  he  shall  obtain  them  ?  We  are  certain 
that  the  horse  may  be  taught  to  keep  pace  with 
his  fellows,  whose  fault  is  it  that  he  leaves  them 
behind  ?  We  know  that  a  few  strokes  of  the  axe 
will  lop  a  cedar ;  but  what  arts  of  cultivation 
can  elevate  a  shrub  ? 

To  walk  with  circumspection  and  steadiness 
in  the  right  path,  at  an  equal  distance  between 
the  extremes  of  error,  ought  to  be  the  constant 
endeavour  of  every  reasonable  being  ;  nor  can  1 
think  those  teachers  of  moral  wisdom  much  to 
be  honoured  as  benefactors  to  mankind,  who  are 
always  enlarging  upon  the  difficulty  of  our  du- 
ties, and  providing  rather  excuses  for  vice,  than 
incentives  to  virtue. 

But,  since  to  most  it  will  happen  often,  and  to 
all  sometimes,  that  there  will  be  a  deviation  to- 
wards one  side  or  the  other,  we  ought  always  to 
employ  our  vigilance,  with  most  attention,  on 
that  enemy  from  which  there  is  the  greatest  dan- 
ger, and  to  stray,  if  we  must  stray,  towards  those 
parts  from  whence  we  may  quickly  and  easily 
return. 

Among  other  opposite  qualities  of  the  mind, 
which  may  become  dangerous,  though  in  differ- 
ent degrees,  I  have  often  had  occasion  to  consi- 
der the  contrary  effects  of  presumption  and  de- 
spondency; of  heady  confidence,  which  pro- 
mises victory  without  contest,  and  heartless 
pusillanimity,  which  shrinks  back  from  the 
thought  of  great  undertakings,  confounds  diffi- 
culty with  impossibility,  and  considers  all  ad- 
vancement towards  any  new  attainment  as  irre- 
versibly prohibited. 

Presumption  will  be  easily  corrected.  Every 
experiment  will  teach  caution,  and  miscarriages 
will  hourly  show,  that  attempts  are  not  always 
rewarded  with  success.  The  most  precipitate 
ardour  will,  in  time,  be  taught  the  necessity  of 
methodical  gradation  and  preparatory  measures  ; 
and  the  most  daring  confidence  he  convinced 
that  neither  merit  nor  abilities  can  command 
events. 

It  is  the  advantage  of  vehemence  and  activity, 
that  they  are  always  hastening  to  their  own  re- 
formation ;  because  they  incite  us  to  try  whe- 
ther our  expectations  are  well  grounded,  and 
therefore  detect  the  deceits  which  they  are  apt 
to  occasion.  But  timidity  is  a  disease  of  the 
mind  more  obstinate  and  fatal ;  for  &  man  once 


No.  26.  J 


persuaded  that  any  impediment  is  insuperable 
has  given  it,  with  respect  to  himself,  that  strength 
and  weight  which  it  had  not  before.  He  can 
scarcely  strive  with  vigour  and  perseverance, 
when  he  has  no  hope  of  gaining  the  victory;  anc 
since  he  never  will  try  his  strength,  can  ncvei 
discover  the  unreasonableness  of  his  fears. 

There  is  often  to  be  found  in  men  devoted  to 
literature,  a  kind  of  intellectual  cowardice,  which 
whoever  converses  much  among  them,  may  ob- 
serve frequently  to  depress  the  alacrity  of  enter- 
prise, and  by  consequence  to  retard  the  improve- 
ment of  science.  They  have  annexed  to  every 
species  of  knowledge  some  chimerical  character 
of  terror  and  inhibition,  which  they  transmit,  with- 
outmuch  reflection,  from  one  to  another;  theyfirst 
fright  themselves,  and  then  propagate  the  panic 
to  their  scholars  and  acquaintance.  One  study 
is  inconsistent  with  a  lively  imagination,  another 
with  a  solid  judgment ;  one  is  improper  in  the 
early  parts  of  life,  another  requires  so  much  time, 
that  it  is  not  to  be  attempted  at  an  advanced  age ; 
one  is  dry  and  contracts  the  sentiments,  another 
is  diffuse  and  overburdens  the  memory ;  one  is 
insufferable  to  taste  and  delicacy,  and  another 
wears  out  life  in  the  study  of  words,  and  is  use- 
less to  a  wise  man,  who  desires  only  the  know- 
ledge of  things. 

But  of  all  the  bugbears  of  which  the  infantes 
barbati,  boys  both  young  and  old,  have  been  hi- 
therto frighted  fiom  digressing  into  new  tracts 
of  learning,  none  has  been  more  mischievously 
efficacious  than  an  opinion  that  every  kind  of 
knowledge  requires  a  peculiar  genius,  or  mental 
constitution  framed  for  the  reception  of  some 
ideas,  and  the  exclusion  of  others :  and  that  to 
him  whose  genius  is  not  adapted  to  the  study 
which  he  prosecutes,  all  labour  shall  be  vain 
and  fruitless,  vain  as  an  endeavour  to  mingle  oil 
and  water,  or  in  the  language  of  chymistry,  to 
amalgamate  bodies  of  heterogeneous  principles. 
This  opinion  we  may  reasonably  suspect  to 
have  been  propagated,  by  vanity,  beyond  the 
truth.  It  is  natural  for  those  who  have  raised  a 
reputation  by  any  science,  to  exalt  themselves  as 
endowed  by  Heaven  with  peculiar  powers,  or 
marked  out  by  an  extraordinary  designation  for 
their  profession  ;  and  to  fright  competitors  away 
by  representing  the  difficulties  with  which  they 
must  contend,  and  the  necessity  of  qualities  which 
are  supposed  to  be  not  generally  conferred,  and 
which  no  man  can  know  but  by  experience  whe- 
ther he  enjoys. 

To  this  discouragement  it  may  be  possibly  an- 
swered, that  since  a  genius,  whatever  it  be,  is  like 
fire  in  a  flint,  only  to  be  produced  by  collision 
with  a  proper  subject,  it  is  the  business  of  every 
man  to  try  whether  his  faculties  may  not  happily 
co-operate  with  his  desires ;  and  since  they  whose 
proficiency  he  admires,  knew  their  own  force  only 
by  the  event,  he  needs  but  engage  in  the  same 
undertaking  with  equal  spirit,  and  may  reasona- 
bly hope  for  equal  success. 

There  is  another  species  of  false  intelligence, 
given  by  those  who  profess  to  show  the  way  to 
the  summit  of  knowledge,  of  equal  tendency  to 
depress  the  mind  with  false  distrust  of  itself,  and 
weaken  it  by  needless  solicitude  and  dejection. 
When  a  scholar  whom  they  desire  to  animate 
consults  them  at  his  entrance  on  some  new  stu- 
dy, it  is  common  to  make  flattering  representa- 
tions of  its  pleasantness  and  facility.  Thus  they 


THE  RAMBLER.  51 

generally  attain  one  of  two  ends  almost  equally 


desirable  ;  they  either  incite  his  industry  by  ele- 
vating his  hopes,  or  produce  a  high  opinion  of 
their  own  abilities,  since  they  are  supposed  to 
relate  only  what  they  have  found,  and  to  have 
proceeded  with  no  less  ease  than  they  promise  to 
their  followers. 

The  student,  inflamed  by  this  encouragement, 
sets  forward  in  the  new  path,  and  proceeds  a  few- 
steps  with  great  alacrity,  but  he  soon  finds  aspe- 
rities and  intricacies  of  which  he  has  not  been 
forewarned,  and  imagining  that  none  ever  were 
so  entangled  or  fatigued  before  him,  sinks  sud- 
denly into  despair,  and  desists  as  from  an  expe- 
dition in  which  fate  opposes  him.  Thus  his 
terrors  are  multiplied  by  his  hopes,  and  he  is  de- 
feated without  resistance,  because  he  had  no  ex- 
pectation of  an  enemy. 

Of  these  treacherous  instructers,  the  one  de- 
stroys industry,  by  declaring  that  industry  is  vain, 
the  other  by  representing  it  as  needless;  the  one 
cuts  away  the  root  of  hope,  the  other  raises  it 
only  to  be  blasted ;  the  one  confines  his  pupil  to 
the  shore,  by  telling  him  that  his  wreck  is  cer- 
tain, the  other  sends  him  to  sea,  without  prepar- 
ing him  for  tempests. 

False  hopes  and  false  terrors  are  equally  to  be 
avoided..  Every  man,  who  proposes  to  grow 
eminent  by  learning,  should  carry  in  his  mind  at 
once  the  difficulty  of  excellence  and  the  force  of 
industry ;  and  remember,  that  fame  is  not  con- 
'erred  but  as  the  recompense  of  labour,  and  that 
labour  vigorously  continued  has  not  often  failed 
of  its  reward. 


No.  26.]      SATURDAY,  JUNE  14,  1750. 

Ingentes  domino s,  et  clartf  nomina  fames, 

Illustrique  graves  nobilitate  domes 
Devita,  et  longe  cautusfuge  ;  contrahe  vela, 

E.  te  littoribus  eymba  propinqua  vehat. 

SENECA 

Each  mighty  lord,  big  with  a  pompous  name, 
And  each  high  house  of  fortune  and  of  fame, 
With  caution  fly ;  contract  thy  ample  sails, 
And  near  the  shore  improve  the  gentle  gales. 

ELPHINSTON. 

MR.  RAMBLER, 

T  is  usual  for  men,  engaged  in  the  same  pur- 
suits, to  be  inquisitive  after  the  conduct  and  for- 
une  of  each  other ;  and,  therefore,  I  suppose  it 
will  not  be  unpleasing  to  you,  to  read  an  account 
if  the  various  changes  which  have  happened  in 
>art  of  a  life  devoted  to  literature.  My  narrative 
ivill  not  exhibit  any  great  variety  of  events,  or 
txtraordinary  rovolutions ;  but  may,  perhaps, 
ie  not  less  useful,  because  I  shall  relate  nothing 
ivhich  is  not  likely  to  happen  to  a  thousand 
ithers. 

I  was  born  heir  to  a  very  small  fortune,  and 
eft  by  my  father,  whom  I  cannot  remember,  to 
he  care  of  an  uncle.  He  having  no  children, 
.Iways  treated  me  as  his  son,  and  finding  in  me 
hose  qualities  which  old  men  easily  discover  in 
sprightly  children,  when  they  happen  to  love 
hem,  declared  that  a  genius  like  mine  should  ne- 
er  be  lost  for  want  of  cultivation.  He  therefore 
)laced  me,  for  the  usual  time,  at  a  great  school, 
,nd  then  sent  me  to  the  university,  with  a  larger 
llowance  than  my  own  patrimony  would  have 
afforded,  that  I  might  not  keep  mean  company, 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  26. 


but  learn  to  oecome  my  dignity  when  I  should 
be  made  lord  chancellor,  which  he  often  lament- 
ed, that  the  increase  of  his  infirmities  was  very 
likely  to  preclude  him  from  seeing. 

This  exuberance  of  money  displayed  itself  in 
gayety  of  appearance,  and  wantonness  of  ex- 
pense, and  introduced  me  to  the  acquaintance  of 
those  whom  the  same  superfluity  of  fortune  be- 
trayed to  the  same  license  and  ostentation : 
young  heirs,  who  pleased  themselves  with  a  re- 
mark very  frequent  in  their  mouths,  that  though 
they  were  sent  by  their  fathers  to  the  university, 
they  were  not  under  the  necessity  of  living  by 
their  learning. 

Among  men  of  this  class  I  easily  obtained  the 
reputation  of  a  great  genius,  and  was  persuaded 
that  with  such  liveliness  of  imagination,  and  de- 
licacy of  sentiment,  I  should  never  be  able  to 
submit  to  the  drudgery  of  the  law.  I  therefore 
gave  myself  wholly  to  the  more  airy  and  elegant 
parts  of  learning,  and  was  often  so  much  elated 
with  my  superiority  to  the  youth£  with  whom  I 
conversed,  that  I  began  to  listen,  with  great  at- 
tention, to  those  that  recommended  to  me  a  wider 
and  more  conspicuous  theatre ;  and  was  particu- 
larly touched  with  an  observation  made  by  ohe 
.of  my  friends — That  it  was  not  by  lingering  in 
the  university  that  Prior  became  ambassador,  or 
Addison  secretary  of  state. 

This  desire  was  hourly  increased  by  the  soli- 
citation of  my  companions,  who  removing  one 
by  one  to  London,  as  the  caprice  of  their  rela- 
tions allowed  them,  or  the  legal  dismission  from 
the  hands  of  their  guardians  put  it  in  their  pow- 
er, never  failed  to  send  an  account  of  the  beauty 
and  felicity  of  the  new  world,  and  to  remonstrate 
how  much  was  lost  by  every  hour's  continuance 
in  a  place  of  retirement  and  constraint. 

My  uncle  in  the  mean  time  frequently  harass- 
ed me  with  monitory  letters,  which  I  sometimes 
neglected  to  open  for  a  week  after  I  received 
them,  and  generally  read  in  a  tavern,  with  such 
comments  as  might  show  how  much  I  was  su- 
perior to  instruction  or  advice.  I  could  not  but 
wonder,  how  a  man  confined  to  the  country,  and 
acquainted  with  the  present  system  of  things, 
should  imagine  himself  qualified  to  instruct  a 
rising  genius,  born  to  give  laws  to  the  age,  re- 
fine its  taste,  and  multiply  its  pleasures. 

The  postman,  however,  still  continued  to  bring 
;ne  new  remonstrances ;  for  my  uncle  was  very 
little  depressed  by  the  ridicule  and  reproach 
which  he  never  heard.  But  men  of  parts  have 
quick  resentments ;  it  was  impossible  to  bear  his 
usurpations  for  ever ;  and  I  resolved,  once  for  all, 
to  make  him  an  example  to  those  who  imagine 
themselves  wise  because  they  are  old,  and  to 
teach  young  men,  who  are  too  tame  under  re- 
presentation, in  what  manner  gray-bearded  in- 
solence ought  to  be  treated.  I  therefore  one 
evening  took  my  pen  in  hand,  and  after  having 
animated  myself  with  a  catch,  wrote  a  general 
answer  to  all  his  precepts  with  such  vivacity  of 
turn,  such  elegance  of  irony,  and  such  asperity 
of  sarcasm,  that  I  convulsed  a  large  company 
with  universal  laughter,  disturbed  the  neighbour- 
hood with  vociferations  of  applause,  and  five 
days  afterwards  was  answered,  that  I  must  be 
content  to  live  upon  my  own  estate. 

This  contraction  of  my  income  gave  me  no 
disturbance ;  for  a  genius  like  mine  was  out  of 
the  reach  of  want.  I  had  friends  that  would  be 


proud  to  open  their  purses  at  rny  call,  and  pros- 
pects of  such  advancement  as  would  soon  re- 
concile my  uncle,  whom,  upon  mature  delibera- 
tion, I  resolved  to  receive  into  favour  without  in- 
sisting on  any  acknowledgment  of  his  offence, 
when  the  splendour  of  my  condition  should  in- 
duce him  to  wish  for  my  countenance.  I  there- 
fore went  up  to  London,  before  I  had  shown 
the  alteration  of  my  condition,  by  any  abatement 
of  my  way  of  living,  and  was  received  by  all 
my  academical  acquaintance  with  triumph  and 
congratulation.  I  was  immediately  introduced 
among  the  wits  and  men  of  spirit ,  and  in  a  short 
time  had  divested  myself  of  all  my  scholar's  gra- 
vity, and  obtained  the  reputation  of  a  pretty  fel- 
low. 

You  will  easily  believe  that  I  had  no  great 
knowledge  of  the  world;  yet  I  had  been  hinder- 
ed, by  the  general  disinclination  every  man  feels 
to  confess  poverty,  from  telling  to  any  one  the 
resolution  of  my  uncle,  and  for  some  time  sub- 
sisted upon  the  stock  of  money  which  I  had 
brought  with  me,  and  contributed  my  share  as 
before  to  all  our  entertainments.  But  my  pock- 
et was  soon  emptied,  and  I  was  obliged  to  ask 
my  friends  for  a  small  sum.  This  was  a  favour, 
which  we  had  often  reciprocally  received  from 
one  another;  they  supposed  my  wants  only  ac- 
cidental, and  therefore  willingly  supplied  them. 
In  a  short  time  I  found  a  necessity  of  asking 
again,  and  was  again  treated  with  the  same  ci- 
vility ;  but  the  third  time  they  began  to  wonder 
what  that  old  rogue  my  uncle  could  mean  by 
sending  a  gentleman  to  town  without  money ; 
and  when  they  gave  me  what  I  asked  for,  advis- 
ed me  to  stipulate  for  more  regular  remittances. 

This  somewhat  disturbed  my  dream  of  con- 
stant affluence  ;  but  I  was  three  days  after  com- 
pletely awakened ;  for  entering  the  tavern  where 
we  met  every  evening,  I  found  the  waiters  remit- 
ted their  complaisance,  and,  instead  of  contend- 
ing to  light  me  up  stairs,  suffered  me  to  wait  for 
some  minutes  at  the  bar.  When  I  came  to  my 
company,  I  found  them  unusually  grave  and 
formal,  and  one  of  them  took  the  hint  to  turn  the 
conversation  upon  the  misconduct  of  young  men, 
and  enlarged  upon  the  folly  of  frequenting  the 
company  of  men  of  fortune,  without  being  able  to 
support  the  expense,  an  observation  which  the 
rest  contributed  either  to  enforce  by  repetition, 
or  to  illustrate  by  examples.  Only  one  of  them 
tried  to  divert  the  discourse,  and  endeavoured  to 
direct  my  attention  to  remote  questions  and  com- 
mon topics. 

A  man  guilty  of  poverty  easily  believes  him- 
self suspected.  I  went,  however,  next  morning 
to  breakfast  with  him,  who  appeared  ignorant  of 
the  drift  of  the  conversation,  and  by  a  series  of 
inquiries  drawing  still  nearer  to  the  point,  pre- 
vailed on  him,  not  perhaps  much  against  his  will, 
to  inform  me,  that  Mr.  Dash,  whose  father  was 
a  wealthy  attorney  near  my  native  place,  had, 
the  morning  before,  received  an  account  of  my 
uncle's  resentment,  and  communicated  his  intel- 
ligence with  the  utmost  industry  of  grovelling  in- 
solence. 

It  was  now  no  longer  practicable  to  consort 
with  my  former  friends,  unless  I  would  be  con- 
tent to  be  used  as  an  inferior  guest,  who  was  to 
pay  for  his  wine  by  mirth  and  flattery ;  a  charac- 
ter which,  if  I  could  not  escape  it,  I  resolved  to 
endure  only  among  those  who  had  never  known 


No.  27.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


53 


me  in  the  pride  of  plenty.  I  changed  my  lodg- 
ings, and  frequented  the  coffee-houses  in  a  differ- 
ent region  of  the  town  ;  where  I  was  very  quick- 
ly distinguished  by  several  young  gentlemen  of 
high  birth  and  large  estates,  and  began  again  to 
amuse  my  imagination  with  hopes  of  preferment, 
though  not  quite  so  confidently  as  when  I  had 
less  experience. 

The  first  great  conqtiest  which  tliis  new  scene 
enabled  me  to  gain  over  myself  was,  when  I  sub- 
mitted to  confess  to  a  party,  who  invited  me  to 
an  expensive  diversion,  that  my  revenues  were 
not  equal  to  such  golden  pleasures ;  they  would 
not  suffer  me,  however,  to  stay  behind,  and  with 
great  reluctance  I  yielded  to  be  treated.  I  took 
that  opportunity  of  recommending  myself  to 
some  office  or  employment,  which  they  unani- 
mously promised  to  procure  me  by  their  joint  in- 
terest. 

I  had  now  entered  into  a  state  of  dependence, 
and  had  hopes,  or  fears,  from  almost  every  man 
I  saw.  If  it  be  unhappy  to  have  one  patron,  what 
is  his  misery  who  has  many  ?  I  was  obliged  to 
comply  with  a  thousand  caprices,  to  concur  in  a 
thousand  follies,  and  to  countenance  a  thousand 
errors.  I  endured  innumerable  mortifications,  if 
not  from  cruelty,  at  least  from  negligence,  which 
will  creep  in  upon  the  kindest  and  most  delicate 
minds,  when  they  converse  without  the  mutual 
awe  of  equal  condition.  I  found  the  spirit  and 
vigour  of  liberty  every  moment  sinking  in  me, 
and  a  servile  fear  of  displeasing  stealing  by  de- 
grees upon  all  my  behaviour,  till  no  word,  or 
look,  or  action,  was  my  own.  As  the  solicitude 
to  please  increased,  the  power  of  pleasing  grew 
less,  and  I  was  always  clouded  with  diffidence 
where  it  was  most  my  interest  and  wish  to  shine. 

My  patrons,  considering  me  as  belonging  to 
the  community,  and,  therefore,  not  the  charge  of 
any  particular  person,  made  no  scruple  of  ne- 
glecting any  opportunity  of  promoting  me,  which 
every  one  thought  more  properly  the  business  of 
another.  An  account  of  my  expectations  and 
disappointments,  and  the  succeeding  vicissitudes 
of  my  life,  I  shall  give  you  in  my  following  letter, 
which  will  be,  I  hope,  of  use  to  show  how  ill  he 
forms  his  schemes,  who  expects  happiness  with- 
out freedom.  I  am,  &c. 


N'o.  27.]         TUESDAY,  JUNE  19,  1750. 

Pauperiem  mctttcns potiore  mctallis 

f.ihirtatc  caret.  HOR. 

So  he,  who  poverty  with  horror  views, 
Who  sells  his  freedom  in  exchange  for  gold, 
(Freedom  for  mines  of  wealth  too  cheaply  sold,) 
Shall  make  eternal  servitude  his  fate. 
And  feel  a  haughty  master's  galling  weight. 

FRANCIS. 

MR.  RAMBLER, 

As  it  is  natural  for  every  man  to  think  himself  of 
importance,  your  knowledge  of  the  world  will 
incline  you  to  forgive  me,  if  I  imagine  your  curi- 
osity so  much  excited  by  the  former  part  of  my 
narration,  as  to  make  you  desire  that  I  should 
proceed  without  any  unnecessary  arts  of  connex- 
ion. I  shall,  therefore,  not  keep  you  longer  in 
such  suspense,  as  perhaps  my  performance  may 
not  compensate. 

In  the  gay  company  with  which  I  was  now 


united,  I  found  those  allurements  and  delights, 
which  the  friendship  of  young  men  always  af- 
fords; there  was  that  openness  which  naturally 
produced  confidence,  that  affability  which,  in 
some  measure,  softened  dependence,  and  that 
ardour  of  profession  which  incited  hope.  When 
our  hearts  were  dilated  with  merriment,  pro- 
mises were  poured  out  with  unlimited  profusion, 
and  life  and  fortune  were  but  a  scanty  sacrifice 
to  friendship ;  but  when  the  hour  came,  at  which 
any  effort  was  to  be  made,  I  had  generally  the 
vexation  to  find  that  my  interest  weighed  nothing 
against  the  slightest  amusement,  and  that  every 
petty  avocation  was  found  a  sufficient  plea  for 
continuing  me  in  uncertainty  and  want.  Their 
kindness  was  indeed  sincere:  when  they  pro- 
mised, they  had  no  intention  to  deceive ;  but  the 
same  juvenile  warmth  which  kindled  their  be- 
nevolence, gave  force  in  the  same  proportion  to 
every  other  passion,  and  I  was  forgotten  as  soon 
as  any  new  pleasures  seized  on  their  attention. 

Vagario  told  me  one  evening,  that  all  my  per- 
plexities should  be  soon  at  an  end,  and  desired 
me,  from  that  instant,  to  throw  upon  him  all  care 
of  my  fortune,  for  a  post  of  considerable  value 
was  that  day  become  vacant,  and  he  knew  his 
interest  sufficient  to  procure  it  in  the  morning. 
He  desired  me  to  call  on  him  early,  that  he  might 
be  dressed  soon  enough  to  wait  on  the  minister 
before  any  other  application  should  be  made.  I 
came  as  he  appointed,  with  all  the  flame  of  grati- 
tude, and  was  told  by  his  servant,  that  having 
found  at  his  lodgings,  when  he  came  home,  an 
acquaintance  who  was  going  to  travel,  he  had 
been  persuaded  to  accompany  him  to  Dover,  and 
that  they  had  taken  post-horses  two  hours  before 
day. 

I  was  once  very  near  to  preferment,  by  the 
kindness  of  Charinus,  who,  at  my  request,  went 
to  beg  a  place,  which  he  thought  me  likely  to 
fill  with  great  reputation,  and  in  which  I  should 
have  many  opportunities  of  promoting  his  in- 
terest in  return ;  and  he  pleased  himself  with 
imagining  the  mutual  benefits  that  we  should 
confer,  and  the  advances  that  we  should  make 
by  our  united  strength.  Away  therefore  he 
went,  equally  warm  with  friendship  and  ambi- 
tion, and  left  me  to  prepare  acknowledgments 
against  his  return.  At  length  he  came  back, 
and  told  me  that  he  had  met  in  his  way  a  party 
going  to  breakfast  in  the  country,  that  the  ladies 
importuned  him  too  much  to  be  refused,  and  that 
having  passed  the  morning  with  them,  he  was 
comeback  to  dress  himself  for  a  ball,  to  which  he 
was  invited  for  the  evening. 

I  have  suffered  several  disappointments  from 
tailors  and  periwig-makers,  who,  by  neglecting 
to  perform  their  work,  withheld  my  patrons  from 
court ;  and  once  failed  of  an  establishment  for 
life  by  the  delay  of  a  servant,  sent  to  a  neigh- 
bouring shop  to  replenish  a  snuff-box. 

At  last  I  thought  my  solicitude  at  an  end,  fot 
an  office  fell  into  the  gift  of  Hippodamus's  father, 
who,  being  then  in  the  country,  could  not  very 
speedily  fill  it,  and  whose  fondness  would  not 
have  suffered  him  to  refuse  his  son  a  less  reason- 
able request.  Hippodamus  therefore  set  for- 
ward with  great  expedition,  and  I  expected  every 
hour  an  account  of  his  success.  A  long  time  I 
waited  without  any  intelligence,  but  at  last  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Newmarket,  by  which  I  waa 
informed  that  the  races  were  begun,  and  I  knew 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  28. 


the  vehemence  of  his  passions  too  well  to  ima- 
gine that  he  oould  refuse  himself  his  favourite 
amusement. 

You  will  not  wonder  that  I  was  at  last  weary 
of  the  patronage  of  young  men,  especially  as  I 
found  them  not  generally  to  promise  much  great- 
er fidelity  as  they  advanced  in  life ;  for  I  observed 
that  what  they  gained  in  steadiness  they  lost  in 
benevolence,  and  grew  colder  to  my  interest  as 
they  became  more  diligent  to  promote  their  own. 
I  was  convinced  that  their  liberality  was  only 
profuseness,  that  as  chance  directed,  they  were 
equally  generous  to  vice  and  virtue,  that  they 
were  warm  but  because  they  were  thoughtless, 
and  counted  the  support  of  a  friend  only  amongst 
other  gratifications  of  passion. 

My  resolution  was  now  to  ingratiate  myself 
with  men  whose  reputation  was  established, 
whose  high  stations  enabled  them  to  prefer  me, 
and  whose  age  exempted  them  from  sudden 
changes  of  inclination.  I  was  considered  as  a 
man  of  parts,  and  therefore  easily  found  admis- 
sion to  the  table  of  Hilarius,  the  celebrated  ora- 
tor, renowned  equally  for  the  extent  of  his  know- 
ledge, the  elegance  of  his  diction,  and  the  acute- 
ness  of  his  wit.  Hilarius  received  me  with  an 
appearance  of  great  satisfaction,  produced  to  me 
all  his  friends,  and  directed  to  me  that  part  of  his 
discourse  in  which  he  most  endeavoured  to  dis- 
play his  imagination.  I  had  now  learned  my  own 
interest  enough  to  supply  him  opportunities  for 
smart  remarks  and  gay  sallies,  which  I  never 
failed  to  echo  and  applaud.  Thus  I  was  gaining 
every  hour  on  his  affections,  till  unfortunately, 
when  the  assembly  was  more  splendid  than  usu- 
al, his  desire  of  admiration  prompted  him  to  turn 
his  raillery  upon  me.  I  bore  it  for  some  time  with 
great  submission,  and  success  encouraged  him  to 
redouble  his  attacks ;  at  last  my  vanity  prevailed 
over  my  prudence,  I  retorted  his  irony  with  such 
spirit,  that  Hilarius,  unaccustomed  to  resistance, 
was  disconcerted,  and  soon  found  means  of  con- 
vincing me,  that  his  purpose  was  not  to  encou- 
rage a  rival,  but  to  foster  a  parasite. 

I  was  then  taken  into  the  familiarity  of  Argu- 
tio,  a  nobleman  eminent  for  judgment  and  criti- 
cism. He  had  contributed  to  my  reputation  by 
the  praises  which  he  had  often  bestowed  upon 
my  writings,  in  which  he  owned  that  there  were 
proofs  of  a  genius  that  might  rise  to  high  degrees 
of  excellence,  when  time  or  information  had  re- 
duced its  exuberance.  He  therefore  required 
me  to  consult  him  before  the  publication  of  any 
new  performance,  and  commonly  proposed  in- 
numerable alterations,  without  sufficient  atten- 
tion to  the  general  design,  or  regard  to  my  form 
of  style,  and  mode  of  imagination.  But  these 
corrections  he  never  failed  to  press  as  indispen- 
sably necessary,  and  thought  the  least  delay  of 
compliance  an  act  of  rebellion.  The  pride  of  an 
author  made  this  treatment  insufferable,  and  I 
thought  any  tyranny  easier  to  be  borne  than 
that  which  took  from  me  the  use  of  my  under- 
standing. 

My  next  patron  was  Eutyches  the  statesman, 
who  was  wholly  engaged  in  public  affairs,  and 
seemed  to  have  no  ambition  but  to  be  powerful 
and  rich.  I  found  his  favour  more  permanent 
than  that  of  the  others ;  for  there  was  a  certain 
price  at  which  it  might  be  bought ;  he  allowed 
nothing  to  humour  or  to  affection,  but  was  al- 
ways ready  to  pay  liberally  for  the  service  that 


he  required.  His  demands  were,  indeed,  very 
often  such  as  virtue  could  not  easily  consent  to 
gratify  ;  but  virtue  is  not  to  be  consulted  when 
men  are  to  raise  their  fortunes  by  the  favour  of 
the  great.  His  measures  were  censured  ;  I  wrote 
in  his  defence,  and  was  recompensed  with  a  place, 
of  which  the  profits  were  never  received  by  me 
without  the  pangs  of  remembering  that  they  were 
the  reward  of  wickedness — a  reward  which  no- 
thing but  that  necessity  which  the  consumption 
of  my  little  estate  in  these  wild  pursuits  had 
brought  upon  me,  hindered  me  from  throwing 
back  in  the  face  of  my  corrupter. 

At  this  time  my  uncle  died  without  a  will,  and 
I  became  heir  to  a  small  fortune.  I  had  resolu- 
tion to  throw  off*  the  splendour  which  reproached 
me  to  myself,  and  retire  to  an  humbler  state,  in 
which  I  am  now  endeavouring  to  recover  the 
dignity  of  virtue,  and  hope  to  make  some  repa- 
ration for  my  crime  and  follies,  by  informing 
others,  who  may  be  led  after  the  same  pageants, 
that  they  are  about  to  engage  in  a  course  of  life, 
in  which  they  are  to  purchase,  by  a  thousand 
miseries,  the  privilege  of  repentance. 
I  am,  <fcc. 

ECBULUS. 


No.  28.]     SATURDAY,  JUNE  23,  1750. 

Illi  more  gratis  incubat, 

Qni,notus  nimis  omnibus, 

Tgnotus  moritur  sibi.  SENECA 

To  him,  alas  !  to  him,  I  fear, 
The  face  of  death  will  terrible  appear, 
Who  in  his  life,  flatt'ring  his  senseless  pride, 
By  being  known  to  all  the  world  beside, 
Does  not  himself,  when  he  is  dying,  know, 
Nor  what  he  is,  nor  whither  he's  to  go. 

COWLEY. 

I  HAVE  shown,  in  a  late  essay,  to  what  errors 
men  are  hourly  betrayed  by  a  mistaken  opinion 
of  their  own  powers,  and  a  negligent  inspection 
of  their  own  character.  But  as  I  then  confined 
my  observations  to  common  occurrences  and  fa- 
miliar scenes,  I  think  it  proper  to  inquire,  how 
far  a  nearer  acquaintance  with  ourselves  is  ne- 
cessary to  our  preservation  from  crimes  as  well 
as  follies,  and  how  much- the  attentive  study  ot 
our  own  minds  may  contribute  to  secure  to  us 
the  approbation  of  that  Being,  to  whom  we  are 
accountable  for  our  thoughts  and  our  actions, 
and  whose  favour  must  finally  constitute  our  to- 
tal happiness. 

If  it  be  reasonable  to  estimate  the  difficulty  of 
any  enterprise  by  frequent  miscarriages,  it  may 
justly  be  concluded  that  it  is  not  easy  for  a  man 
to  know  himself,  for  wheresoever  we  turn  our 
view,  we  shall  find  almost  all,  with  whom  we 
converse  so  nearly  as  to  judge  of  their  senti- 
ments, indulging  more  favourable  conceptions 
of  their  own  virtue  than  they  have  been  able  to 
impress  upon  others,  and  congratulating  them- 
selves upon  degrees  of  excellence,  which  their 
fondest  admirers  cannot  allow  them  to  have  at- 
tained. 

Those  representations  of  imaginary  virtue  are 
generally  considered  as  arts  of  hypocrisy,  and  as 
snares  laid  for  confidence  and  praise.  But  I  be- 
lieve the  suspicion  often  unjust;  those  who  thus 
propagate  their  own  reputation,  only  extend  the 


No.  28.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


fraud  by  which  they  have  been  themselves  de- 
ceived; for  this  failing  is  incident  to  numbers, 
who  seem  to  live  without  designs,  competitions, 
or  pursuits  ;  it  appears  on  occasions  which  pro- 
mise no  accession  of  honour  or  of  profit,  and  to 
persons  fruni  whom  very  little  is  to  be  hoped  or 
feared.  It  is,  indeed,  not  easy  to  tell  how  far  we 
may  be  blinded  by  the  love  of  ourselves,  when 
we  reflect  how  much  a  secondary  passion  can 
cloud  our  judgment,  and  how  few  faults  a  man, 
in  the  first  raptures  of  love,  can  discover  in  the 
person  or  conduct  of  his  mistress. 

To  lay  open  all  the  sources  from  which  error 
flows  in  upon  him  who  contemplates  his  own 
character  would  require  more  exact  knowledge 
of  the  human  heart,  than  perhaps  the  most  acute 
and  laborious  observers  have  acquired.  And 
since  falsehood  may  be  diversified  without  end, 
it  is  not  unlikely  that  every  man  admits  an  impos- 
ture, in  some  respect  peculiar  to  himself,  as  his 
views  have  been  accidentally  directed,  or  his  ideas 
particularly  combined. 

Some  fallacies,  however,  there  are,  more  fre- 
quently insidious,  which  it  may,  perhaps,  not  be 
useless  to  detect ;  because,  though  they  are  gross, 
they  may  be  fatal,  and  because  nothing  but  atten- 
tion is  necessary  to  defeat  them. 

One  sophism  by  which  men  persuade  them- 
selves that  they  have  those  virtues  which  they 
really  want,  is  formed  by  the  substitution  of  sin- 
gle acts  for  habits.  A  miser  who  once  relieved 
a  friend  from  the  danger  of  a  prison,  suffers  his 
imagination  to  dwell  for  ever  upon  his  own  heroic 
generosity ;  he  yields  his  heart  up  to  indignation 
at  those  who  are  blind  to  merit,  or  insensible  to 
misery,  and  who  can  please  themselves  with  the 
enjoyment  of  that  wealth,  which  they  never  per- 
mit others  to  partake.  From  any  censures  of  the 
world,  or  reproaches  of  his  conscience,  he  has  an 
appeal  to  action  and  to  knowledge :  and  though 
his  whole  life  is  a  course  of  rapacity  and  avarice, 
he  concludes  himself  to  be  tender  and  liberal,  be- 
cause he  has  once  performed  an  act  of  liberality 
and  tenderness. 

As  a  glass  which  magnifies  objects  by  the  ap- 
proach  of  one  end  to  the  eye,  lessens  them  by  the 
application  of  the  other,  so  vices  are  extenuated 
by  the  inversion  of  that  fallacy,  by  which  virtues 
are  augmented.  Those  faults  which  we  cannot 
conceal  from  our  own  notice,  are  considered, 
however  frequent,  not  as  habitual  corruptions,  or 
settled  practices,  but  as  casual  failures,  and  sin- 
gle lapses.  A  man  who  has  from  year  to  year 
sethis  country  to  sale,  either  for  the  gratification 
of  his  ambition  or  resentment,  confesses  that  the 
heat  of  party  now  and  then  betrays  the  severest 
virtue  to  measures  that  cannot  be  seriously  de- 
fended. He  that  spends  his  days  and  nights  in 
riot  and  debauchery,  owns  that  his  passions  of- 
tentimes overpower  his  resolutions.  But  each 
comforts  himself  that  his  faults  are  not  with- 
out precedent,  for  the  best  and  the  wisest  men 
have  given  way  to  the  violence  of  sudden  temp- 
tations. 

There  are  men  who  always  confound  the  praise 
of  goodness  with  the  practice,  and  who  believe 
themselves  mild  and  moderate,  charitable,  and 
faithful,  because  they  have  exerted  their  elo- 
quence in  commendation  of  mildness,  fidelity, 
and  other  virtues.  This  is  an  error  almost  uni- 
versal among  those  that  converse  much  with  de- 
pendents, with  such  whose  fear  or  interest  dis- 


poses them  to  a  seeming  reverence  for  any  decla- 
mation, however  enthusiastic,  and  submission  to 
any  boast,  however  arrogant.  Having  none  to 
recall  their  attention  to  their  lives,  they  rate 
themselves  by  the  goodness  of  their  opinions, 
and  forget  how  much  more  easily  men  may  show 
their  virtue  in  their  talk  than  in  their  actions. 

The  tribe  is  likewise  very  numerous  of  those 
who  regulate  their  lives,  not  by  the  standard  of 
religion,  but  the  measure  of  other  men's  virtue ; 
who  lull  their  own  remorse  with  the  remem- 
brance of  crimes  more  atrocious  than  their  own, 
and  seem  to  believe  they  are  not  bad,  while  ano- 
ther can  be  found  worse. 

For  escaping  these  and  a  thousand  other  de- 
ceits, many  expedients  have  been  proposed. 
Some  have  recommended  the  frequent  consulta- 
tion of  a  wise  friend,  admitted  to  intimacy,  and 
encouraged  to  sincerity.  But  this  appears  a  re 
medy  by  no  means  adapted  to  general  use  :  for 
in  order  to  secure  the  virtue  of  one,  it  presup- 
poses more  virtue  in  two  than  will  generally  be 
found.  In  the  first,  such  a  desire  of  rectitude 
and  amendment,  as  may  incline  him  to  hear  his 
own  accusation  from  the  mouth  of  him  whom  he 
esteems,  and  by  whom,  therefore,  he  will  always 
hope  that  his  faults  are  not  discovered  ;  and  in 
the  second,  such  zeal  and  honesty,  as  will  make 
him  content  for  his  friend's  advantage  to  lose  his 
kindness. 

A  long  life  may  be  passed  without  finding  a 
friend  in  whose  understanding  and  virtue  we  can 
equally  confide,  and  whose  opinion  we  can  value 
at  once  for  its  justness  and  sincerity.  A  weak 
man,  however  honest,  is  not  qualified  to  judge. 
A  man  of  the  world,  however  penetrating,  is  not 
fit  to  counsel.  Friends  are  often  chosen  for  si- 
militude of  manners,  and  therefore  each  palliates 
the  other's  failings  because  they  are  his  own. 
Friends  are  tender,  and  unwilling  to  give  pain,  or 
they  are  interested,  and  fearful  to  offend. 

These  objections  have  inclined  others  to  advise, 
that  he  who  would  know  himself,  should  consult 
his  enemies,  remember  the  reproaches  that  are 
vented  to  his  face,  and  listen  for  the  censures 
that  are  uttered  in  private.  For  his  great  busi- 
ness is  to  know  his  faults,  and  those  malignity 
will  discover,  and  resentment  will  reveal.  But 
this  precept  may  be  often  frustrated ;  for  it  sel- 
dom happens  that  rivals  or  opponents  are  suffered 
to  come  near  enough  to  know  our  conduct  with 
so  much  exactness,  as  that  conscience  should  al- 
low and  reflect  the  accusation.  The  charge  of 
an  enemy  is  often  totally  false,  and  commonly  so 
mingled  with  falsehood,  that  the  mind  takes  ad 
vantage  from  the  failure  of  one  part  to  discredit 
the  rest,  and  never  suffers  any  disturbance  after 
ward  from  such  partial  reports. 

Yet  it  seems  that  enemies  have  been  always 
found  by  experience  the  most  faithful  monitors ; 
for  adversity  has  ever  been  considered  as  the 
state  in  which  a  man  most  easily  becomes  ac- 
quainted with  himself,  and  this  effect  it  must  pro- 
duce by  withdrawing  flatterers,  whose  business 
it  is  to  hide  our  weakness  from  us,  or  by  giving 
loose  to  malice,  and  license  to  reproach ;  or  at 
least  by  cutting  off  those  pleasures  which  called 
us  away  from  meditation  on  our  conduct,  and  re- 
pressing that  pride  which  too  easily  persuades  us 
that  we  merit  whatever  we  enjoy. 

Part  of  these  benefits  it  is  in  every  man's  power 
to  procure  himself,  by  assigning  proper  portions 


56 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  29. 


of  his  life  to  the  examination  of  the  rest,  and  by 
putting  himself  frequently  in  such  a  situation,  by 
retireinent  and  abstraction,  as  may  weaken  the 
influence  of  external  objects.  By  this  practice 
lie  may  obtain  the  solitude  of  adversity  without 
its  melancholy,  its  instructions  without  its  cen- 
sures, and  its  sensibility  without  its  perturbations. 

The  necessity  of  setting  the  world  at  a  dis- 
tance from  us,  when  we  are  to  take  a  survey  of 
ourselves,  has  sent  many  from  high  stations  to 
the  severities  of  a  monastic  life ;  and,  indeed, 
every  man  deeply  engaged  in  business,  if  all  re- 
gard to  another  state  be  not  extinguished,  must 
have  the  conviction,  though,  perhaps,  not  the  re- 
solution of  Valdesso,  who,  when  he  solicited 
Charles  the  Fifth  to  dismiss  him,  being  asked, 
whether  he  retired  upon  disgust,  answered  that 
he  laid  down  his  commission,  for  no  other  rea- 
son but  because  there  ought  to  be  some  time  for  so- 
ber reflection  between  the  life  of  a  soldier  and  his 
death. 

There  are  few  conditions  which  do  not  entan- 
gle us  with  sublunary  hopes  and  fears,  from 
which  it  is  necessary  to  be  at  intervals  disencum- 
bered, that  we  may  place  ourselves  in  his  presence 
who  views  effects  in  their  causes,  and  actions  in 
their  motives ;  that  we  may,  as  Chillingworth 
expresses  it,  consider  things  as  if  there  were  no 
other  beings  in  the  world  but  God  and  ourselves  : 
or,  to  use  language  yet  more  awful,  may  commune 
with  our  own  hearts  and  be  still. 

Death,  says  Seneca,  falls  heavy  upon  him  who 
is  too  much  known  to  others,  and  too  little  to 
himself;  and  Pontanus,  a  man  celebrated  among 
the  early  restorers  of  literature,  thought  the  study 
of  our  own  hearts  of  so  much  importance,  that  he 
has  recommended  it  from  his  tomb.  Sum  Joan- 
nes Jovianus  Pontanus,  quern  amacerunl  bonae, 
JMusce,  suspexerunt  viri  probi,  honestaverunt  reges 
domini ;  jam  scis  qui  sim,vel  qui  potius  fuerim ; 
ego  vero  te,  hospes,  noscere  in  tenebris  nec/ueo,  sed 
teipsum  ut  noscas rogo.  "  I  am  Pontanus,  beloved 
by  the  powers  of  literature,  admired  by  men  of 
worth,  and  dignified  by  the  monarchs  of  the 
world.  Thou  knowest  now  who  I  am,  or  more 
properly  who  I  was.  For  thee,  stranger,  I  who 
am  in  darkness  cannot  know  thee,  but  I  entreat 
thee  to  know  thyself." 

I  hope  every  reader  of  this  paper  will  consider 
himself  as  engaged  to  the  observation  of  a  pre- 
cept, which  the  wisdom  and  virtue  of  all  ages 
have  concurred  to  enforce :  a  precept  dictated  by 
philosophers,  inculcated  by  poets,  and  ratified 
by*  saints. 


No.  29.]      TUESDAY,  JUNE  26,  1750. 

Prudens  futuri  temporit  exitum 
Catiffinosa  node  premit  Deus  : 

Ridetque,  si  mortalis  ultra 

Fas  trepidet HOR. 

But  God  has  wisely  hid  from  human  sight 

The  dark  decrees  of  future  fate, 
And  sown  their  seeds  in  depth  of  night; 
He  luu <:  hs  nt  all  the  giddy  turns  of  state, 
When  mortals  search  too  soon,  and  fear  too  late. 

DRVDEN. 

THERE  is  nothing  recommended  with  greater 
frequency  among  the  gayer  poets  of  antiquity, 
than  the  secure  possession  of  the  present  hour, 
and  the  dismission  of  all  the  cares  which  intrude 


!  upon  our  quiet,  or  hinder,  by  importunate  pertur- 
1  bations,  the  enjoyment,  of  those  delights  which 
our  condition  happens  to  set  before  us. 

The  ancient  poets  are,  indeed,  by  no  means 
unexceptionable  teachers  of  morality;  their  pre- 
cepts arc  to  be  always  considered  as  the  sallies 
of  a  genius,  intent  rather  upon  giving  pleasure 
than  instruction,  eager  to  take  every  advantage 
of  insinuation,  and,  provided  the  passions  can  be 
engaged  on  its  side,  very  solicitous  about  the  suf- 
frage of  reason. 

The  darkness  and  uncertainty  through  which 
the  heathens  were  compelled  to  wander  in  the 
pursuit  of  happiness,  may,  indeed,  be  alleged  as 
an  excuse  for  many  of  their  seducing  invitations 
to  immediate  enjoyment,  which  the  moderns,  by 
whom  they  have  been  imitated,  have  not  to  plead. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  such  as  had  no  promise  of 
another  state  should  eagerly  turn  their  thoughts 
upon  the  improvement  of  that  which  was  before 
them  ;  but  surely  those  who  are  acquainted  with 
the  hopes  and  fears  of  eternity,  might  think  it  ne- 
cessary to  put  some  restraint  upon  their  imagina- 
tions, and  reflect  that  by  echoing  the  songs  of  the 
ancient  bacchanals,  and  transmitting  the  maxims 
of  past  debauchery,  they  not  only  prove  that  they 
want  invention,  but  virtue,  and  submit  to  the  ser- 
vility of  imitation  only  to  copy  that  of  which  the 
writer,  if  he  was  to  live  now,  would  often  be 
ashamed. 

Yet  as  the  errors  and  follies  of  a  great  genius 
are  seldom  without  some  radiations  of  under- 
standing, by  which  meaner  minds  may  be  en- 
lightened, the  incitements  to  pleasure  are,  in 
those  authors,  generally  mingled  with  such  reflec- 
tions upon  life,  as  well  deserve  to  be  considered 
distinctly  from  the  purposes  for  which  they  are 
produced,  and  to  be  treasured  up  as  the  settled 
conclusions  of  extensive  observation,  acute  saga- 
city, and  mature  experience. 

It  is  not  without  true  judgment,  that  on  these 
occasions  they  often  warn  their  readers  against 
inquiries  inlo  futurity,  and  solicitude  about  events 
which  lie  hid  in  causes  yet  inactive,  and  which 
time  has  not  brought  forward  into  the  view  of 
reason.  An  idle  and  thoughtless  resignation  to 
chance,  without  any  struggle  against  calamity, 
or  endeavour  after  advantage,  is  indeed  below 
the  dignity  of  a  reasonable  being,  in  whose  pow- 
er Providence  has  put  a  great  part  even  of  Iiis 
present  happiness;  but  it  shows  an  equal  igno- 
rance of  our  proper  sphere,  to  harass  our  thoughts 
with  conjectures  about  things  not  yet  in  being. 
How  can  we  regulate  events,  of  which  we  yet 
know  not  whether  they  will  ever  happen  ?  And 
why  should  we  think,  with  painful  anxiety,  about 
that  on  which  our  thoughts  can  have  no  influ- 
ence. 

It  is  a  maxim  commonly  received,  that  a  wise 
man  is  never  surprised ;  and,  perhaps,  this  ex- 
emption from  astonishment  may  be  imagined  to 
proceed  from  such  a  prospect  into  futurity,  as 
gave  previous  intimation  of  those  evils  which 
often  fall  unexpected  upon  others  that  have  legs 
foresight.  But  the  truth  is,  that  things  to  come, 
except  when  they  approach  very  nearly,  are  equal- 
ly hidden  from  men  of  all  degrees  of  understand- 
ing ;  and  if  a  wise  man  is  not  amazed  at  sudden 
occurrences,  it  is  not  that  he  has  thought  more, 
but  less  upon  futurity.  He  never  considered 
things  not  yet  existing  as  the  proper  objects  of 
his  attention;  he  never  indulged  dreams  till  he 


No.  30.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


57 


was  deceived  by  their  phantoms,  nor  ever  realiz- 
ed nonentities  to  his  mind.  He  is  not  surprised 
because  he  is  not  disappointed,  and  he  escapes 
disappointment  because  he  never  forms  any  ex- 
pectations. 

The  concern  about  things  to  come,  that  is  so 
justly  censured,  is  not  the  result  of  those  gene- 
ral reflections  on  the  variableness  of  fortune,  the 
uncertainty  of  life,  and  the  universal  insecurity 
of  all  human  acquisitions,  which  must  always  be 
suggested  by  the  view  of  the  world  ;  but  such  a 
desponding  anticipation  of  misfortune,  as  fixes 
the  mind  upon  scenes  of  gloom  and  melancholy, 
and  makes  fear  predominate  in  every  imagina- 
tion. 

Anxiety  of  this  kind  is  nearly  of  the  same  na- 
ture with  jealousy  in  love,  and  suspicion  in  the 
general  commerce  of  life  ;  a  temper  which  keeps 
the  man  always  in  alarms  ;  disposes  him  to  judge 
of  every  thing  in  a  manner  that  least  favours  his 
own  quiet,  fills  him  with  perpetual  stratagems  of 
counteraction,  wears  him  out  in  schemes  to  obvi- 
ate evils  which  never  threatened  him,  and  at 
length,  perhaps,  contributes  to  the  production  of 
those  mischiefs,  of  which  it  had  raised  such 
dreadful  apprehensions. 

It  has  been  usual  in  all  ages  for  moralists  to  re- 
press the  swellings  of  vain  hope,  by  representa- 
tions of  the  innumerable  casualties  to  which  life 
is  subject,  and  by  instances  of  the  unexpected  de- 
feat of  the  wisest  schemes  of  policy,  and  sudden 
subversions  of  the  highest  eminences  of  great- 
ness. It  has,  perhaps,  not  been  equally  observ- 
ed, that  all  these  examples  afford  the  proper  anti- 
dote to  fear,  as  well  as  to  hope,  and  may  be  ap- 
plied with  no  less  efficacy  as  consolations  to  the 
timorous,  than  as  restraints  to  the  proud. 

Evil  is  uncertain  in  the  same  degree  as  good, 
and  for  the  reason  that  we  ought  not  to  hope  too 
securely,  we  ought  not  to  fear  with  too  much  de- 
jection. The  state  of  the  world  is  continually 
changing,  and  none  can  tell  the  result  of  the  next 
vicissitude.  Whatever  is  afloat  in  the  stream  of 
time,  may,  when  it  is  very  near  us,  be  driven 
away  by  an  accidental  blast,  which  shall  happen 
to  cross  the  general  course  of  the  csrrent  The 
sudden  accidents  by  which  the  powerful  are  de- 
pressed, may  fall  upon  those  whose  malice  we 
fear ;  and  the  greatness  by  which  we  expect  to 
be  overborne,  may  become  another  proof  of  the 
false  flatteries  of  fortune.  Our  enemies  maybe- 
come  weak,  or  we  grow  strong  before  our  en- 
counter, or  we  may  advance  against  each  other 
without  ever  meeting.  There  are,  indeed,  natu- 
ral evils  which  we  can  flatter  ourselves  with  no 
hopes  of  escaping,  and  with  little  of  delaying ; 
but  of  the  ills  which  are  apprehended  from  human 
malignity,  or  the  opposition  of  rival  interests,  we 
may  always  alleviate  the  terror,  by  considering 
that  our  persecutors  are  weak  and  ignorant,  and 
mortal  like  ourselves. 

The  misfortunes  which  arise  from  the  concur- 
rence of  unhappy  incidents  should  never  be  suf- 
fered to  disturb  us  before  they  happen  ;  because, 
if  the  breast  be  once  laid  open  to  the  dread  of 
mere  possibilities  of  misery,  life  must  be  given  a 
prey  to  dismal  solicitude,  and  quiet  must  be  lost 
for  ever. 

It  is  remarked  by  old  Cornaro,  that  it  is  absurd 

to   be   afraid   of  the  natural  dissolution  of  the 

body,  because  it  must  certainly  happen,  and  can, 

by  no  caution  or  artifice,  be  avoided.    Whether 

H 


the  sentiment  be  entirely  just  I  shall  not  exa- 
mine; but  certainly  if  it  be  improper  to  fear  events 
which  must  happen,  it  is  yet  more  evidently  con- 
trary  to  right  reason  to  fear  those  which  may  ne- 
ver happen,  and  which,  if  they  should  come  up- 
on us,  we  cannot  resist. 

As  we  ought  not  to  give  way  to  fear,  any  more 
than  indulgence  to  hope,  because  the  objects 
both  of  fear  and  hope  are  yet  uncertain,  so  we 
ought  not  to  trust  the  representations  of  one 
more  than  of  the  other,  because  they  are  both 
equally  fallacious;  as  hope  enlarges  happiness, 
fear  aggravates  calamity.  It  is  generally  allow- 
ed, that  no  man  ever  found  the  happiness  of  pos- 
session proportionate  to  that  expectation  which 
incited  his  desire,  and  invigorated  his  pursuit ; 
nor  has  any  man  found  the  evils  of  life  so  formi- 
dable in  reality,  as  they  were  described  to  him 
by  bis  own  imagination ;  every  species  of  distress 
brings  with  it  some  peculiar  supports,  some  un- 
foreseen means  of  resisting,  or  power  of  enduring. 
Taylor  justly  blames  some  pious  persons,  who 
indulge  their  fancies  too  much,  set  themselves, 
by  the  force  of  imagination,  in  the  place  of  the 
ancient  martyrs  and  confessors,  and  question  the 
validity  of  their  own  faith,  because  they  shrink 
at  the  thoughts  of  flames  and  tortures.  It  is, 
says  he,  sufficient  that  you  are  able  to  encounter 
the  temptations  which  now  assault  you ;  when 
God  sends  trials,  he  may  send  strength. 

All  fear  is  in  itself  painful,  and  when  it  con- 
duces not  to  safety  is  painful  without  use.  Every 
consideration,  therefore,  by  which  groundless  ter» 
rors  may  be  removed,  adds  something  to  human 
happiness.  It  is  likewise  not  unworthy  of  re 
mark,  that  in  proportion  as  our  cares  are  employ 
ed  upon  the  future  they  are  abstracted  from  the 
present,  from  the  only  time  which  we  can  call 
our  own,  and  of  which  if  we  neglect  the  apparent 
duties,  to  make  provision  against  visionary  at 
tacks,  we  shall  certainly  counteract  our  own 
purpose ;  for  he,  doubtless,  mistakes  his  true  in- 
terest,  who  thinks  that  he  can  increase  his  safety 
when  he  impairs  his  virtue. 


No.  30.]       SATURDAY,  JUNE  30,  1750. 


-  Vultus  ubi  tnua 


Affvlsit  populo,  ffratior  it  diet, 
Et  soles  melius  nitent. 

Whene'er  thy  countenance  divine 
Th'  attendant  people  cheers, 

The  genial  suns  more  radiant  shine, 
The  day  more  glad  appears. 


ELPHINSTO*. 


MR.  RAMBLER, 

THERE  are  few  tasks  more  ungrateful  than  for 
persons  of  modesty  to  speak  their  own  praises 
In  some  cases,  however,  this  must  be  done  foi 
the  general  good,  and  a  generous  spirit  will  or 
such  occasions  assert  its  merit,  and  vindicate  it 
self  with  becoming  warmth. 

My  circumstances,  Sir,  are  very  hard  and  pe 
culiar.  Could  the  world  be  brought  to  treat  m» 
as  I  deserve,  it  woidd  be  a  public  benefit  This 
makes  me  apply  to  you,  that  my  case  being  fair 
ly  stated  in  a  paper  so  generally  esteemed,  I  may 
suffer  no  longer  from  ignorant  and  childish  pre 
judices. 

My  elder  brother  was  a  Jew ;  a  very  respecta 


58 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  30. 


We  person,  but  somewhat  austere  in  his  manner ; 
highly  and  deservedly  valued  by  his  near  rela- 
tions and  intimates,  but  utterly  unfit  for  mixing 
in  a  larger  society,  or  gaining  a  general  acquaint- 
ance among  mankind.  In  a  venerable  old  age 
he  retired  from  the  world,  and  I  in  the  bloom  of 
youth  came  into  it,  succeeding  him  in  all  his  dig- 
nities, and  formed,  as  I  might  reasonably  flatter 
myself,  to  be  ths  object  of  universal  love  and 
esteem.  Joy  and  gladness  were  born  with  me ; 
cheerfulness,  good  humour,  and  benevolence, 
always  attended  and  endeared  my  infancy. 
That  time  is  long  past :  so  long,  that  idle  irna- 

finations  are  apt  to  fancy  me  wrinkled,  old,  and 
isagreeable ;  but,  unless  my  looking-glass  de- 
ceives me,  I  have  not  yet  lost  one  charm,  one 
beauty  of  my  earliest  years.  However,  thus  far 
is  too  certain,  I  am  to  every  body  just  what  they 
choose  to  think  me,  so  that  to  very  few  I  appear 
in  my  right  shape ;  and  though  naturally  1  am 
the  friend  of  human  kind,  to  few,  very  few  com- 
paratively, am  I  useful  or  agreeable. 

This  is  the  more  grievous,  as  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible for  me  to  avoid  being  in  all  sorts  or 
places  and  companies ;  and  I  arn  therefore  liable 
to  meet  with  perpetual  affronts  and  injuries. 
Though  I  have  as  natural  an  antipathy  to  cards 
and  dice,  as  some  people  have  to  a  cat,  many 
and  many  an  assembly  am  I  forced  to  endure ; 
and  though  rest  and  composure  are  my  peculiar 
joy,  am  worn  out  and  harassed  to  death  with 
journeys  by  men  and  women  of  quality,  who 
never  take  one  but  when  I  can  be  of  the  party. 
Some,  on  a  contrary  extreme,  will  never  receive 
me  but  in  bed,  where  they  spend  at  least  half  of 
the  time  I  have  to  stay  with  them ;  and  others 
are  so  monstrously  ill  bred  as  to  take  physic  on 
purpose  when  they  have  reason  to  expect  me. 
Those  who  keep  upon  terms  of  more  politeness 
with  me  are  generally  so  cold  and  constrained 
in  their  behaviour,  that  I  cannot  but  perceive 
myself  an  unwelcome  guest ;  and  even  among 
persons  deserving  of  esteem,  and  who  certainly 
have  a  value  for  me,  it  is  too  evident  that  gene 
rally  wherever  1  come  I  throw  a  dulness  ov^r 
the  whole  company,  that  I  am  entertained  with 
a  formal,  stiff  civility,  and  that  they  are  glad 
when  I  am  fairly  gone. 

How  bitter  must  this  kind  of  reception  be  to 
one  formed  to  inspire  delight,  admiration,  and 
love  ?  To  one  capable  of  answering  and  re- 
warding the  greatest  warmm  and  delicacy  of 
sentiments ! 

I  was  bred  up  among  a  set  of  excellent  people, 
who  affectionately  loved  me,  and  treated  me  with 
the  utmost  honour  and  respect  It  would  be  te- 
dious to  relate  the  variety  of  my  adventures,  and 
strange  vicissitudes  of  rny  fortune  in  many  differ- 
ent countries.  Here  in  England  there  was  a 
time  when  I  lived  according  to  my  heart's  desire. 
Whenever  I  appeared,  public  assemblies  ap- 
pointed for  my  reception  were  crowded  with  per- 
sons of  quality  and  fashion,  early  dressed  as  for 
a  court,  to  pay  me  their  devoirs.  Cheerful  hos- 
pitality every  where  crowned  my  board,  and  I 
was  looked  upon  in  every  country  parish  as  a 
kind  of  social  bond  between  the  squire,  the  par- 
son, and  the  tenants.  The  laborious  poor  every 
where  blessed  my  appearance  ;  they  do  so  still, 
and  keep  their  best  clothes  to  do  me  honour ; 
though  as  much  as  I  delight  in  the  honest  country 
folks,  they  do  now  and  then  throw  a  pot  of  ale  at 


my  head,  and  sometimes  an  unlucky  boy  will 
drive  his  cricket-ball  full  in  my  face. 

Even  in  these  my  best  days  there  were  persons 
who  thought  me  too  demure  and  grave.  I  must 
forsooth  by  all  means  b3  instructed  by  foreign 
masters,  and  taught  to  dance  and  play.  This 
method  of  education  was  so  contrary  to  my  ge- 
nius, formed  for  much  nobler  entertainments, 
that  it  did  not  succeed  at  all. 

I  fell  next  into  the  hands  of  a  very  different  set. 
They  were  so  excessively  scandalized  at  the 
gayety  of  my  appearance,  as  not  only  to  despoil 
me  of  the  foreign  fopperies,  the  paint  and  the 
patches  that  I  had  been  tricked  out  with  by  my 
last  misjudging  tutors,  but  they  robbed  me  of 
every  innocent  ornament  I  had  from  my  infancy 
been  used  to  gather  in  the  fields  and  gardens  ; 
nay,  they  blacked  my  face,  and  covered  me  all 
over  with  a  habit  of  mourning,  and  that  too  very 
coarse  and  awkward.  I  was  now  obliged  to 
spend  my  whole  life  in  hearing  sermons;  nor  per- 
mitted so  much  as  to  smile  upon  any  occasion. 

In  this  melancholy  disguise  I  became  a  per 
feet  bugbear  to  all  children  and  young  folks. 
Wherever  I  came  there  was  a  general  hush,  and 
immediate  stop  to  all  pleasantness  of  look  or  dis- 
course ;  and  not  being  permitted  to  talk  with 
them  in  my  own  language  at  that  time,  they  took 
such  a  disgust  to  me  in  those  tedious  hours  of 
yawning;  that  having  transmitted  it  to  their  chil- 
dren, I  cannot  now  be  heard,  though  it  is  long 
since  I  have  recovered  my  natural  form  and 
pleasing  tone  of  voice.  Would  they  but  receive 
my  visits  kindly,  and  listen  to  what  I  could  tell 
them — let  me  say  it  without  vanity — how  charm- 
ing a  companion  should  I  be !  to  every  one  could 
I  talk  on  the  subjects  most  interesting  and  most 
pleasing.  With  the  great  and  ambitious,  I 
would  discourse  of  honours  and  advancement.^ 
of  distinctions  to  which  the  whole  world  should 
be  witness,  of  unenvied  dignities  and  durabl  i 
preferments.  To  the  rich  1  would  tell  of  inex- 
haustible treasures,  and  the  sure  method  to  at- 
|  tain  them.  I  would  teach  them  to  put  out  their 
money  on  the  best  interest,  and  instruct  the 
lovers  of  pleasure  how  to  secure  and  improve  it 
to  the  highest  degree.  The  beauty  should  learn 
of  me  how  to  preserve  an  everlasting  bloom.  Ta 
the  afflicted  I  wouH  administer  comfort,  and  re- 
laxation to  the  bufy, 

As  I  dare  promise  myself  you  will  attest  the 
truth  of  all  I  have  advanced,  there  is  no  doubt 
but  many  will  be  desirous  of  improving  their  ac- 
quaintance with  me  ;  and  that  I  may  not  be 
thought  too  difficult,  1  will  tell  you,  in  short,  how 
I  wish  to  be  received. 

You  must  know  I  equally  hate  lazy  idleness 
and  hurry.  I  would  every  where  be  welcomed 
at  a  tolerably  early  hour  with  decent  good-hu- 
mour and1  gratitude.  I  must  be  attended  in  the 
great  halls,  peculiarly  appropriated  to  me,  with 
respect ;  but  I  do  not  insist  upon  finery :  pro- 
priety of  appearance,  and  perfect  neatness,  is  all 
I  require.  I  must  at  dinner  be  treated  with  a 
temperate,  but  cheerful  social  meal ;  both  the 
neighbours  and  the  poor  should  be  the  better  for 
me.  Some  time  I  must  have  tete-a-tete  with  my 
kind  entertainers,  and  the  rest  of  my  visit  should 
be  spent  in  pleasant  walks  and  airings  among 
sets  of  agreeable  people,  in  such  discourse  as  I 
shall  naturally  dictate,  or  in  reading  some  lew 
selected  out  of  those  numberless  books  that  are,. 


No.  31.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


59 


dedicated  to  me,  and  go  by  my  name.  A  name 
that,  alas !  as  the  world  stands  at  present,  makes 
them  oftener  thrown  aside  than  taken  up.  As 
those  conversations  and  books  should  be  both 
well  chosen,  to  give  some  advice  on  that  head 
may  possibly  furnish  you  with  a  future  paper, 
and  any  thing  you  shall  offer  on  my  behalf  will 
be  of  great  service  to, 

Good  Mr.  Rambler, 

Your  faithful  friend  and  sen-ant, 

SUNDAY.* 


No.  31.]       TUESDAY,  JULY  3,  1750. 

Ifon  ego  mendosos  ausim  defenders  mores, 
Falsaque provitiis  anna  tentre  meis. — OVID. 

Corrupted  manners  I  shall  ne'er  defend  ; 
Nor,  falsely  witty,  for  my  faults  contend. 

ELPHINSTON. 

THOUGH  the  fallibility  of  man's  reason,  and  the 
narrowness  of  his  knowledge,  are  very  liberally 
confessed,  yet  the  conduct  of  those  who  so  will- 
ingly admit  the  weakness  of  human  nature, 
seems  to  discern  that  this  acknowledgment  is 
not  altogether  sincere ;  at  least,  that  most  make 
it  with  a  tacit  reserve  in  favour  of  themselves,  and 
that  with  whatever  ease  they  give  up  the  claim 
of  their  neighbours,  they  are  desirous  of  being 
thought  exempt  from  faults  in  their  own  conduct, 
and  from  error  in  their  opinions. 

The  certain  and  obstinate  opposition,  which 
we  may  observe  made  to  confutation  however 
clear,  and  to  reproof  however  tender,  is  an  un- 
doubted argument,  that  some  dormant  privilege 
is  thought  to  be  attacked  ;  for  as  no  man  can  lose 
what  he  neither  possesses,  nor  imagines  himself 
to  possess,  or  be  defrauded  of  that  to  which  he 
has  no  right,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
those  who  break  out  into  fury  at  the  softest  con- 
tradiction, or  the  slightest  censure,  since  they 
apparently  conclude  themselves  injured,  must 
fancy  some  ancient  immunity  violated,  or  some 
natural  prerogative  invaded.  To  be  mistaken, 
if  they  thought  themselves  liable  to  mistake, 
could  not  be  considered,  as  either  shameful  or 
wonderful,  and  they  would  not  receive  with  so 
much  emotion  intelligence  which  only  informed 
them  of  what  they  knew  before,  nor  struggle  with 
such  earnestness  against  an  attack  that  deprived 
them  of  nothing  to  which  they  held  themselves 
entitled. 

It  is  related  of  one  of  the  philosophers,  that 
when  ah  account  was  brought  him  of  his  son's 
death,  he  received  it  only  with  this  reflection,  / 
knew  that  my  son  was  mortal.  He  that  is  con- 
vinced of  an  error,  if  he  had  the  same  knowledge 
of  his  own  weakness,  would,  instead  of  strain- 
ing for  artifices,  and  brooding  malignity,  only 
regard  such  oversights  as  the  appendages  of 
humanity,  and  pacify  himself  with  considering 
that  he  had  always  known  man  to  be  a  fallible 
being. 

If  it  be  true  that  most  of  our  passions  are  ex- 
cited by  the  novelty  of  objects,  there  is  little  rea- 


*  This  paper  was  written  by  Miss  Catharine  Talbot, 
•laughter  to  the  Rev.  Ed.  Talbot,  archdeacon  of  Berks, 
and"preacher  at  the  Rolls.  She  died  Jan.  9,  1770.  See 
Preface  to  the  Rambler,  in  "  British  Essayist?."  vol. 
lix  -  C. 


son  for  doubting,  that  to  be  considered  as  subject 
to  fallacies  of  ratiocination,  or  imperfection  of 
knowledge,  is  to  a  great  part  of  mankind  entirely 
new ;  for  it  is  impossible  to  fall  into  any  com- 
pany where  there  is  not  some  regular  and  es- 
tablished subordination,  without  finding  rage 
and  vehemence  produced  only  by  difference  of 
sentiments  about  things  in  which  neither  of  the 
disputants  have  any  other  interest,  than  what 
proceeds  from  their  mutual  unwillingness  to  give 
way  to  any  opinion  that  may  bring  upon  them 
the  disgrace  of  being  wrong. 

I  have  heard  of  one  that,  having  advanced  some 
erroneous  doctrines  in  philosophy,  refused  to  see 
the  experiments  by  which  they  were  confuted  : 
and  the  observation  of  every  day  will  give  new 
proofs  with  how  much  industry  subterfuges  ana 
evasions  are  sought  to  decline  the  pressure  of  re- 
sistless arguments,  how  often  the  state  of  the 
question  is  altered,  how  often  the  antagonist  is 
wilfully  misrepresented,  and  in  how  much  per- 
plexity the  clearest  positions  are  involved  by 
those  whom  they  happen  to  oppose. 

Of  all  mortals  none  seem  to  have  been  more 
infected  with  this  species  of  vanity,  than  the  race 
of  writers,  whose  reputation,  arising  solely  from 
their  understanding,  gives  them  a  very  delicate 
sensibility  of  any  violence  attempted  on  their 
literary  honour.  It  is  not  unpleasing  to  remark 
with  what  solicitude  men  of  acknowledged  abili- 
ties will  endeavour  to  palliate  absurdities  and 
reconcile  contradictions,  only  to  obviate  criti- 
cisms to  which  all  human  performances  must 
ever  be  exposed,  and  from  which  they  can  never 
suffer,  but  when  they  teach  the  world,  by  a  vain 
and  ridiculous  impatience,  to  think  them  of  im- 
portance. 

Dryden,  whose  warmth  of  fancy,  and  haste 
of  composition,  very  frequently  hurried  him 
into  inaccuracies,  heard  himself  sometimes  Ex- 
posed to  ridicule  for  having  said  in  one  of  his 
tragedies, 

I  follow  fate,  which  does  too  fast  pursue. 

That  no  man  could  at  once  follow  and  be  fol- 
lowed, was,  it  may  be  thought,  too  plain  to  be 
long  disputed  ;  and  the  truth  is,  that  Dryden 
was  apparently  betrayed  into  the  blunder  by  the 
double  meaning  of  the  word  Fate,  to  which  in 
the  former  part  of  the  verse  he  had  annexed  the 
idea  of  Fortune,  and  in  the  latter  that  of  Death  ; 
so  that  the  sense  only  was,  Though  pursued  by 
Death,  I  icill  not  resign  myself  to  despair,  but  will 
follow  Fortune,  and  do  and  suffer  what  is  appointed. 
This,  however,  was  not  completely  expressed, 
and  Dryden  being  determined  not  to  give  way  to 
his  critics,  never  confessed  that  he  had  been  sur- 
prised by  an  ambiguity  ;  but  finding  luckily  in 
Virgil  an  account  of  a  man  moving  in  a  circle, 
with  this  expression,  Et  se  sequiturque  fugitque, 
"Here,"  says  he,  "  is  the  passage  in  imitation  of 
which  I  wrote  the  line  that  my  critics  were  pleas- 
ed to  condemn  as  nonsense;  not  but  I  may 
sometimes  write  nonsense,  though  they  have 
not  the  fortune  to  find  it." 

Every  one  sees  the  folly  of  such  mean  dou- 
blings to  escape  the  pursuit  of  criticism ;  nor  is 
there  a  single  reader  of  this  poet,  who  would  not 
have  paid  him  greater  veneration,  had  he  shown 
consciousness  enough  of  his  own  superiority  to 
set  such  cavils  at  defiance,  and  owned  that  he 


60 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  32. 


sometimes  slipped  into  errors  by  the  tumult  of 
his  imagination,  and  the  multitude  of  his  ideas. 

It  is  happy  when  l\i\s  temper  discovers  itself 
only  in  little  things,  which  may  he  right  or  wrong 
without  any  influence  on  the  virtue  or  happiness 
of  mankind.  We  may,  with  very  little  inquie- 
tude, see  a  man  persist  in  a  project  which  he  has 
found  to  be  impracticable,  live  in  an  inconveni- 
ent house  because  it  was  contrived  by  himself,  or 
wear  a  coat  of  a  particular  cut,  in  hopes  by  per- 
severance to  bring  it  into  fashion.  These  are 
indeed  follies,  but  they  are  only  follies,  and, 
however  wild  and  ridiculous,  can  very  little  af- 
fect others. 

But  such  pride,  once  indulged,  too  frequently 
operates  upon  more  important  objects,  and  in- 
clines men  not  only  to  vindicate  their  errors,  but 
their  vices;  to  persist  in  practices  which  their 
own  hearts  condemn,  only  lest  they  should  seem 
to  feel  reproaches,  or  be  made  wiser  by  the  ad- 
vice of  others ;  or  to  search  for  sophisms  tending 
to  the  confusion  of  all  principles,  and  the  evacu- 
ation of  all  duties,  that  they  may  not  appear  to 
act  what  they  are  not  able  to  defend. 

Let  every  man,  who  finds  vanity  so  far  predo- 
minant, as  to  betray  him  to  the  danger  of  this 
last  degree  of  corruption,  pause  a  moment  to 
consider  what  will  be  the  consequences  of  the 
pica  which  he  is  about  to  offer  for  a  practice  to 
which  he  knows  himself  not  led  at  first  by  rea- 
son, but  impelled  by  the  violence  of  desire,  sur- 
prised by  the  suddenness  of  passion,  or  seduced 
by  the  soft  approaches  of  temptation,  and  by  im- 
perceptible gradations  of  guilt  Let  him  consi- 
der what  he  is  going  to  commit,  by  forcing  his 
understanding  to  patronise  those  appetites,  which 
it  is  its  chief  business  to  hinder  and  reform. 

The  cause  of  virtue  requires  so  little  art  to  de- 
fend it,  and  good  and  evil,  when  they  have  been 
once  shown,  are  so  easily  distinguished,  that 
such  apologists  seldom  gain  proselytes  to  their 
party,  nor  have  their  fallacies  power  to  deceive 
any'but  those  whose  desires  have  clouded  their 
discernment.  All  that  the  best  faculties  thus 
employed  can  perform  is,  to  persuade  the  hear- 
ers that  the  man  is  hopeless  whom  they  only 
thought  vicious,  that  corruption  has  passed  from 
his  manners  to  his  principles,  that  all  endea- 
vours for  his  recovery  are  without  prospect  of 
success,  and  that  nothing  remains  but  to  avoid 
him  as  infectious,  or  hunt  him  down  as  destruc- 
tive. 

But  if  it  be  supposed  that  he  may  impoae  on 
his  audience  by  partial  representations  of  con- 
sequences, intricate  deductions  of  remote  causes, 
or  perplexed  combinations  of  ideas,  which,  hav- 
ing various  relations,  appear  different  as  viewed 
on  different  sides ;  that  he  may  sometimes  puz- 
zle the  weak  and  well-meaning,  and  now  and 
then  seduce,  by  the  admiration  of  his  abilities,  a 
young  mind  still  fluctuating  in  unsettled  notions, 
and  neither  fortified  by  instniction  nor  enlight- 
ened by  experience ;  yet  what  must  be  the  event 
of  such  a  triumph !  A  man  cannot  spend  all  this 
life  in  frolic :  age,  or  disease,  or  solitude,  will 
bring  some  hours  of  serious  consideration,  and 
it  will  then  afford  no  comfort  to  think,  that  he  has 
extended  the  dominion  of  vice,  that  he  has  load- 
ed himself  with  the  crimes  of  others,  and  can 
never  know  the  extent  of  his  own  wickedness,  or 
make  reparation  for  the  mischief  that  he  has 
caused.  There  is  not,  perhaps,  in  all  the  stores 


of  ideal  anguish,  a  thought  more  painful,  than 
the  consciousness  of  having  propagated  corrup- 
tion by  vitiating  principles,  of  having  not  only 
drawn  others  from  the  paths  of  virtue,  but  block- 
ed up  the  way  by  which  they  should  return,  of 
having  blinded  them  to  every  beauty  but  the 
paint  of  pleasure,  and  deafened  them  to  every 
call  but  the  alluring  voice  of  the  syrens  of  de 
struction. 

There  is  yet  another  danger  in  this  practice . 
men  who  cannot  deceive  others,  are  very  often 
successful  in  deceiving  themselves;  they  weave 
their  sophistry  till  their  own  reason  is  entangled, 
and  repeat  their  positions  till  they  are  credited 
by  themselves  ;  by  often  contending  they  grow 
sincere  in  the  cause ;  and  by  long  wishing  for 
demonstrative  arguments,  they  at  last  bring 
themselves  to  fancy  that  they  have  found  them. 
They  are  then  at  the  uttermost  verge  of  wicked- 
ness, and  may  die  without  having  that  light TC- 
kindled  in  their  minds,  which  their  own  pride 
and  contumacy  have  extinguished. 

The  men  who  can  be  charged  with  fewest  fail- 
ings, either  with  respect  to  abilities  or  virtue,  are 
generally  most  ready  to  allow  them;  for,  not  to 
dwell  on  things  of  solemn  and  awful  considera- 
tion, the  humility  of  confessors,  the  tears  of 
saints,  and  the  dying  terrors  of  persons  eminent 
for  piety  and  innocence,  it  is  well  known  that 
Caesar  wrote  an  account  of  the  errors  committed 
by  him  in  his  wars  of  Gaul,  and  that  Hippocra- 
tes, whose  name  is  perhaps  in  rational  estima- 
tion greater  than  Caesar's,  warned  posterity 
against  a  mistake  into  which  he  had  fallen.  "So 
much,"  says  Celsus,  "does  the  open  and  artless 
confession  of  an  error  become  a  man  conscious 
that  he  has  enough  remaining  to  support  his 
character." 

As  all  error  is  meanness,  it  is  incumbent  on 
every  man  who  consults  his  own  dignity,  to  re- 
tract it  as  soon  as  he  discovers  it,  without  fear- 
ing any  censure  so  much  as  that  of  his  own  mind. 
As  justice  requires  that  all  injuries  should  be  re- 
paired, it  is  the  duty  of  him  who  has  seduced 
others  by  bad  practices  or  false  notions,  to  en- 
deavour that  such  as  have  adopted  his  errors 
should  know  his  retraction,  and  that  those  who 
have  learned  vice  by  his  example,  should  by  his 
example  be  taught  amendment. 


No.  32.]        SATURDAY,  JULY  7,  1750. 


*O<r<ra  re.  Saipovtr/ai  ri^ai 
Tiiv  av  ftoigav  iffis,  irpawf 
'lao-Oai  &t  Trpiirti  KaQoaov 


Of  all  the  woes  that  load  the  mortal  state, 

Whate'er  thy  portion,  mildly  meet  thy  fate; 

But  ease  it  as  thou  canst.  -  "      ELPHINSTON. 

So  large  a  part  of  human  life  passes  in  a  state 
contrary  to  our  natural  desires,  that  one  of  the 
principal  topics  of  moral  instruction  is  the  art  of 
bearing  calamities.  And  such  is  the  certainty  of 
evil,  that  it  is  the  duty  of  every  man  to  furnish 
his  mind  with  those  principles  that  may  enable 
him  to  act  under  it  with  decency  and  propriety. 
The  sect  of  ancient  philosophers,  that  boasted 
to  have  carried  this  necessary  science  to  the  high- 
est perfection,  were  the  stoics,  or  scholars  of 


No.  32.J 


THE  RAMBLER. 


61 


Zeno,  whose  wild  enthusiastic  virtue  pretended 
to  an  exemption  from  the  sensibilities  of  unen- 
lightened mortals,  and  who  proclaimed  them- 
selves  exalted,  by  the  doctrines  of  their  sect, 
above  the  reach  of  those  miseries  which  embitter 
life  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  They  therefore  re- 
moved pain,  poverty,  loss  of  friends,  exile,  and 
violent  death,  from  the  catalogue  of  evils ;  and 
passed,  in  their  haughty  style,  a  kind  of  irrever- 
sible decree,  by  which  they  forbade  them  to  be 
counted  any  longer  among  the  objects  of  terror 
or  anxiety,  or  to  give  any  disturbance  to  the  tran- 
quillity of  a  wise  man. 

This  edict  was,  I  think,  not  universally  observ- 
ed :  for  though  one  of  the  more  resolute,  when 
he  was  tortured  by  a  violent  disease,  cried  out, 
that  let  pain  harass  him  to  its  utmost  power,  it 
should  never  force  him  to  consider  it  as  other 
than  indifferent  and  neutral ;  yet  all  had  not  stub- 
bornness to  hold  out  against  their  senses ;  for  a 
weaker  pupil  of  Zeno  is  recorded  to  have  con- 
fessed in  the  anguish  of  the  gout,  that  he  now 
found  pain  to  be  an  esU. 

It  may  however  be  questioned,  whether  these 
philosophers  can  be  very  properly  numbered 
among  the  teachers  of  patience ;  for  if  pain  be  not 
an  evil,  there  seems  no  instruction  requisite  how 
it  may  be  borne ;  and,  therefore,  when  they  en- 
deavour to  arm  their  followers  with  arguments 
against  it,  they  may  be  thought  to  have  given  up 
their  first  position.  But  such  inconsistencies  are 
to  be  expected  from  the  greatest  understandings, 
when  they  endeavour  to  grow  eminent  by  singu- 
larity, and  employ  their  strength  in  establishing 
opinions  opposite  to  nature. 

The  controversy  about  the  reality  of  external 
evils  is  now  at  an  end.  That  life  has  many 
miseries,  and  that  those  miseries  are,  sometimes 
at  least,  equal  to  all  the  powers  of  fortitude,  is 
now  universally  confessed ;  and  therefore  it  is 
useful  to  consider  not  only  how  we  may  escape 
them,  but  by  what  means  those  which  either  the 
accidents  of  affairs,  or  the  infirmities  of  nature, 
must  bring  upon  us,  may  be  mitigated  and  light- 
ened, and  how  we  may  make  those  hours  less 
wretched,  which  the  condition  of  our  present  ex- 
istence will  not  allow  to  be  very  happy. 

The  cure  for  the  greatest  part  of  human  miseries 
is  not  radical,  but  palliative.  Infelicity  is  involv- 
ed in  corporeal  nature,  and  interwoven  with  our 
being ;  all  attempts  therefore  to  decline  it  wholly 
are  useless  and  vain ;  the  armies  of  pain  send 
their  arrows  against  us  on  every  side,  the  choice 
is  only  between  those  which  are  more  or  less 
sharp,  or  tinged  with  poison  of  greater  or  less 
malignity ;  and  the  strongest  armour  which  rea- 
son can  supply,  will  only  blunt  their  points,  but 
cannot  repel  them. 

The  great  remedy  which  Heaven  has  put  in 
our  hands  is  patience,  by  which,  though  we  can- 
not lessen  the  torments  of  the  body,  we  can  in  a 
great  measure  preserve  the  peace  of  the  mind, 
and  shall  suffer  only  the  natural  and  genuine 
force  of  an  evil,  without  heightening  its  acrimo- 
ny, or  prolonging  its  effects. 

There  is  indeed  nothing  more  unsuitable  to 
the  nature  of  man  in  any  calamity  than  rage  and 
turbulence,  which,  without  examining  whether 
they  are  not  sometimes  impious,  are  at  least 
always  offensive,  and  incline  others  rather  to 
hate  and  despise  than  to  pity  and  assist  us.  If 
what  we  suffer  has  been  brought  upon  us  by 


ourselves,  it  is  observed  by  an  ancient  poet,  that 
patience  is  eminently  our  duty,  since  no  one 
should  be  angry  at  feeling  that  which  he  has 
deserved. 

Lc niter  ex  merito  quiequid patiare  ferendum  en. 
Let  pain  deserved  without  complaint  be  borne. 

And  surely,  if  we  are  conscious  that  we  have  not 
contributed  to  our  own  sufferings,  if  punishment 
falls  upon  innocence,  or  disappointment  happens 
to  industry  and  prudence,  patience,  whether 
more  necessary  or  not,  is  much  easier,  since  our 
pain  is  then  without  aggravation,  and  we  have 
not  the  bitterness  of  remorse  to  add  to  the  aspe- 
rity of  misfortune. 

In  those  evils  which  are  allotted  to  us  by  Provi- 
dence, such  as  deformity,  privation  of  any  of  the 
senses,  or  old  age,  it  is  always  to  be  remembered, 
that  impatience  can  have  no  present  effect,  but 
to  deprive  us  of  the  consolations  which  our  con- 
dition admits,  by  driving  away  from  us  those  by 
whose  conversation  or  advice  we  might  be 
amused  or  helped  ;  and  that  with  regard  to  futu 
rity  it  is  yet  less  to  be  justified,  since,  without 
lessening  the  pain,  it  cuts  off  the  hope  of  that  re- 
ward which  He,  by  whom  it  is  inflicted,  will  con- 
fer upon  them  that  bear  it  well. 

In  all  evils  which  admit  a  remedy,  impatience 
is  to  be  avoided,  because  it  wastes  that  time  and 
attention  in  complaints,  that,  if  properly  applied, 
might  remove  the  cause.  Turenne,  among  the 
acknowledgments  which  he  used  to  pay  in  con- 
versation to  the  memory  of  those  by  whom  he 
bad  been  instructed  in  the  art  of  war,  mentioned 
one  with  honour,  who  taught  him  not  to  spend 
!iis  time  in  regretting  any  mistake  which  he  had 
made,  but  to  set  himself  immediately  and  vigor- 
ously to  repair  it 

Patience  and  submission  are  very  carefully  to 
je  distinguished  from  cowardice  and  indolence. 
We  are  not  to  repine,  but  we  may  lawfully  strug- 
gle ;  for  the  calamities  of  life,  like  the  necessities 
of  nature,  are  calls  to  labour  and  exercises  of 
diligence.  When  we  feel  any  pressure  of  dis- 
;ress,  we  are  not  to  conclude  that  we  can  only 
obey  the  will  of  Heaven  by  languishing  under  it, 
any  more  than  when  we  perceive  the  pain  of 
hirst,  we  are  to  imagine  that  water  is  prohibited. 
Of  misfortune  it  never  can  be  certainly  known 
whether,  as  proceeding  from  the  hand  of  God,  it 
s  an  act  of  favour  or  of  punishment :  but  since 
all  the  ordinary  dispensations  of  Providence  are 
;o  be  interpreted  according  to  the  general  analo- 
gy of  things,  we  may  conclude  that  we  have  a  right 
;o  remove  one  inconvenience  as  well  as  another; 
;hat  we  are  only  to  take  care  lest  we  purchase 
ease  with  guilt ;  and  that  our  Maker's  purpose, 
whether  of  reward  or  severity,  will  be  answered 
ly  the  labours  which  he  lays  us  under  the  neces- 
sity of  performing. 

This  duty  is  not  more  difficult  in  any  state  than 
n  diseases  intensely  painful,  which  may  indeed 
suffer  such  exacerbations  as  seem  to  strain  the 
jowers  of  life  to  their  utmost  stretch,  and  leave 
y  little  of  the  attention  vacant  to  precept  or 
reproof.  In  this  state  the  nature  of  man  requires 
some  indulgence,  and  every  extravagance  but 
mpiety  may  be  easily  forgiven  him.  Yet,  lest 
we  should  think  ourselves  too  soon  entitled  to 
the  mournful  privileges  of  irresistible  misery,  it  is 
proper  to  reflect,  that  the  utmost  anguish  which 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  33. 


human  wit  can  contrive,  or  human  malice  can  in- 
flict, has  been  borne  with  constancy ;  and  that  if 
the  pains  of  disease  be,  as  I  believe  they  are, 
sometimes  greater  than  those  of  artificial  torture, 
they  are  therefore  in  their  own  nature  shorter : 
the  vital  frame  is  quickly  broken,  or  the  union 
between  soul  and  body  is  for  a  time  suspended 
by  insensibility,  and  we  soon  cease  to  feel  our 
maladies  when  they  once  become  too  violent  to 
be  borne.  I  think  there  is  some  reason  for  ques- 
tioning whether  the  body  and  mind  are  not  so 
proportioned,  that  the  one  can  bear  all  that  can 
be  inflicted  on  the  other,  whether  virtue  cannot 
stand  its  ground  as  long  as  life,  and  whether  a 
soul  well  principled  will  not  be  separated  sooner 
than  subdued. 

In  calamities  which  operate  chiefly  on  our 
passions,  such  as  diminution  of  fortune,  loss  of 
friends,  or  declension  of  character,  the  chief  dan- 
ger of  impatience  is  upon  the  first  attack,  and 
many  expedients  have  been  contrived,  by  which 
the  blow  may  be  broken.  Of  these  the  most 
general  precept  is,  not  to  take  pleasure  in  any 
thing,  of  which  it  is  not  in  our  power  to  secure 
the  possession  to  ourselves.  This  counsel,  when 
we  consider  the  enjoyment  of  any  terrestrial  ad- 
vantage, as  opposite  to  a  constant  and  habitual 
solicitude  for  future  felicity,  is  undoubtedly  just, 
and  delivered  by  that  authority  which  cannot  be 
disputed  ;  but,  in  any  other  sense,  is  it  not  like 
advice,  not  to  walk  lest  we  should  stumble,  or 
not  to  see  lest  our  eyes  should  light  upon  de- 
formity? It  seems  to  me  reasonable  to  enjoy 
blessings  with  confidence,  as  well  as  to  resign 
them  with  submission,  and  to  hope  for  the  con- 
tinuance of  good  which  we  possess  without  inso- 
lence or  voluptuousness,  as  for  the  restitution  of 
that  which  we  lose  without  despondency  or  mur- 
murs. 

The  chief  security  against  the  fruitless  an- 
guish of  impatience,  must  arise  from  frequent 
reflection  on  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  the 
God  of  nature,  in  whose  hands  are  riches  and 
poverty,  honour  and  disgrace,  pleasure  and  pain, 
and  life  and  death.  A  settled  conviction  of  the 
tendency  of  every  thing  to  our  good,  and  of  the 
possibility  of  turning  miseries  into  happiness, 
by  receiving  them  rightly,  will  incline  us  to 
bless  the  name  of  the  Lord,  whether  he  gives  or 
takes  away. 


No.  33.]     TUESDAY,  JULY  10,  1750. 

Quod  caret  alterna  requie  durdbile  non  est. 

OVID. 

Alternate  rest  and  labour  long  endure. 

IN  the  early  ages  of  the  world,  as  is  well  known 
to  those  who  are  versed  in  ancient  traditions, 
when  innocence  was  yet  untainted,  and  simpli- 
city unadulterated,  mankind  was  happy  in  the 
enjoyment  of  continual  pleasure,  and  constant 
plenty,  under  the  protection  of  Rest;  a  gentle  di- 
vinity, who  required  of  her-worshippers  neither 
altars  nor  sacrifices,  and  whose  rites  were  only 
performed  by  prostrations  upon  turfs  of  flowers 
in  shades  of  jasmine  and  myrtle,  or  by  dances  on 
the  banks  of  rivers  flowing  with  milk  and  nectar. 
Under  this  easy  government  the  first  genera- 
tions breathed  the  fragrance  of  perpetual  spring, 


ate  the  fruits,  which,  without  culture,  fell  ripe 
into  their  hands,  and  slept  under  bowers  arched 
by  nature,  with  the  birds  singing  over  their 
heads,  and  the  beasts  sporting  about  them.  But 
by  degrees  they  began  to  lose  their  original  in- 
tegrity ;  each,  though  there  was  more  than 
enough  for  all,  was  desirous  of  appropriating 
part  to  himself.  Then  entered  violence  and 
fraud,  and  theft,  and  rapine.  Soon  after  pride 
and  envy  broke  into  the  world,  and  brought  with 
them  a  new  standard  of  wealth ;  for  men,  who 
till  then  thought  themselves  rich  when  they  want- 
ed nothing,  now  rated  their  demands,  not  by  the 
calls  of  nature,  but  by  the  plenty  of  others ;  and 
began  to  consider  themselves  as  poor,  when  they 
beheld  their  own  possessions  exceeded  by  those 
of  their  neighbours.  Now  only  one  could  be 
happy,  because  only  one  could  have  most,  and 
that  one  was  always  in  danger,  lest  the  same 
arts  by  which  he  had  supplanted  others  should 
be  practised  upon  himself. 

Amidst  the  prevalence  of  this  corruption,  the 
state  of  the  earth  was  changed ;  the  year  was  di- 
vided into  seasons :  part  of  the  ground  became 
barren,  and  the  rest  yielded  only  berries,  acorns, 
and  herbs.  The  summer  and  autumn  indeed 
furnished  a  coarse  and  inelegant  sufficiency,  but 
winter  was  without  any  relief;  Famine,  with  a 
thousand  diseases  which  the  inclemency  of  the 
air  invited  into  the  upper  regions,  made  havoc 
among  men,  and  there  appeared  to  be  danger 
lest  they  should  be  destroyed  before  they  were 
reformed. 

To  oppose  the  devastations  of  Famine,  who 
scattered  the  ground  every  where  with  carcasses, 
Labour  came  down  upon  earth.  Labour  was  the 
son  of  Necessity,  the  nurseling  of  Hope,  and  the 
pupil  of  Art ;  he  had  the  strength  of  his  mother, 
the  spirit  of  his  nurse,  and  the  dexterity  of  his 
governess.  His  face  was  wrinkled  with  the 
wind,  and  swarthy  with  the  sun :  he  had  the  im- 
plements of  husbandry  in  one  hand,  with  which 
he  turned  up  the  earth ;  in  the  other  he  had  the 
tools  of  architecture,  and  raised  walls  and  towers 
at  his  pleasure.  He  called  out  with  a  rough 
voice,  "Mortals!  see  here  the  power  to  whom 
you  are  consigned,  and  from  whom  you  are  to 
hope  for  all  your  pleasures,  and  all  your  safety. 
You  have  long  languished  under  the  dominion 
of  Rest,  an  impotent  and  deceitful  goddess,  who 
can  neither  protect  nor  relieve  you,  but  resigns 
you  to  the  first  attacks  of  either  Famine  or  Dis- 
ease,  and  suffers  her  shades  to  be  invaded  by 
every  enemy,  and  destroyed  by  every  accident. 

"  Awake  therefore  to  the  call  of  Labour.  I 
will  teach  you  to  remedy  the  sterility  of  the  earth, 
and  the  severity  of  the  sky ;  I  will  compel  sum- 
mer to  find  provisions  for  the  winter ;  T  will  force 
the  waters  to  give  you  their  fish,  the  air  its  fowls, 
and  the  forest  its  beasts;  I  will  teach  you  to  pierce 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  bring  out  from  the 
caverns  of  the  mountains  metals  which  shall  eive 
strength  to  your  hands,  and  security  to  your  bo- 
die?,  by  which  you  may  be  covered'from  the  as- 
saults of  the  fiercest  beasts,  and  witli  which  you 
shall  fell  the  oak,  and  divide  rocks,  and  subject 
all  nature  to  your  use  and  pleasure." 

Encouraged  by  this  magnificent  invitation,  the 
inhabitants  of  the  globe  considered  Labour  as 
their  only  friend,  and  hasted  to  his  command. 
He  led  them  out  to  the  fields  and  mountains,  and 
showed  them  how  to  open  mines,  to  level  hills,  to 


No.  34.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


63 


drain  marshes,  and  change  the  course  of  rivers. 
The  face  of  things  was  immediately  transformed; 
the  land  was  covered  with  towns  and  villages, 
encompassed  with  fields  of  corn,  and  plantations 
of  fruit-trees  :  and  nothing  was  seen  but  heaps 
of  grain,  and  baskets  of  fruit,  full  tables,  and 
crowded  storehouses. 

Thus  Labour  and  his  followers  added  every 
hour  new  acquisitions  to  their  conquests,  and 
saw  Famine  gradually  dispossessed  of  his  domi- 
nions ;  till  at  last,  amidst  their  jollity  and  tri- 
umphs, they  were  depressed  and  amazed  by  the 
approach  of  Lassitude,  who  was  known  by  her 
sunk  eyes  and  dejected  countenance.  She  came 
forward  trembling  and  groaning;  at  every  groan 
the  hearts  of  all  those  that  beheld  her  lost  their 
courage,  their  nerves  slackened,  their  hands 
shook,  and  the  instruments  of  labour  fell  from 
their  grasp. 

Shocked  with  this  horrid  phantom,  they  re- 
flected with  regret  on  their  easy  compliance  with 
the  solicitations  of  Labour,  and  began  to  wish 
again  for  the  golden  hours  which  they  remember- 
ed to  have  passed  under  the  reign  of  Rest,  whom 
they  resolved  again  to  visit,  and  to  whom  they 
intended  to  dedicate  the  remaining  part  of  their 
lives.  Rest  had  not  left  the  world ;  they  quickly 
found  her,  and,  to  atone  for  their  former  deser- 
tion, invited  her  to  the  enjoyment  of  those  acqui- 
sitions which  Labour  had  procured  them. 

Rest  therefore  took  leave  of  the  groves  and 
valleys,  which  she  had  hitherto  inhabited,  and 
entered  into  palaces,  reposed  herself  in  alcoves, 
and  slumbered  away  the  winter  upon  beds  of 
down,  and  the  summer  in  artificial  grottos  with 
cascades  playing  before  her.  There  was  indeed 
always  something  wanting  to  complete  her  feli- 
city, and  she  could  never  lull  her  returning  fugi- 
tives to  that  serenity  which  they  knew  before 
their  engagements  with  Labour:  nor  was  her 
dominion  entirely  without  control,  for  she  was 
obliged  to  share  it  wjth  Luxury,  though  she  al- 
ways looked  upon  her  as  a  false  friend,  by  whom 
her  influence  was  in  reality  destroyed,  while  it 
seemed  to  be  promoted. 

The  two  soft  associates,  however,  reigned  for 
some  time  without  visible  disagreement,  till  at  last 
Luxury  betrayed  her  charge,  and  let  in  Disease 
to  seize  upon  her  worshippers.  Rest  then  flew 
away,  and  left  the  place  to  the  usurpers ;  who 
employed  all  their  arts  to  fortify  themselves  in 
their  possession,  and  to  strengthen  the  interest 
of  each  other. 

Rest  had  not  always  the  same  enemy  ;  in  some 
places  she  escaped  the  incursions  of  Disease ; 
but  had  her  residence  invaded  by  a  more  slow 
and  subtle  intruder,  for  very  frequently,  when 
every  thing  was  composed  and  quiet,  when  there 
was  neither  pain  within,  nor  danger  without, 
when  every  flower  was  in  bloom,  and  every  gale 
freighted  with  perfumes,  Satiety  would  enter  with 
a  languishing  and  repining  look,  and  throw  her- 
self upon  the  couch  placed  and  adorned  for  the 
accommodation  of  Rest  No  sooner  was  she 
seated  than  a  general  gloom  spread  itself  on 
every  side,  the  groves  immediately  lost  their  ver- 
dure, and  their  inhabitants  desisted  from  their 
melody,  the  breeze  sunk  in  sighs,  and  the  flow- 
ers- contracted  their  leaves,  and  shut  up  their 
odours.  Nothing  was  seen  on  every  side  but 
multitudes  wandering  about  they  knew  not 
whither,  in  quest  they  knew  not  of  what ;  no 


voice  was  heard  but  of  complaints  that  mention- 
ed no  pain,  and  murmurs  that  could  tell  of  no. 
misfortune. 

Rest  had  now  lost  her  authority.  Her  fol- 
lowers again  began  to  treat  her  with  contempt; 
some  of  them  united  themselves  more  closely  to 
Luxury,  who  promised  by  her  arts  to  drive  Satie- 
ty away ;  and  others,  that  were  more  wise,  or 
had  more  fortitude,  went  back  again  to  Labour, 
by  whom  they  were  indeed  protected  from  Satie- 
ty, but  delivered  up  in  time  to  Lassitude,  and 
forced  by  her  to  the  bowers  of  Rest. 

Thus  Rest  and  Labour  equally  perceived  their 
reign  of  short  duration  and  uncertain  tenure,  and 
their  empire  liable  to  inroads  from  those  who 
were  alike  enemies  to  both.  They  each  found 
their  subjects  unfaithful,  and  ready  to  desert  them 
upon  every  opportunity.  Labour  saw  the  riches 
which  he  had  given  always  carried  away  as  an 
offering  to  Rest,  and  Rest  found  her  votaries  in 
every  exigence  flying  from  her  to  beg  help  of  La- 
bour. They,  therefore,  at  last  determined  upon 
an  interview,  in  which  they  agreed  to  divide  the 
world  between  them,  and  govern  it  alternately, 
allotting  the  dominion  of  the  day  to  one,  and 
that  of  the  night  to  the  other,  and  promised  to 
guard  the  frontiers  of  each  other,  so  that,  when- 
ever hostilities  were  attempted,  Satiety  should 
be  intercepted  by  Labour,  and  Lassitude  expel- 
led by  Rest.  Thus  the  ancient  quarrel  was  ap- 
peased, and  as  hatred  is  often  succeeded  by  its 
contrary,  Rest  afterwards  became  pregnant  by 
Labour,  and  was  delivered  of  Health,  a  benevo- 
lent goddess,  who  consolidated  the  union  of  her 
parents,  and  contributed  to  the  regular  vicissi- 
tudes of  their  reign,  by  dispensing  her  gifts  to 
those  only  who  shared  their  lives  in  just  propor- 
tions between  Rest  and  Labour. 


No.  34.]      SATURDAY,  JULY  14,  1750. 

Kim  sine  vano 

Av.ra.rum  et  silvte  metu. HOR. 

Alarmed  with  every  rising  gale, 

la  every  wood,  in  every  vale  ELPHINSTON. 

I  HAVE  been  censured  for  having  hitherto  dedica- 
ted so  few  of  my  speculations  to  the  ladies ;  and 
indeed  the  moralist,  whose  instructions  are  ac- 
commodated only  to  one  half  of  the  human  spe- 
cies, must  be  confessed  not  sufficiently  to  have 
extended  his  views.  Yet  it  is  to  be  considered, 
that  masculine  duties  afford  more  room  for  coun- 
sels and  obseivations,  as  they  are  less  uniform, 
and  connected  with  things  more  subject  to  vicis- 
situde and  accident ;  we  therefore  find  that  in 
philosophical  discourses  which  teach  by  precept, 
or  historical  narratives  that  instruct  by  example, 
the  peculiar  virtues  or  faults  of  women  fill  but  a 
small  part ;  perhaps,  generally,  too  small,  for  so 
much  of  our  domestic  happiness  is  in  their  hands, 
and  their  influence  is  so  great  upon  our  earliest 
years,  that  the  universal  interest  of  the  world 
requires  them  to  be  well  instructed  in  their  pro- 
vince ;  nor  can  it  be  thought  proper  that  the  quali 
ties  by  which  so  much  pain  or  pleasure  may  be 
triven,  should  be  left  to  the  direction  of  chance. 
to  I  have,  therefore,  willingly  given  a  place  in  my 
paper  to  a  letter,  which,  perhaps,  may  not  be 
wholly  useless  to  them  whose  chief  ambition  is  to 


64 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  34. 


please,  as  it  shows  how  certainly  the  end  is  miss- 
ed by  absurd  and  injudicious  endeavours  at  dis- 
tinction. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


I  AM  a  young  gentleman  at  my  own  disposal, 
with  a  considerable  estate ;  and  having  passed 
through  the  common  forms  of  education,  spent 
some  time  in  foreign  countries,  and  made  myself 
distinguished  since  my  return  in  the  politest 
company,  I  am  now  arrived  at  that  part  of  life  in 
which  every  man  is  expected  to  settle,  and  pro- 
vide for  the  continuation  of  his  lineage.  I  with- 
stood for  some  time  the  solicitations  and  remon- 
strances of  my  aunts  and  uncles,  but  at  last  was 
persuaded  to  visit  Anthea,  an  heiress,  whose  land 
lies  contiguous  to  mine,  and  whose  birth  and 
beauty  are  without  objection.  Our  friends  de- 
clared that  we  were  born  for  each  other ;  all  those 
on  both  sides  who  had  no  interest  in  hindering 
our  union,  contributed  to  promote  it,  and  were 
conspiring  to  hurry  us  into  matrimony,  before  we 
had  any  opportnnity  of  knowing  one  another.  I 
was,  however,  too  old  to  be  given  away  without 
my  own  consent ;  and  having  happened  to  pick 
up  an  opinion,  which  to  many  of  my  relations 
seemed  extremely  odd,  that  a  man  might  bo  un- 
happy with  a  large  estate,  determined  to  obtain 
a  nearer  knowledge  of  the  person  with  whom  I 
was  to  pass  the  remainder  of  my  time.  To  pro- 
tract the  courtship  was  by  no  means  difficult,  for 
Anthea  had  a  wonderful  facility  of  evading  ques- 
tions which  I  seldom  repeated,  and  of  barring 
approaches  which  I  had  no  great  eagerness  to 
press. 

Thus  the  time  passed  away  in  visits  and  civili- 
ties without  any  ardent  professions  of  love,  or 
formal  offers  of  settlements.  I  often  attended 
her  to  public  places,  in  which,  as  is  well  known, 
all  behaviour  is  so  much  regulated  by  custom, 
that  very  little  insight  can  be  gained  into  the 
private  character,  and  therefore  I  was  not  yet 
able  to  inform  myself  of  her  humour  and  incli- 
nations. 

At  last  I  ventured  to  propose  to  her  to  make 
one  of  a  small  party,  and  spend  a  day  in  viewing 
a  seat  and  gardens  a  few  miles  distant ;  and  hav- 
ing, upon  her  compliance,  collected  the  rest  of  the 
company,  I  brought,  at  the  hour,  a  coach  which 
I  had  borrowed  from  an  acquaintance,  having 
delayed  to  buy  one  myself  till  I  should  have  an 
opportunity  of  taking  the  lady's  opinion,  for 
whose  use  it  was  intended.  Anthea  came  down, 
but  as  she  was  going  to  step  into  the  coach,  start- 
ed back  with  great  appearance  of  terror,  and 
told  us  that  she  durst  not  enter,  for  the  shocking 
colour  of  the  lining  had  so  much  the  air  of  the 
mourning-coach  in  which  she  followed  her  aunt's 
funeral  three  years  before,  that  she  should  never 
have  her  poor  dear  aunt  out  of  her  head. 

I  knew  that  it  was  not  for  lovers  to  argue  with 
their  mistresses ;  I  therefore  sent  back  the  coach, 
and  got  another  more  gay.  Into  this  we  all  en- 
tered, the  coachman  began  to  drive,  and  we  were 
amusing  ourselves  with  the  expectation  of  what 
we  should  see,  when,  upon  a  small  inclination 
of  the  carriage,  Anthea  screamed  out  that  we 
were  overthrown.  We  were  obliged  to  fix  all 
our  attention  upon  her,  which  she  took  care  to 
keep  up  by  renewing  her  outcries,  at  every  cor- 


ner where  we  had  occasion  to  turn ;  at  intervals 
she  entertained  us  with  fretful  complaints  of  the 
uneasiness  of  the  coach,  and  obliged  me  to  call 
several  times  on  the  coachman  to  take  care  and 
drive  without  jolting.  The  poor  fellow  endea- 
voured to  please  us,  and  therefore  moved  verj 
slowly,  till  Anthea  found  out  that  this  pace  would 
only  keep  us  longer  on  the  stones,  and  desired 
that  I  would  order  him  to  make  more  speed. 
He  whipped  his  horses,  the  coach  jolted  again, 
and  Anthea  very  complaisantly  told  us  how 
much  she  repented  that  she  made  one  of  our 
company. 

At  last  we  got  into  the  smooth  road,  and  be- 
gan to  think  our  difficulties  at  an  end,  when,  on 
a  sudden,  Anthea  saw  a  brook  before  us,  which 
she  could  not  venture  to  pass.  We  were,  there- 
fore, obliged  to  alight,  that  we  might  walk  over 
the  bridge ;  but  when  we  came  to  it,  we  found  it 
so  narrow,  that  Anthea  durst  not  set  her  foot 
upon  it,  and  was  content,  after  long  consultation, 
to  call  the  coach  back,  and  with  innumerable 
precautions,  terrors  and  lamentations,  crossed 
the  brook. 

It  was  necessary  after  this  delay  to  mend  our 
pace,  and  directions  were  accordingly  given  to 
the  coachman,  when  Anthea  informed  us,  that 
it  was  common  for  the  axle  to  catch  fire  with  a 
quick  motion,  and  begged  of  me  to  look  out  every 
minute,  lest  we  should  all  be  consumed.  I  was 
forced  to  obey,  and  give  her  from  time  to  time 
the  most  solemn  declarations  that  all  was  safe, 
and  that  I  hoped  we  should  reach  the  place  with- 
out losing  our  lives  either  by  fire  or  water. 

Thus  we  passed  on,  over  ways  soft  and  hard, 
with  more  or  with  less  speed,  but  always  with 
new  vicissitudes  of  anxiety.  If  the  ground  was 
hard,  we  were  jolted;  if  soft,  we  were  sinking. 
If  we  went  fast  we  should  be  overturned;  if  slow- 
ly, we  should  never  reach  the  place.  At  length 
she  saw  something  which  she  called  a  cloud,  and 
began  to  consider  that  at  that  time  of  the  year  it 
frequently  thundered.  This  seemed  to  be  the 
capital  terror,  for  after  that  the  coach  was  suffer- 
ed to  move  on ;  and  no  danger  was  thought  too 
dreadful  to  be  encountered,  provided  she  could 
get  into  a  Jiouse  before  the  thunder. 

Thus  our  whole  conversation  passed  in  dan- 
gers, and  cares,  and  fears,  and  consolations,  and 
stories  of  ladies  dragged  in  the  mire,  forced  to 
spend  all  the  night  on  a  heath,  drowned  in  ri- 
vers, or  burnt  with  lightning;  and  no  sooner  had 
a  hairbreadth  escape  set  us  free  from  one  calami- 
ty, but  we  were  threatened  with  another. 

At  length  we  reached  the  house  where  we  in- 
tended to  regale  ourselves,  and  I  proposed  to 
Anthea  the  choice  of  a  great  number  of  dishes, 
which  the  place,  being  well  provided  for  enter- 
tainment, happened  to  afford.  She  made  some 
objection  to  every  thing  that  was  offered  ;  one 
thing  she  hated  at  that  time  of  the  year,  another 
she  could  not  bear  since  she  had  seen  it  spoiled 
at  Lady  Feedwell's  table,  another  she  was  sure 
they  could  not  dress  at  this  house,  and  another 
she  could  not  touch  without  French  sauce.  At 
last,  she  fixed  her  mind  upon  salmon,  but  there 
was  no  salmon  in  the  house.  It  was  however 
procured  with  great  expedition,  and  when  it 
came  to  the  table,  she  found  that  her  fright  had 
taken  away  her  stomach,  which  indeed  she 
thought  no  great  loss,  for  she  could  never  believe 
that  any  thing  at  an  inn  could  be  cleanly  got. 


No.  35,] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


65 


Dinner  was  now  over,  and  the  company  pro- 
posed, for  I  was  now  past  the  condition  of  mak- 
ing overtures,  that  we  should  pursue  our  original 
design  of  visiting  the  gardens.  Anthea  declared 
that  she  could  not  imagine  what  pleasure  we  ex- 
pected from  the  sight  of  a  few  green  trees  and  a 
little  gravel,  and  two  or  three  pits  of  clear  water ; 
that  for  her  part  she  hated  walking  till  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  and  thought  it  very  likely  to  rain  ; 
and  again  wished  that  she  had  stayed  at  home. 
We  then  reconciled  ourselves  to  our  disappoint- 
ment, and  began  to  talk  on  common  subjects, 
when  Anthena  told  us  that  since  we  came  to  see 
gardens,  she  would  not  hinder  our  satisfaction. 
We  all  arose,  and  walked  through  the  inclosures 
for  some  time,  with  no  other  trouble  than  the  ne- 
cessity of  watching  lest  a  frog  should  hop  across 
the  way,  which  Anthea  told  us  would  certainly 
kill  her,  if  she  should  happen  to  see  him. 

Frogs,  as  it  fell  out,  there  were  none ;  but  when 
we  were  within  a  furlong  of  the  gardens,  Anthea 
saw  some  sheep,  and  heard  the  wether  clink  his 
bell,  which  she  was  certain  was  not  hung  upon 
him  for  nothing,  and  therefore  no  assurances  nor 
entreaties  should  prevail  upon  her  to  go  a  step 
further ;  she  was  sorry  to  disappoint  the  compa- 
ny, hut  her  life  was  dearer  to  her  than  ceremony. 

We  came  back  to  the  inn,  and  Anthea  now 
discovered  that  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost  in 
returning,  for  the  night  would  come  upon  us,  and 
a  thousand  misfortunes  might  happen  in  the  dark. 
The  horses  were  immediately  harnessed,  and 
Anthea,  having  wondered  what  could  seduce  her 
to  stay  so  long,  was  eager  to  set  out.  But  we 
had  now  a  new  scene  of  terror,  every  man  we 
saw  was  a  robber,  and  we  were  ordered  some- 
times to  drive  hard,  lest  a  traveller  whom  we 
t>aw  behind  should  overtake  us ;  and  sometimes 
to  stop,  lest  we  should  come  up  to  him  who  was 
passing  before  us.  She  alarmed  many  an  ho- 
nest man,  by  begging  him  to  spare  her  life  as  he 
passed  by  the  coach,  and  drew  me  into  fifteen 
quarrels  with  persons  who  increased  her  fright, 
by  kindly  stopping  to  inquire  whether  they  could 
assist  us.  At  last  we  came  home,  and  she  told 
her  company  next  day  what  a  pleasant  ri3e  she 
had  been  taking. 

I  suppose,  Sir,  I  need  not  inquire  of  you  what 
deductions  may  be  made  from  this  narrative,  nor 
what  happiness  can  arise  from  the  society  of  that 
woman  who  mistakes  cowardice  for  elegance, 
and  imagines  all  delicacy  to  consist  in  refusing 
to  be  pleased. 

1  am,  &c. 


No.  35.]      TUESDAY,  JULY  17,  1750. 

ITowpronuba  Juno, 

fion  Hymenavs  adesl,  non  illi  gratia  lecto. 


Without  connubial  Juno's  aid  they  w«d ; 
Nor  Hymen  nor  the  Graces  bless  the  bed. 

ELPHINSTON. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


As  you  have  hitherto  delayed  the  performance 
of  the  promise,  by  which  you  gave  us  reason  to 
hope  for  another  paper  upon  matrimony,  I  ima- 
gine you  desirous  of  collecting  more  materials 


than  your  own  experience  or  observation  can 
supply ;  and  I  shall  therefore  lay  candidly  before 
you  an  account  of  my  own  entrance  into  the 
conjugal  state. 

I  was  about  eight  and  twenty  years  old,  when 
having  tried  the  diversions  of  the  town  till  I  be- 
gan to  be  weary,  and  being  awakened  into  at- 
tention to  more  serious  business,  by  the  failure 
of  an  attorney,  to  whom  I  had  implicitly  trusted 
the  conduct  of  my  fortune,  I  resolved  to  take  my 
estate  into  my  own  care,  and  methodise  my  whole 
life  acording  to  the  strictest  rules  of  economical 
prudence. 

In  pursuance  of  this  scheme  I  took  leave  of 
my  acquaintance,  who  dismissed  me  with  num- 
berless jests  upon  my  new  system ;  having  first 
endeavoured  to  divert  me  from  a  design  so  little 
worthy  of  a  man  of  wit,  by  ridiculous  accounts 
of  the  ignorance  and  rusticity  into  which  many 
had  sunk  in  their  retirement,  after  having  distin- 
guished themselves  in  taverns  and  play-houses, 
and  given  hopes  of  rising  to  uncommon  eminence 
among  the  gay  part  of  mankind. 

When  I  came  first  into  the  country,  which,  by 
a  neglect  not  uncommon  among  young  heirs,  I 
had  never  seen  since  the  death  of  my  father,  I 
found  every  thing  in  such  confusion,  that  being 
utterly  without  practice  in  business,  I  had  great^ 
difficulties  to  encounter  in  disentangling  the  per- 
plexities of  my  circumstances ;  they  however 
gave  way  to  diligent  application  ;  and  I  perce;-- 
ed  that  the  advantage  of  keeping  my  own  ac- 
counts would  very  much  overbalance  the  time 
which  they  could  require. 

I  had  now  visiteo1  my  tenants,  surveyed  my 
land,  and  repaired  the  old  house,  which,  for  some 
years,  had  been  running  to  decay.  These  proofs 
of  pecuniary  wisdom  began  to  recommend  me  as 
a  sober,  judicious,  thriving  gentleman,  to  all  my 
graver  neighbours  of  the  country,  who  never  fail- 
ed to  celebrate  my  management  in  opposition  to 
Thriftless  and  Latterwit,  two  smart  fellows,  who 
had  estates  in  the  same  part  of  the  kingdom, 
which  they  visited  now  and  then  in  a  frolic,  to 
take  up  their  rents  beforehand,  debauch  a  milk- 
maid, make  a  feast  for  the  village,  and  tell  sto- 
ries of  their  own  intrigues,  and  then  rode  post 
back  to  town  to  spend  their  money. 

It  was  doubtful,  however,  for  some  time,  whe- 
ther I  should  be  able  to  hold  my  resolution ;  but 
a  short  perseverance  removed  all  suspicions.  I 
rose  every  day  in  reputation,  by  the  decency  of 
my  conversation  and  the  regularity  of  my  con- 
duct, and  was  mentioned  with  a  great  regard  at 
the  assizes,  as  a  man  very  fit  to  be  put  in  coin  , 
mission  for  the  peace. 

During  the  confusion  of  my  affairs,  and  the 
daily  necessity  of  visiting  farms,  adjusting  con- 
tracts, letting  leases,  and  superintending  repairs, 
I  found  very  little  vacuity  in  my  life,  and  there- 
fore had  not  many  thoughts  of  marriage ;  but,  in 
a  little  while  the  tumult  of  business  subsided,  and 
the  exact  method  which  I  had  established  ena- 
bled me  to  despatch  my  accounts  with  great  fa- 
cility. I  had,  therefore,  now  upon  my  hands,  the 
task  of  finding  means  to  spend"  my  time,  without 
falling  back  into  the  poor  amusements  which  I 
had  hitherto  indulged,  or  changing  them  for  the 
sports  of  the  field,  which  I  saw  pursued  with  so 
much  eagerness  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  country, 
that  they  were  indeed  the  only  pleasures  in 
which  I  could  promise  myself  any  partaker. 


66 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  30. 


The  inconvenience  of  this  situation  naturally 
disposed  me  to  wish  for  a  companion,  and  the 
known  value  of  my  estate,  with  my  reputation 
for  frugality  and  prudence,  easily  gained  me  ad- 
mission into  every  family ;  for  I  soon  found  that 
no  inquiry  was  made  after  any  other  virtue,  nor 
any  testimonial  necessary,  but  of  my  freedom 
from  incumbrances,  and  my  care  of  what  they 
termed  the  main  chance.  I  saw,  not  without  in- 
dignation, the  eagerness  with  which  the  daugh- 
ters, wherever  I  came,  were  set  out  to  show  ;  nor 
could  I  consider  them  in  a  state  much  different 
from  prostitution,  when  I  found  them  ordered  to 
play  their  airs  before  me,  and  to  exhibit,  by  some 
seeming  chance,  specimens  of  their  music,  their 
work,  or  their  housewifery.  No  sooner  was  I 
placed  at  table,  than  the  young  lady  was  called 
upon  to  pay  me  some  civility  or  other ;  nor  could 
I  find  means  of  escaping,  from  either  father  or 
mother,  some  account  of  their  daughter's  excel- 
lences, with  a  declaration  that  they  were  now 
leaving  the  world,  and  had  no  business  on  this 
side  the  grave,  but  to  see  their  children  happily 
disposed  of;  that  she  whom  I  had  been  pleased 
to  compliment  at  table  was  indeed  the  chief  plea- 
sure of  their  age,  so  good,  so  dutiful,  so  great  a 
relief  to  her  mamma  in  the  care  of  the  house,  and 
so  much  her  papa's  favourite  for  her  cheerfulness 
and  wit,  that  it  would  be  with  the  last  reluctance 
that  they  should  part ;  but  to  a  worthy  gentleman 
in  the  neighbourhood,  whom  they  might  often 
visit,  they  would  not  so  far  consult  their  own 
gratification,  as  to  refuse  her;  and  their  tender- 
ness should  be  shown  in  her  fortune,  whenever 
a  suitable  settlement  was  proposed. 

As  I  knew  these  overtures  not  to  proceed  from 
any  preference  of  me  before  another  equally  rich, 
I  could  not  but  look  with  pity  on  young  persons 
condemned  to  be  set  to  auction,  and  made  cheap 
by  injudicious  commendations ;  for  how  could 
they  know  themselves  offered  and  rejected  a 
hundred  times,  without  some  loss  of  that  soft 
elevation,  and  maiden  dignity,  so  necessary  to 
the  completion  of  female  excellence? 

I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  a  history  of  the 
stratagems  practised  upon  my  judgment,  or  the 
allurements  tried  upon  my  heart,  which,  if  you 
have,  in  any  part  of  your  life,  been  acquainted 
with  rural  politics  you  will  easily  conceive.  Their 
arts  have  no  great  variety,  they  think  nothing 
worth  their  care  but  money,  and  supposing  its 
influence  the  same  upon  all  the  world,  seldom 
endeavour  to  deceive  by  any  other  means  than 
ralse  computations. 

I  will  not  deny  that,  by  hearing  myself  loudly 
commended  for  my  discretion,  I  began  to  set 
some  value  upon  my  character,  and  was  unwill- 
ing to  lose  my  credit  by  marrying  for  love.  I 
therefore  resolved  to  know  the  fortune  of  the  lady 
whom  I  should  address,  before  I  inquired  after 
her  wit,  delicacy,  or  beauty. 

This  determination  led  me  to  Mitissa,  the 
daughter  of  Chrysophilus,  whose  person  was  at 
least  without  deformity,  and  whose  manners 
were  free  from  reproach,  as  she  had  been  bred 
up  at  a  distance  from  all  common  temptations. 
To  Mitissa  therefore  I  obtained  leave  from  her 
parents  to  pay  my  court,  and  was  referred  by  her 
again  to  her  father,  whose  direction  she  was  re- 
solved to  follow.  The  question  then  was,  only, 
what  should  be  settled?  The  old  gentleman 
made  an  enormous  demand,  with  which  I  refus- 


ed to  comply.  Mitissa  was  ordered  to  exert  hci 
power;  she  told  me,  that  if  I  could  refuse  her  papa 
I  had  no  love  for  her;  that  she  was  an  unhappy 
creature,  and  that  I  was  a  perfidious  man  ;  then 
she  burst  into  tears,  and  fell  into  fits.  All  this, 
as  I  was  no  passionate  lover,  had  little  effect. 
She  next  refused  to  see  me,  and  because  I  thought 
myself  obliged  to  write  in  terms  of  distress,  they 
had  once  hopes  of  starving  me  into  measures ; 
but,  finding  me  inflexible,  the  father  complied 
with  my  proposal,  and  told  me  he  liked  me  the 
more  for  being  so  good  at  a  bargain. 

I  was  now  married  to  Alitissa,  and  was  to  ex- 
perience the  happiness  of  a  match  made  without 
passion.  Mitissa  soon  discovered  that  she  was 
equally  prudent  with  myself,  and  had  taken  a 
husband  only  to  be  at  her  own  command,  and 
have  a  chariot  at  her  own  call.  She  brought  with 
her  an  old  maid  recommended  by  her  mother, 
who  taught  her  all  the  arts  of  domestic  manage- 
ment, and  was,  on  every  occasion,  her  chief  agenl 
and  directress.  They  soon  invented  one  reason 
or  other  to  quarrel  with  all  my  servants,  and 
either  prevailed  on  me  to  turn  them  away,  or 
treated  them  so  ill  that  they  left  me  of  themselves, 
and  always  supplied  their  places  with  some 
brought  from  my  wife's  relations.  Thus  they  es- 
tablished a  family,  over  which  I  had  no  authori- 
ty, and  which  was  in  a  perpetual  conspiracy 
against  me ;  for  Mitissa  considered  herself  as 
having  a  separate  interest,  and  thought  nothing 
her  own,  but  what  she  laid  up  without  my  know- 
ledge. For  this  reason  she  brought  me  false  ac- 
counts of  the  expenses  of  the  house,  joined  with 
my  tenants  in  complaints  of  hard  times,  and  by 
means  of  a  steward  of  her  own,  took  rewards  for 
soliciting  abatements  of  the  rent.  Her  great 
hope  is  to  outlive  me,  that  she  may  enjoy  what 
she  has  thus  accumulated,  and  therefore  she  is 
always  contriving  some  improvements  of  her 
jointure  land,  and  once  tried  to  procure  an  in- 
junction to  hinder  me  from  felling  timber  upon  it 
for  repairs.  Her  father  and  mother  assist  her  in 
her  projects,  and  are  frequently  hinting  that  she 
is  ill  used,  and  reproaching  me  with  the  presents 
that  other  ladies  receive  from  their  husbands. 

Such,  Sir,  was  my  situation  for  seven  years, 
till  at  last  my  patience  was  exhausted,  and  hav- 
ing one  day  invited  her  father  to  my  house,  I  laid 
the  state  of  my  affairs  before  him,  detected  my 
wife  in  several  of  her  frauds,  turned  out  her  stew- 
ard, charged  a  constable  with  her  maid,  took  my 
business  in  my  own  hands,  reduced  her  to  a  set- 
tled allowance,  and  now  write  this  account  to 
warn  others  against  marrying  those  whom  they 
have  no  reason  to  esteem. 

I  am,  &c. 


SATCRDAY,  JULY  21,  1750. 

ovro  voprji; 


No.  36.] 

VA//' 


-  Piping  on  their  reeds  the  shepherds  go, 

Nor  fear  an  ambush  nor  suspect  a  foe.  POPE. 

THERE  is  scarcely  any  species  of  poetry  that  has 
allured  more  readers,  or  excited  more  writers, 
than  the  pastoral.  It  is  generally  pleasing,  be- 
cause it  entertains  the  mind  with  representations 


No.  36.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


67 


of  scenes  familiar  to  almost  every  imagination, 
and  of  which  all  can  equally  judge  whether  they 
are  well  described.  It  exhibits  a  life,  to  which  we 
have  been  always  accustomed  to  associate  peace, 
and  leisure,  and  innocence:  and  therefore  we 
readily  set  open  the  heart  for  the  admission  of 
its  images,  which  contribute  to  drive  away  cares 
and  perturbations,  and  suffer  ourselves,  without 
resistance,  to  be  transported  to  elysian  regions, 
where  we  are  to  meet  with  nothing  but  joy,  and 
plenty,  and  contentment ;  where  every  gale  whis- 
pers pleasure,  and  every  shade  promises  repose. 

It  has  been  maintained  by  some,  who  love  to 
talk  of  what  they  do  not  know,  that  pastoral  is 
the  most  ancient  poetry;  and,  indeed,  since  it  is 
probable  that  poetry  is  nearly  of  the  same  anti- 
quity with  rational  nature,  and  since  the  life  of 
the  first  men  was  certainly  rural,  we  may  reasona- 
bly conject'.:--,  that,  as  their  ideas  would  neces- 
sarily be  borrowed  from  those  objects  with  which 
they  are  acquainted,  their  composures  being  filled 
chiefly  with  such  thoughts  on  the  visible  creation 
as  must  occur  to  the  first  observers,  were  pastor- 
al hymns,  like  those  which  Milton  introduces  the 
original  pair  singing,  in  the  day  of  innocence,  to 
the  praise  of  their  Maker. 

For  the  same  reason  that  pastoral  poetry  was 
the  first  employment  of  the  human  imagination, 
it  is  generally  the  first  literary  amusement  of  our 
minds.  We  have  seen  fields,  and  meadows,  and 
groves,  from  the  time  that  our  eyes  opened  upon 
life ;  and  are  pleased  with  birds,  and  brooks,  and 
breezes,  much  earlier  than  we  engage  among  the 
actions  and  passions  of  mankind.  We  are  there- 
fore delighted  with  rural  pictures,  because  we 
know  the  original  at  an  age  when  our  curiosity 
can  be  very  little  awakened  by  descriptions  of 
courts  which  we  never  beheld,  or  representations 
of  passions  which  we  never  felt. 

The  satisfaction  received  from  this  kind  of  writ- 
ing not  only  begins  early,  but  lasts  long ;  we  do 
not,  as  we  advance  into  the  intellectual  world, 
throw  it  away  among  other  childish  amusements 
and  pastimes,  but  willingly  return  to  it  in  any 
hour  of  indolence  and  relaxation.  The  images 
of  true  pastoral  have  always  the  power  of  excit- 
'ng  delight,  because  the  works  of  nature,  from 
which  they  are  drawn,  have  always  the  same  or- 
der and  beauty,  and  continue  to  force  themselves 
upon  our  thoughts,  being  at  once  obvious  to  the 
most  careless  regard,  and  more  than  adequate  to 
the  strongest  reason,  and  severest  contemplation. 
Our  inclination  to  stillness  and  tranquillity  is  sel- 
dom much  lessened  by  long  knowledge  of  the 
busy  and  tumultuary  part  of  the  world.  In  child- 
hood we  turn  our  thoughts  to  the  country,  as  to 
the  region  of  pleasure  ;  we  recur  to  it  in  old  age 
as  a  port  of  rest,  and  perhaps  with  that  secondary 
and  adventitious  gladness,  which  every  man  feels 
on  reviewing  those  places,  or  recollecting  those 
occurrences,  that  contributed  to  his  youthful  en- 
joyments, and  bring  him  back  to  the  prime  of 
life,  when  the  world  was  gay  with  the  bloom  of 
novelty,  when  mirth  wantoned  at  his  side,  and 
hope  sparkled  before  him. 

The  sense  of  this  universal  pleasure  has  in- 
vited numbers  icithout  number  to  try  their  skill  in 
pastoral  performances  in  which  they  have  gene- 
rally succeeded  after  the  manner  of  other  imita- 
tors, transmitting  the  same  images  in  the  same 
combination  from  one  to  another,  till  he  that 
reads  the  title  of  a  poem,  may  guess  at  the  whole 


series  of  the  composition ;  nor  will  a  man,  after 
the  perusal  of  thousands  of  these  performances, 
find  his  knowledge  enlarged  with  a  single  view  of 
nature  not  produced  before,  or  his  imagination 
amused  with  any  new  application  of  those  views 
to  moral  purposes. 

The  range  of  pastoral  is  indeed  narrow:  for 
though  nature  itself,  philosophically  considered, 
be  inexhaustible,  yet  its  general  effects  on  the  eye 
and  on  the  ear  are  uniform,  and  incapable  of 
much  variety  of  description.  Poetry  cannot 
dwell  upon  the  minuter  distinctions,  by  which 
one  species  differs  from  another,  without  depart- 
ing from  that  simplicity  of  grandeur  which  fills  the 
imagination ;  nor  dissect  the  latent  qualities  of 
things,  without  losing  its  general  power  of  grati- 
fying every  mind  by  recalling  its  conceptions. 
However,  as  each  age  makes  some  discoveries, 
and  those  discoveries  are  by  degrees  generally 
known,  as  new  plants  or  modes  of  culture  are  in- 
troduced, and  by  little  and  little  become  common, 
pastoral  might  receive,  from  time  to  time,  small 
augmentations,  and  exhibit  once  in  a  century  a 
scene  somewhat  varied. 

But  pastoral  subjects  have  been  often,  like 
others,  taken  into  the  hands  of  those  that  were 
not  qualified  to  adorn  them,  men  to  whom  the 
face  of  nature  was  so  little  known,  that  they  have 
drawn  it  only  after  their  own  imagination,  and 
changed  or  distorted  her  features,  that  their  por- 
traits might  appear  something  more  than  servile 
copies  from  their  predecessors. 

Not  only  the  images  of  rural  life,  but  the  oc- 
casions on  which  they  can  be  properly  produced, 
are  few  and  general.  The  state  of  a  man  con  • 
fined  to  the  employments  and  pleasures  of  the 
country,  is  so  little  diversified,  and  exposed  to  so 
few  of  those  accidents  which  produce  perplexities, 
terrors,  and  surprises,  in  more  complicated  trans- 
actions, that  he  can  be  shown  but  seldom  in  such 
circumstances  as  attract  curiosity.  His  ambition 
is  without  policy,  and  his  love  without  intrigue. 
He  has  no  complaints  to  make  of  his  rival,  but 
that  he  is  richer  than  himself;  nor  any  disas- 
ters to  lament,  but  a  cruel  mistress,  or  a  bad 
harvest. 

The  conviction  of  the  necessity  of  some  new 
source  of  pleasure  induced  Sannazarius  to  remove 
the  scene  from  the  fields  to  the  sea,  to  substitute 
fishermen  for  shepherds,  and  derive  his  senti- 
ments from  the  piscatory  life  ;  for  which  he  has 
been  censured  by  succeeding  critics,  because  the 
sea  is  an  object  of  terror,  and  by  no  means  pro- 
per to  amuse  the  mind,  and  lay  the  passions 
asleep.  Against  this  objection  he  might  be  de- 
fended by  the  established  maxim,  that  the  poet 
has  a  right  to  select  his  images,  and  is  no  more 
obliged  to  show  the  sea  in  a  storm,  than  the  land 
under  an  inundation ;  but  may  display  all  the 
pleasures,  and  conceal  the  dangers,  of  the  water, 
as  he  may  lay  his  shepherd  under  a  shady  beech, 
without  giving  him  an  ague,  or  letting  a  wild 
beast  loose  upon  him. 

There  are,  however,  two  defects  in  the  pisca- 
tory eclogue,  which  perhaps  cannot  be  supplied. 
The  sea,  though  in  hot  countries  it  is  considered 
by  those  who  live,  like  Sannazarius,  upon  the 
coast,  as  a  place  of  pleasure  and  diversion,  has 
notwithstanding,  much  less  variety  than  the  land, 
and  therefore  will  be  sooner  exhausted  by  a  de- 
scriptive writer.  When  he  has  once  shown  the 
sun  rising  or  setting  upon  it,  curled  its  water* 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  37. 


with  Hie  vernal  breeze,  rolled  the  waves  in  gentle 
succession  to  the  shore,  and  enumerated  the  fish 
sporting  in  the  shallows,  he  has  nothing  remain- 
ini*  but  what  is  common  to  all  other  poetry,  the 
co'mplaint  of  a  nymph  for  a  drowned  lover,  or  the 
indignation  of  a  fisher  that  his  oysters  are  refused, 
and  Alycon's  accepted. 

Another  obstacle  to  the  general  reception  of 
this  kind  of  poetry,  is  the  ignorance  of  maritime 
pleasures,  in  which  the  greater  part  of  mankind 
must  always  live.  To  all  the  inland  inhabitants 
of  every  region,  the  sea  is  only  known  as  an  im- 
mense diffusion  of  waters,  over  which  men  pass 
from  one  country  to  another,  and  in  which  life  is 
frequently  lost.  They  have  therefore  no  oppor- 
tunity of  tracing  in  their  own  thoughts  the  de- 
scriptions oi  winding  shores  and  calm  bays,  nor 
can  look  on  the  poem  in  which  they  arc  mention- 
ed, with  other  sensations  than  on  a  sea  chart,  or 
the  metrical  geography  of  Dionysius. 

This  defect  Sannazarius  was  hindered  from 
perceiving  by  writing  in  a  learned  language  to 
readers  generally  acquainted  with  the  works  of 
nature ;  but  if  he  had  made  his  attempt  in  any 
vulgar  tongue,  he  would  soon  have  discovered 
how  vainly  he  had  endeavoured  to  make  that 
loved,  which  was  not  understood. 

I  am  afraid  it  will  not  be  found  easy  to  improve 
the  pastorals  of  antiquity,  by  any  great  additions 
or  diversifications.  Our  descriptions  may  indeed 
differ  from  those  of  Virgil,  as  an  English  from  an 
Italian  summer,  and,  in  some  respects,  as  mo- 
dern from  ancient  life  ;  but  as  nature  is  in  both 
countries  nearly  the  same,  and  as  poetry  has  to 
do  rather  with  the  passions  of  men,  which  are 
uniform,  than  their  customs,  which  are  changea- 
ble, the  varieties,  which  time  or  place  can  fur- 
nish, will  be  inconsiderable ;  and  I  shall  endea- 
vour to  show,  in  the  next  paper,  how  little  the 
latter  ages  have  contributed  to  the  improvement 
of  the  rustic  muse. 


No.  37.]      TUESDAY,  JULY  24,  1750. 

Canto  gun  solittu,  si  quando  amenta  rocabat, 
Amphion  Dircaus.  VIRG. 

Such  strains  I  sing  as  once  Amphion  play'd 
When  list'ning  Hocks  the  powerful  call  obey'd. 

ELPHINSTON. 

IN  writing  or  judging  of  pastoral  poetry,  neither 
the  authors  nor  critics  of  latter  times  seem  to  have 
paid  sufficient  regard  to  the  originals  left  us  by 
antiquity,  but  have  entangled  themselves  with 
unnecessary  difficulties,  by  advancing  principles, 
which  having  no  foundation  in  the  nature  oi 
things  are  wholly  to  be  rejected  from  a  species  ol 
composition,  in  which,  above  all  others,  mere  na- 
ture is  to  he  regarded. 

It  is  therefore  necessary  to  inquire  after  some 
more  distinct  and  exact  idea  of  this  kind  of  writ- 
ing. This  may,  I  think,  be  easily  found  in  th 
pastorals  of  Virgil,  from  whose  opinion  it  will  not 
appear  very  safe  to  depart,  if  we  consider  that 
every  advantage  of  nature  and  of  fortune,  con- 
curred to  complete  his  productions ;  that  he  was 
born  with  great  accuracy  and  severity  of  judg- 
ment, enlightened  with  all  the  learning  of  one  o 
the  brightest  ages,  and  embellished  with  the  ele- 
gance of  the  Roman  court ;  that  he  employed  hii 
powers  rather  in  improving,  than  inventing,  am 


therefore  must  have  endeavoured  to  recompense 
;he  want  of  novelty  by  exactness;  that  taking 
Theocritus  for  his  original,  he  found  pastoral  far 
.dvanced  towards  perfection,  and  that  having  so 
great  a  rival,  he  must  have  proceeded  with  un- 
common caution. 

If  we  search  the  writings  of  Virgil,  for  the  true 
definition  of  a  pastoral,  it  will  be  found  a  poem  in 
which  any  action  or  passion  is  represented  by  its  ef- 
fects upon  a  country  life.  Whatsoever  therefore 
may,  according  to  the  common  course  of  things, 
:iappen  in  the  country,  may  afford  a  subject  for 
a  pastoral  poet. 

In  this  definition,  it  will  immediately  occur  to 
those  who  are  versed  in  the  writings  of  the  mo- 
dern critics,  that  there  is  no  mention  of  the  golden 
age.  I  cannot  indeed  easily  discover  why  it  is 
thought  necessary  to  refer  descriptions  of  a  rural 
state  to  remote  times,  nor  can  I  perceive  that 
any  writer  has  consistently  preserved  the  Arca- 
dian manners  and  sentiments.  The  only  reason, 
that  I  have  read,  on  which  this  rule  has  been 
founded,  is,  that,  according  to  the  custom  of  mo- 
dern life,  it  is  improbable  that  shepherds  should 
be  capable  of  harmonious  number?,  or  delicate 
sentiments ;  and  therefore  the  reader  must  exalt 
his  ideas  of  the  pastoral  character,  by  carrying 
his  thoughts  back  to  the  age  in  which  the  care 
of  herds  and  flocks  was  the  employment  of  the 
wisest  and  greatest  men. 

These  reasoners  seem  to  have  been  led  into 
their  hypothesis,  by  considering  pastoral,  not  in 
general,  as  a  representation  of  rural  nature,  and 
consequently  as  exhibiting  the  ideas  and  senti- 
ments of  those,  whoever  they  are,  to  whom  the 
country  affords  pleasure  or  employment,  but 
simply  as  a  dialogue,  or  narrative  of  men  actual- 
ly tending  sheep,  and  busied  in  the  lowest  and 
most  laborious  offices ;  from  whence  they  very 
readily  concluded,  since  characters  must  neces- 
sarily be  preserved,  that  either  the  sentiments 
must  sink  to  the  level  of  the  speakers,  or  the 
speakers  must  be  raised  to  the  height  of  the  sen 
timents. 

In  consequence  of  these  original  errors,  a  thou  • 
sand  precepts  have  been  given,  which  have  only 
contributed  to  perplex  and  confound.  Some 
have  thought  it  necessary  that  the  imaginary  man 
ners  of  the  golden  age  should  be  universally  pre 
served,  and  have  therefore  believed,  that  nothing 
more  could  be  admitted  in  pastoral,  than  lilies 
and  roses,  and  rocks  and  streams,  among  which 
are  heard  the  gentle  whispers  of  chaste  fondness, 
or  the  soft  complaints  of  amorous  impatience. 
In  pastoral,  as  in  other  writings,  chastity  of  sen  • 
timent  ought  doubtless  to  be  observed,  and  puri- 
ty of  manners  to  be  represented ;  not  because  the 
poet  is  confined  to  the  image's  of  the  golden  age, 
but  because,  having  the  subject  in  his  own  choice, 
he  ought  always  to  consult  the  interest  of  virtue. 
These  advocates  for  the  golden  age  lay  down 
other  principles,  not  very  consistent  with  their 
general  plan ;  for  they  tell  vis,  that,  to  support 
the  character  of  the  shepherd,  it  is  proper  that 
all  refinement  should  be  avoided,  and  that  some 
slight  instances  of  ignorance  should  be  interspers- 
ed. Thus  the  shepherd  in  Virgil  is  supposed  to 
have  forgot  the  name  of  Anaximander,  and  in 
Pope  the  term  Zodiac  is  too  hard  for  a  rustic  ap- 
prehension. But  if  we  place  our  shepherds  in 
their  primitive  condition,  we  may  give  them 
learning  among  their  other  qualifications ;  and  if 


No.  38.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


69 


we  suffer  them  to  allude  at  all  to  things  of  later 
existence,  which,  perhaps,  cannot  with  any  great 
propriety  be  allowed,  there  can  be  no  danger  of 
making  them  speak  with  too  much  accuracy, 
since  they  conversed  with  divinities,  and  trans- 
mitted to  succeeding  ages  the  arts  of  life. 

Other  writers,  having  the  mean  and  despicable 
condition  of  a  shepherd  always  before  them,  con- 
ceive it  necessary  to  degrade  the  language  of  pas- 
toral by  obsolete  terms  and  rustic  words,  which 
they  very  learnedly  call  Doric,  without  reflecting 
that  they  thus  became  authors  of  a  mangled  dia- 
lect, which  no  human  being  ever  could  have  spo- 
ken, that  they  may  as  well  refine  the  speech  as 
the  sentiments  of  their  personages,  and  that  none 
of  the  inconsistencies  which  they  endeavour  to 
avoid,  is  greater  than  that  of  joining  elegance  of 
thought  with  coarseness  of  diction.  Spenser  be- 
gins one  of  his  pastorals  with  studied  barbarity ; 

Diggon  Davie.  I  bid  her  good  day ; 
Or,  Diggon  her  is,  or  I  missay. 

Dig.    Her  was  her  while  it  was  daylight, 
But  iioiv  her  is  a  most  wretched  wight. 

What  will  the  reader  imagine  to  be  the  subject 
on  which  speakers  like  these  exercise  their  elo- 
quence ?  Will  he  not  be  somewhat  disappointed, 
when  he  finds  them  met  together  to  condemn 
the  corruptions  of  the  church  of  Rome  ?  Surely, 
at  the  same  time  that  a  shepherd  learns  theolo- 
gy, he  may  gain  some  acquaintance  with  his  na- 
tive language. 

Pastoral  admits  of  all  ranks  of  persons,  be- 
cause persons  of  all  ranks  inhabit  the  country. 
It  excludes  not,  therefore,  on  account  of  the  char- 
acters necessary  to  be  introduced,  any  elevation 
or  delicacy  of  sentiment ;  those  ideas  only  are  im- 
proper, which  not  owing  their  original  to  rural 
objects,  are  not  pastoral.  Such  is  the  exclama- 
tion in  Virgil, 

Aanc  scio  quid  sit  Amor,  duris  in  cautibus  ilium 
Ismarus,  out  Rhotli/pe,  out  extremi  Garamantes, 
Ifec  generis  nostri  puerum,  nee  sanguinis,  edunt. 

1  know  thee,  Love,  in  deserts  thou  wert  bred, 

And  at  the  dugs  of  savage  tigers  fed ; 

Alien  of  birth,  usurper  of  the  plains. — DRYDEN. 

which  Pope  endeavouring  to  copy,  was  carried 
to  still  greater  impropriety: 

I  know  thee.  Love,  wild  as  the  raging  main 
More  fierce  than  tigers  on  the  Libyan  plain 
Thou  wert  from  Etna's  burning  entrails  torn  ; 
Begot  in  tempests,  and  in  thunders  born! 

Sentiments  like  these,  as  they  have  no  ground 
in  nature,  are  indeed  of  little  value  in  any  poem; 
but  in  pastoral  the}-  are  particularly  liable  to  cen- 
sure, because  it  wants  that  exaltation  above  com- 
mon life,  which  in  tragic  or  heroic  writings  often 
reconciles  us  to  bold  flights  and  daring  figures. 

Pastoral  being  the  representation  of  an  action  or 
passion,  by  its  effects  upon  a  country  life,  has  no- 
thing peculiar  but  its  confinement  to  rural  ima- 
gery, without  which  it  ceases  to  be  pastoral. 
This  is  its  true  characteristic,  and  this  it  cannot 
lose  by  any  dignity  of  sentiment,  or  beauty  of 
diction.  The  Pollio  of  Virgil,  with  all  its  eleva- 
tion, is  a  composition  truly  bucolic,  though  re- 
jected by  the  critics ;  for  all  the  images  are  either 
taken  from  the  country,  or  from  the  religion  of 
the  age  common  to  all  parts  of  the  empire. 

The  Silenus  is.  indeed  of  a  more  disputable 


kind,  because  though  the  scene  lies  in  the  coun 
try,  the  song,  being  religious  and  historical,  had 
been  no  less  adapted  to  any  other  audience  or 
place.  Neither  can  it  well  be  defended  as  a  fic- 
tion ;  for  the  introduction  of  a  god  seems  to  im- 
ply the  golden  age,  and  yet  he  alludes  to  many 
subsequent  transactions,  and  mentions  Gallus, 
the  poet's  contemporary. 

It  seems  necessary  to  the  perfection  of  this  po- 
em that  the  occasion  which  is  supposed  to  pro- 
duce it  be  at  least  not  inconsistent  with  a  coun- 
try life,  or  less  LJtely  to  interest  those  who  have 
retired  into  places  of  solitude  and  quiet,  than  the 
more  busy  part  of  mankind.  It  is  therefore  im- 
proper to  give  the  title  of  a  pastoral  to  verses,  in 
which  the  speakers,  after  the  slight  menlion  of 
their  flocks,  fall  to  complaints  of  errors  in  the 
church,  and  corruptions  in  the  government,  or  to 
lamentations  of  the  death  of  some  illustrious  per- 
son, whom,  when  once  the  poet  has  called  a 
shepherd,  he  has  no  longer  any  labour  upon  his 
hands,  but  can  make  the  clouds  weep,  and  lilies 
wither,  and  the  sheep  hang  their  heads,  without 
art  or  learning,  genius  or  study. 

It  is  part  of  Claudian's  character  of  his  rustic, 
that  he  computes  his  time  not  by  the  succession 
of  consuls,  but  of  harvests.  Those  who  pass 
their  days  in  retreats  distant  from  the  theatres  of 
business,  are  always  least  likely  to  hurry  theh 
imagination  with  public  anairs. 

The  facility  of  treating  actions  or  events  in  the 
pastoral  style,  has  incited  many  writers,  from 
whom  more  judgment  might  have  been  expect- 
ed, to  put  the  sorrow  or  the  joy  which  the  occa- 
sion required  into  the  mouth  of  Daphne  or  of 
Thyrsis ;  and  as  one  absurdity  must  naturally  be 
expected  to  make  way  to  another,  they  have 
written  with  an  utter  disregard  both  of  life  and 
nature,  and  filled  their  productions  with  mytho- 
logical allusions,  with  incredible  fictions  and  with 
sentiments  which  neither  passion  nor  reason 
could  have  dictated,  since  the  change  which  reli- 
gion has  made  in  the  whole  system  of  the  world. 


No.  38.]       SATURDAY,  JULY  28,  1750. 

Auream  quisquis  mediocritatem 
Diligit,  tutus  caret  obsoleti 
Sordibiis  tecti,  caret  invidenda 

Subrius  aula.  HOS 

The  man  within  the  golden  mean, 

Who  can  his  boldest  wish  contain, 

Securely  views  the  ruin'd  cell, 

Where  sordid  want  and  sorrow  dwell , 

And  in  himself  serenely  great, 

Declines  an  envied  room  of  state.  FRANCIS 

AMONG  many  parallels  which  men  of  imagina 
tion  have  drawn  between  the  natural  and  moral 
state  of  the  world,  it  has  been  observed  that  hap 
piness,  as  well  as  virtue,  consists  in  mediocrity  ; 
that  to  avoid  every  extreme  is  necessary,  even  to 
him  who  has  no  other  care  than  to  pass  through 
the  present  state  with  ease  and  safety ;  and  that 
the  middle  path  is  the  road  of  security,  on  eithei 
side  of  which  are  not  only  the  pitfalls  of  vice,  bu 
the  precipices  of  ruin. 

Thus  the  maxim  of  Cleobulus  the  Lindian, 
Tpov  amarov,  mediocrity  is  best,  has  been  long  con- 
sidered as  a  universal  principle,  extended  through 
the  whole  compass  of  life  and  nature.     The  ex- 
perience of  every  age  seems  to  have  given  it  new 


70 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  38 


confirmation,  and  to  show  that  nothing,  how- 
ever specious  or  alluring,  is  pursued  with  pro- 
priety, or  enjoyed  willi  safety,  beyond  certain 
limits. 

Even  the  gifts  of  nature,  which  may  truly  be 
considered  as  the  most  solid  and  durable  of  all 
terrestrial  advantages,  are  found,  when  they  ex- 
ceed the  middle  point,  to  draw  the  possessor  into 
many  calamities,  easily  avoided  by  others  that 
have  been  less  bountifully  enriched  or  adorned. 
We  see  every  day  women  perish  with  infamy,  by 
having  been  too  willing  to  set  their  beauty  to 
show ;  and  others,  though  not  with  equal  guilt 
or  misery,  yet  with  very  sharp  remorse,  lan- 

fuishing  in  decay,  neglect,  and  obscuiity,  for 
aving  rated  their  youthful  charms  at  too  high  a 
price.  And,  indeed,  if  the  opinion  of  Bacon  be 
thought  to  deserve  much  regard,  very  few  sighs 
would  be  vented  for  eminent  and  superlative  ele- 
gance of  form ;  "  for  beautiful  women,"  says  he, 
"  are  seldom  of  any  great  accomplishments,  be- 
cause they,  for  the  most  part,  study  behaviour 
rather  than  virtue." 

Health  and  vigour,  and  a  happy  constitution  of 
the  corporeal  frame,  are  of  absolute  necessity  to 
the  enjoyment  of  the  comforts,  and  to  the  per- 
formance of  the  duties  of  life,  and  requisite  in  yet 
a  greater  measure  to  the  accomplishment  of  any 
thing  illustrious  or  distinguished ;  yet  even  these, 
if  we  can  judge  by  their  apparent  consequences, 
are  sometimes  not  very  beneficial  to  those  on 
whom  they  are  most  liberally  bestowed.  They 
that  frequent  the  chambers  of  the  sick  will  gene- 
rally find  the  sharpest  pains,  and  most  stubborn 
maladies,  among  them  whom  confidence  of  the 
force  of  nature  formerly  betrayed  to  negligence 
and  irregularity ;  and  that  superfluity  of  strength, 
which  was  at  once  their  boast  and  their  snare, 
has  often,  in  the  latter  part  of  life,  no  other  effect 
than  that  it  continues  them  long  in  impotence  and 
anguish. 

These  gifts  of  nature  are,  however,  always 
blessings  in  themselves,  and  to  be  acknowledged 
with  gratitude  io  him  that  gives  them;  since 
they  are,  in  their  regular  and  legitimate  effects, 
productive  of  happiness,  and  prove  pernicious 
only  by  voluntary  corruption  or  idle  negligence. 
And  as  there  is  little  danger  of  pursuing  them 
with  too  much  ardour  or  anxiety,  because  no 
skill  or  diligence  can  hope  to  procure  them,  the 
uncertainty  of  their  influence  upon  our  lives  is 
mentioned,  not  to  depreciate  their  real  value,  but 
to  repress  the  discontent  and  envy  to  which  the 
want  of  them  often  gives  occasion  in  those  who 
do  not  enough  suspect  their  own  frailty,  nor  con- 
sider how  much  less  is  the  calamity  of  riot  pos- 
sessing great  powers,  than  of  not  using  them 
aright 

Of  all  those  things  that  make  us  superior  to 
others,  there  is  none  so  much  within  the  reach  of 
our  endeavours  as  riches,  nor  any  thing  more 
eagerly  or  constantly  desired.  Poverty  is  an  evil 
always  in  our  view,  an  evil  complicated  with  so 
many  circumstances  of  uneasiness  and  vexation, 
that  every  man  is  studious  to  avoid  it.  Some  de- 
gree of  riches  is  therefore  required,  that  we  may 
lie  exempt  from  the  gripe  of  necessity  ;  when  this 
purpose  is  once  attained,  we  naturally  wish  for 
more,  that  the  evil  which  is  regarded  with  so 
much  horror,  may  be  yet  at  a  greater  distance 
from  us ;  as  he  that  has  once  felt  or  dreaded  the 
paw  of  a  savage,  will  not  be  at  rest  till  thev  are  I 


parted  by  some  barrier,  which  may  take  away  al. 
possibility  of  a  second  attack. 

To  this  point,  if  fear  be  not  unreasonably  in- 
dulged, Cleobulus  would,  perhaps,  not  refuse  to 
extend  his  mediocrity.  But  it  almost  always 
happens,  that  the  man  who  grows  rich  changes 
his  notions  of  poverty,  states  his  wants  by  some 
new  measure,  and  from  flying  the  enemy  that 
pursued  him,  bends  his  endeavours  to  overtake 
those  whom  he  sees  before  him.  The  power  of 
gratifying  his  appetites  increases  their  demands  ; 
a  thousand  wishes  crowd  in  upon  him,  importu- 
nate to  be  satisfied,  and  vanity  and  ambition  open 
prospects  to  desire,  which  still  grow  wider,  as 
they  are  more  contemplated. 

Thus  in  time  want  is  enlarged  without  bounds: 
an  eagerness  for  increase  of  possessions  deluges 
the  soul,  and  we  sink  into  the  gulfs  of  insatiabili- 
ty ;  only  because  we  do  not  sufficiently  consider, 
that  all  real  need  is  very  soon  supplied,  and  all 
real  danger  of  its  invasion  easily  precluded  ;  that 
the  claims  of  vanity,  being  without  limits,  must 
be  denied  at  last :  and  that  the  pain  of  repressing 
them  is  less  pungent  before  they  have  been  long 
accustomed  to  compliance. 

Whosover  shall  look  heedfully  upon  those  who 
are  eminent  for  their  riches,  will  not  think  their 
condition  such  as  that  he  should  hazard  his  quiet, 
and  much  less  his  virtue  to  obtain  it.  For  all  that 
great  wealth  generally  gives  above  a  moderate 
fortune,  is  more  room  for  the  freaks  of  caprice, 
and  more  privilege  for  ignorance  and  vice,  a 
quicker  succession  of  flatteries,  and  a  larger  cir- 
cle of  voluptuousness. 

There  is  one  reason  seldom  remarked,  -which 
makes  riches  less  desirable.  Too  much  wealth 
is  very  frequently  the  occasion  of  poverty.  He 
whom  the  wantonness  of  abundance  has  once 
softened,  easily  sinks  into  neglect  of  his  affairs , 
and  he  that  thinks  he  can  afford  to  be  negligent, 
is  not  far  from  being  poor.  He  will  soon  be  in- 
volved in  perplexities,  which  his  inexperience  will 
render  unsurmountable  ;  he  will  fly  for  help  to 
those  whose  interest  it  is  that  he  should  be  more 
distressed,  and  will  be  at  last  torn  to  pieces  by 
the  vultures  that  always  hover  over  fortunes  in 
decay. 

When  the  plains  of  India  were  burnt  up  by  a 
long  continuance  of  drought,  Harriet  and  Ras- 
chid,  two  neighbouring  shepherds,  faint  with 
thirst,  stood  at  the  common  boundary  of  their 
grounds,  with  their  flocks  and  herds  panting 
round  them,  and  in  extremity  of  distress  prayed 
for  water.  On  a  sudden  the  air  was  becalmed, 
the  birds  ceased  to  chi;p,  and  the  flocks  to  bleat. 
They  turned  their  eyes  every  way,  and  saw  a 
being  of  mighty  stature  advancing  through  the 
valley,  whom  they  knew  upon  his  nearer  ap- 
proach to  be  the  Genius  of  Distribution.  In  one 
hand  he  held  the  sheaves  of  plenty,  and  in  the 
other  the  sabre  of  destruction.  The  shepherds 
stood  trembling,  and  would  have  retired  before 
him ;  but  he  called  to  them  with  a  voice  gentle 
as  the  breeze  that  plays  in  the  evening  among 
the  spices  of  Sabaea;  "Fly  not  from  your  bene- 
factor, children  of  the  dust!  I  am  come  to  offer 
you  gifts,  which  only  your  own  folly  can  make 
vain.  You  here  pray  for  water,  and  water  I 
will  bestow;  let  me  know  with  how  much  you 
will  be  satisfied:  speak  not  rashly;  consider, 
that  of  whatever  can  he  enjoyed  by  the  body,  ex- 
cess is  no  less  dangerous  than  scarcity.  Wh<m 


No.  39.] 


THE  RAMBLER 


.71 


you  remember  the  pain  of  thirst,  do  not  forget 
the  danger  of  suffocation.  Now,  Hamet,  tell  me 
your  request." 

"  O  Being,  kind  and  bene5cent,"  says  liamet, 
"  let  thine  eye  pardon  my  con.'usion.  I  entreat 
a  little  brook,  which  in  summer  shall  never  be 
dry,  and  in  winter  never  overflow." — "  It  is  grant- 
ed," replies  the  Genius ;  and  immediately  he 
opened  the  ground  with  his  sabre,  and  a  foun- 
tain bubbling  up  under  their  feet,  scattered  its 
rills  over  the  meadows:  the  flowers  renewed 
their  fragrance,  the  trees  spread  a  greener  foli- 
age, and  the  flocks  and  herds  quenched  their 
thirst. 

Then  turning  to  Raschid,  the  Genius  invited 
him  likewise  to  offer  his  petition.  "I  request," 
says  Raschid,  "that  thou  wilt  turn  the  Ganges 
through  my  grounds,  with  all  his  waters,  and  all 
their  inhabitants."  Hamet  was  struck  with  the 
greatness  of  his  neighbour's  sentiments,  and  se- 
cretly repined  in  his  heart,  that  he  had  not  made 
the  same  petition  before  him ;  when  the  Genius 
spoke,  "  Rash  man,  be  not  so  insatiable !  remem- 
ber, to  thee  that  is  nothing  which  thou  canst  not 
use ;  and  how  are  thy  wants  greater  than  the 
wants  of  Hamet?"  Raschid  repeated  his  desire, 
and  pleased  himself  with  the  mean  appearance 
that  Hamet  would  make  in  the  presence  of  the 
proprietor  of  the  Ganges.  The  Genius  then  re- 
tired towards  the  river,  and  the  two  shepherds 
stood  waiting  the  event.  As  Raschid  was  look- 
ing with  contempt  upon  his  neighbour,  on  a  sud- 
den was  heard  the  roar  of  torrents,  and  they  found 
by  the  mighty  stream  that  the  mounds  of  the 
Ganges  were  broken.  The  flood  rolled  forward 
into  the  lands  of  Raschid,  his  plantations  were 
torn  up,  his  flocks  overwhelmed,  he  was  swept 
away  before  it,  and  a  crocodile  devoured  him. 


No.  39.]        TUESDAY,  JULY  31,  1750. 

tnfdix nulli  lene  nupta  marito. — AUSONIUS. 

Unblefs'd,  still  doom'd  to  wed  with  misery. 

THE  condition  of  the  frmale  sex  has  been  fre- 
quently the  subject  of  compassion  to  medical 
writers,  because  their  constitution  of  body  is  such, 
that  every  state  of  life  brings  its  peculiar  diseas- 
es ;  they  are  placed,  according  to  the  proverb, 
between  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  with  no  other 
choice  than  of  dangers  equally  formidable  ;  and 
whether  they  embrace  marriage,  or  determine 
upon  a  single  life,  are  exposed,  in  consequence 
of  their  choice,  to  sickness,  misery,  and  death. 

It  were  to  be  wished  that  so  great  a  degree  of 
natural  infelicity  might  not  be  increased  by  ad- 
ventitious and  artificial  miseries ;  and  that  beings, 
whose  beauty  we  cannot  behold  without  admira- 
tion, and  whose  delicacy  we  cannot  contemplate 
without  tenderness,  might  be  suffered  to  enjoy 
every  alleviation  of  their  sorrows.  But,  however 
it  has  happened,  the  custom  of  the  world  seems 
to  have  been  formed  in  a  kind  of  conspiracy 
against  them,  though  it  does  not  appear  but  they 
had  themselves  an  equal  share  in  its  establish- 
ment; and  prescriptions  which,  by  whomsoever 
they  were  begun,  are  now  of  long  continuance, 
and  by  consequence  of  great  authority,  seem  to 
have  almost  excluded  them  from  content,  in 
whatsoever  condition  they  shall  pass  their  lives. 


If  they  refuse  the  society  of  men,  and  continue 
in  that  state  which  is  reasonably  supposed  to 
place  happiness  most  in  their  own  power,  they 
seldom  give  those  that  frequent  their  conversa- 
tion any  exalted  notions  of  the  blessing  of  liber- 
ty ;  for  whether  it  be  that  they  are  angry  to  see 
•with  what  inconsiderate  eagerness  other  heed- 
less females  rush  into  slavery,  or  with  what  ab- 
surd vanity  the  married  ladies  boast  the  change 
of  their  condition,  and  condemn  the  heroines, 
who  endeavour  to  assert  the  natural  dignity  of 
their  sex  ;  whether  they  are  conscious  that  like 
barren  countries  they  are  free,  only  because  they 
were  never  thought  to  deserve  the  trouble  of  a 
conquest,  or  imagine  that  their  sincerity  is  not 
always  unsuspected,  when  they  declare  their  con- 
tempt of  men  ;  it  is  certain,  that  they  generally 
appear  to  have  some  great  and  incessant  cause 
of  uneasiness,  and  that  many  of  them  have  at  last 
been  persuaded  by  powerful  rhetoricians,  to  try 
the  life  which  they  had  so  long  contemned,  and 
put  on  the  bridal  ornaments  at  a  time  when  they 
least  became  them. 

What  are  the  real  causes  of  the  impatience 
which  the  ladies  discover  in  a  virgin  state,  I  shall 
perhaps  take  some  other  occasion  to  examine. 
That  it  is  not  to  be  envied  for  its  happiness,  ap- 
pears from  the  solicitude  with  \vhich  it  ia  avoid- 
ed ;  from  theopinion  universally  prevalent  among 
the  sex,  that  no  woman  continues  long  in  it  but 
because  she  is  not  invited  to  forsake  it ;  from  the 
disposition  always  shown  to  treat  old  maids  as 
the  refuse  of  the  world;  and  from  the  willing- 
ness with  which  it  is  often  quitted  at  last,  by 
those  whose  experience  has  enabled  them  to 
judge  at  leisure,  and  decide  with  authority. 

Yet  such  is  life,  that  whatever  is  proposed,  it 
is  much  easier  to  find  reasons  for  rejecting  than 
embracing.  Marriage,  though  a  certain  security 
from  the  reproach  and  solitude  of  antiquated  vir- 
ginity, has  yet,  as  it  is  usually  conducted,  many 
disadvantages,  that  take  away  much  from  the 
pleasure  which  society  promises,  and  might  af- 
ford, if  pleasures  and  pains  were  honestly  shared, 
and  mutual  confidence  inviolably  preserved. 

The  miseries,  indeed,  which  many  ladies  suffer 
under  conjugal  vexations,  are  to  be  considered 
with  great  pity,  because  their  husbands  are  often 
not  taken  by  them  as  objects  of  affection,  but 
forced  upon  them  by  authority  and  •violence,  or 
by  persuasion  and  importunity,  equally  resistless 
when  urged  by  those  whom  they  have  been  al- 
ways accustomed  to  reverence  and  obey ;  and  it 
very  seldom  appears  that  those  who  are  thus  de- 
spotic in  the  disposal  of  their  children,  pay  any 
regard  to  their  domestic  and  personal  felicity,  or 
think  it  so  much  to  be  inquired  whether  they  will 
be  happy,  as  whether  they  will  be  rich. 

It  may  be  urged,  in  extenuation  of  this  crime, 
which  parents,  not  in  any  other  respect  to  be 
numbered  with  robbers  and  assassins,  frequently 
commit,  that  in  their  estimation,  riches  and  hap- 
piness are  equivalent  terms.  They  have  passed 
their  lives  with  no  other  wish  than  of  adding 
acre  to  acre,  and  filling  one  bag  after  another,  and 
imagine  the  advantage  of  a  daughter  sufficiently 
considered,  when  they  have  secured  her  a  large 
jointure,  and  given  her  reasonable  expectations 
of  living  in  the  midst  of  those  pleasures  with 
which  she  had  seen  her  father  and  mother  so- 
lacing their  age. 

There  is  an  economical  oracle  received  among 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  40. 


the  prudential  part  of  the  world,  which  advises 
fath.-rs  to  marry  their  dan  ^liters,  lest  they  should 
marry  tlutnsrlves ;  by  which  I  suppose  it  is  im- 
plied, that  women  left  to  their  own  conduct  ge- 
nerally unite  themselves  with  such  partners  as 
can  contribute  very  little  to  their  felicity.  Who 
was  the  authorof  this  maxim,  or  with  what  inten- 
tion it  was  originally  uttered,  I  have  not  yet  dis- 
covered ;  but  imagine,  that  however  solemnly  it 
may  be  transmitted,  or  however  implicitly  receiv- 
ed, it  can  confer  no  authority  which  nature  has 
denied;  it  cannot  license  Titius  to  be  unjust,  lest 
Caia  should  he  imprudent ;  nor  give  right  to  im- 
prison for  life,  lest  liberty  should  be  ill  employed. 

That  the  ladies  have  sometimes  incurred  im- 
putations which  might  naturally  produce  edicts 
not  much  in  their  favour,  must  be  confessed  by 
their  warmest  advocates;  and  I  have  indeed  sel- 
dom observed,  that  when  the  tenderness  or  virtue 
of  their  parents  has  preserved  them  from  forced 
marriage,  and  left  them  at  large  to  choose  their 
own  path,  in  the  labyrinth  of  life,  they  have 
made  any  great  advantage  of  their  liberty  ;  they 
commonly  take  the  opportunity  of  independence 
to  trifle  away  youth  and  lose  their  bloom  in  a 
hurry  of  diversions,  recurring  in  a  succession  too 
quick  to  leave  room  for  any  settled  reflection  ; 
tney  see  the  world  without  gaining  experience, 
and  at  last  regulate  their  choice  by  motives  tri- 
fling as  those  of  a  girl,  or  mercenary  as  those  of 
a  miser. 

Melanthia  came  to  town  upon  the  death  of 
her  father,  with  a  very  large  fortune,  and  with 
the  reputation  of  a  much  larger;  she  was  there- 
fore followed  and  caressed  by  many  men  of 
rank,  and  by  some  of  understanding ;  but  having 
an  insatiable  desire  of  pleasure,  she  was  not  at 
leisure,  from  the  park,  the  gardens,  the  theatres, 
visits,  assemblies,  and  masquerades,  to  attend 
seriously  to  any  proposal,  but  was  still  impatient 
for  a  new  flatterer,  and  neglected  marriage  as  al- 
ways in  her  power ;  till  in  time  her  admirers  fell 
away,  wearied  with  expense,  disgusted  at  her 
folly,  or  offended  by  her  inconstancy ;  she  heard 
of  concerts  to  which  she  was  not  invited,  and  was 
more  than  once  forced  to  sit  still  at  an  assembly 
for  want  of  a  partner.  In  this  distress  chance 
threw  in  her  way  Philotryphus,  a  man  vain,  glit- 
tering, and  thoughtless  as  herself,  who  had  spent 
a  small  fortune  in  equipage  and  dress,  and  was 
shining  in  the  last  suit  for  which  his  tailor  would 
give  him  credit.  He  had  been  long  endeavour- 
ing to  retrieve  his  extravagance  by  marriage,  and 
therefore  soon  paid  his  court  to  Melanthia,  who, 
after  some  weeks  of  insensibility,  saw  him  at  a 
ball,  and  was  wholly  overcome  by  his  perform- 
ance ia  a  minuet.  They  married ;  but  a  man 
cannot  always  dance,  and  Philotryphus  had  no 
other  method  of  pleasing ;  however,  as  neither 
was  in  any  great  degree  vicious,  they  lived  toge- 
ther with  no  other  unhappiness  than  vacuity  of 
mind,  and  that  tastelessncss  of  life,  which  pro- 
ceeds from  a  satiety  of  juvenile  pleasures,  .and  an 
utter  inability  to  fill  their  place  by  nobler  employ- 
ments. As  they  have  known  the  fashionable 
world  at  the  same  time,  they  agree  in  their  no- 
tions of  all  those  subjects  on  which  they  ever 
speak  ;  and,  being  able  to  add  nothing  to  the  ideas 
of  each  other,  are  much  inclined  to  conversation, 
but  very  often  join  in  one  wish,  "  That  they  could 
Bleep  more  and  think  less." 

Argyris,  after  having  refused  a  thousand  offers, 


at  last  consented  to  marry  Cotylus,  the  younger 
brother  of  a  duke,  a  man  without  elegance  of 
mien,  beauty  of  person,  or  force  of  understand- 
ing; who,  while  he  courted  her,  could  not  al- 
ways forbear  allusions  to  her  birth,  and  hints  how 
cheaply  she  would  purchase  an  alliance  to  so 
illustrious  a  family.  His  conduct  from  the  hour 
of  his  marriage  has  been  insufferably  tyrannical, 
nor  has  he  any  other  regard  to  her  than  what 
arises  from  his  desire  that  her  appearance  may 
not  disgrace  him.  Upon  this  principle,  however, 
he  always  orders  that  she  should  be  gayly  dress- 
ed, and  splendidly  attended ;  and  she  has,  among 
all  her  mortifications,  the  happiness  to  take  place 
of  her  elder  sister. 


No.  40.]       SATURDAY,  AUGUST  4,  1750. 


-Aiee  dicet,  cur  ego  amicum 


Offendam  in  nugis  3     Ha,  miga  seria  ducent 
In  mala  derisitm  scmcl. 

Nor  say,  for  trifles  why  should  I  displease 
The  man  I  love  ?     For  trifles  such  as  these 
To  serious  mischiefs  lead  the  man  I  love, 
If  once  the  flatterer's  ridicule  he  prove. 


IT  has  been  remarked,  that  authors  are  genus  iri- 
tabtte,  a  generation  very  easily  put  out  of  temper, 
and  that  they  seldom  fail  of  giving  proofs  of  their 
irascibility  upon  the  slightest  attack  of  criticism, 
or  the  most  gentle  or  modest  offer  of  advice  and 
information. 

Writers  being  best  acquainted  with  one  ano- 
ther, have  represented  this  character  as  prevail 
ing  among  men  of  literature,  which  a  more  ex- 
tensive view  of  the  world  would  have  shown 
them  to  be  diffused  through  all  human  nature,  to 
mingle  itself  with  every  species  of  ambition  and 
desire  of  praise,  and  to  discover  its  effects  with 
greater  or  less  restraint,  and  under  disguises  more 
or  less  artful,  in  all  places  and  all  conditions. 

The  quarrels  of  writers,  indeed,  are  more  ob- 
served, because  they  necessarily  appeal  to  the 
decision  of  the  public.  Their  enmities  are  incit- 
ed by  applauses  from  their  parties,  and  prolong- 
ed by  treacherous  encouragement  for  general 
diversion  ;  and  when  the  contest  happens  to  rise 
high  between  men  of  genius  and  learning,  its 
memory  is  continued  for  the  same  reason  as  its 
vehemence  was  at  first  promoted,  because  it  gra 
tifies  the  malevolence  or  curiosity  of  readers,  and 
relieves  the  vacancies  of  life  with  amusement  and 
laughter.  The  personal  disputes,  therefore,  of 
rivals  in  wit  are  sometimes  transmitted  to  pos- 
terity, when  the  grudges  and  heart-burnings  of 
men  less  conspicuous,  though  carried  on  with 
equal  bitterness,  and  productive  of  greater  evils, 
are  exposed  to  the  knowledge  of  those  only  whom 
they  nearly  affect,  and  suffered  to  pass  ofF  and 
be  forgotten  among  common  and  casual  transac- 
tions. 

The  resentment  which  the  discovery  of  a  fault 
or  folly  produces,  must  bear  a  certain  proportion 
to  our  pride,  and  will  regularly  be  more  acrimo- 
nious as  pride  is  more  immediately  the  principle 
of  action.  In  whatever  therefore  we  wish  or 
imagine  ourselves  to  excel,  we  shall  always  be 
displeased  to  have  our  claims  to  reputation  dis- 
puted ;  and  more  displeased,  if  the  accomplish 
ment  be  such  as  can  expect  reputation  only  for 


No.  40.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


73 


its  reward.  For  this  reason  it  is  common  to  find 
men  break  out  into  rage  at  any  insinuations  to 
the  disadvantage  of  their  wit,  who  have  borne 
with  great  patience  reflections  on  their  morals ; 
and  of  women  it  has  been  always  known,  that 
no  censures  wound  so  deeply,  or  rankle  so  long, 
as  that  which  charges  them  with  want  of  beauty. 

As  men  frequently  fill  their  imaginations  with 
trifling  pursuits,  and  please  themselves  most  with 
things  of  small  importance,  I  have  often  known 
very  severe  and  lasting  malevolence  excited  by 
unlucky  censures,  which  would  have  fallen  with- 
out any  effect,  had  they  not  happened  to  wound 
a  part  remarkably  tender.  Gustulus,  who  va- 
lued himself  upon  the  nicety  of  his  palate,  disin- 
herited his  eldest  son,  for  telling  him  that  the 
wine,  which  he  was  then  commending,  was  the 
same  which  he  had  sent  away  the  day  before  not 
fit  to  be  drunk.  Proculus  withdrew  his  kindness 
from  a  nephew,  whom  he  had  always  consider- 
ed as  the  most  promising  genius  of  the  age,  for 
happening  to  praise  in  his  presence  the  graceful 
horsemanship  of  Marius.  And  Fortunio,  when 
he  was  privy-counsellor,  procured  a  clerk  to  be 
dismissed  from  one  of  the  public  offices,  in  which 
he  was  eminent  for  his  skill  and  assiduity,  be- 
cause he  had  been  heard  to  say  that  there  was 
another  man  in  the  kingdom  on  whose  skill  at 
billiard's  he  would  lay  his  money  against  For- 
tunio's. 

Felicia  and  Floretta  had  been  bred  up  in  one 
house,  and  shared  all  the  pleasures  and  endear- 
ments of  infancy  together.  They  entered  upon 
life  at  the  same  time,  and  continued  their  confi- 
dence and  friendship^  consulted  each  other  in 
every  change  of  their  dress,  and  every  admission 
of  a  new  lover;  thought  every  diversion  more  en- 
tertaining whenever  it  happened  that  both  were 
present,  and  when  separated  justified  the  con- 
duct, and  celebrated  the  excellencies,  of  one  an- 
other. Such  was  their  intimacy,  and  such  their 
fidelity,  till  a  birth-night  approached,  when  Flo- 
retta took  one  morning  an  opportunity,  as  they 
were  consulting  upon  new  clothes,  to  advise  her 
friend  not  to  dance  at  the  ball,  and  informed  her 
that  her  performance  the  year  before  had  not 
answered  the  expectation  which  her  other  accom- 
plishments had  raised.  Felicia  commended  her 
sincerity,  and  thanked  her  for  the  caution;  but 
told  her  that  she  danced  to  please  herself,  and 
was  in  very  little  concern  what  the  men  might 
take  the  liberty  of  saying,  but  that  if  her  appear- 
ance gave  her  dear  Floretta  any  uneasiness,  she 
would  stay  away.  Floretfa  had  now  nothing 
left  but  to  make  new  protestations  of  sincerity 
and  affection,  with  which  Felicia  was  so  well  sa- 
tisfied, that  they  parted  with  more  than  usual 
fondness.  They  still  continued  to  visit,  with  this 
only  difference,  that  Felicia  was  more  punctual 
than  before,  and  often  declared  how  high  a  va- 
lue she  put  upon  sincerity,  how  much  she  thought 
that  goodness  to  be  esteemed  which  would  ven- 
ture to  admonish  a  friend  of  an  error,  and  with 
what  gratitude  advice  was  to  be  received,  even 
when  it  might  happen  to  proceed  from  mistake. 

In  a  few  months,  Felicia,  with  great  serious- 
ness, told  Floretta,  that  though  her  beauty  was 
such  as  gave  charms  to  whatever  she  did,  and 
her  qualifications  so  extensive,  that  she  could  not 
fail  of  excellence  in  any  attempt,  yet  she  thought 
herself  obliged  by  the  duties  of  friendship  to  in- 
form her,  that  if  ever  she  betrayed  want  of  judg- 
K 


ment,  it  was  by  too  frequent  compliance  with  so 
licitations  to  sing,  for  that  her  manner  was  some 
what  ungraceful,  and  her  voice  had  no  great 
compass.  It  is  true,  says  Floretta,  when  I  sung 
three  nights  ago  at  Lady  Sprightly's  I  was  hoarse 
with  a  cold ;  but  I  sing  for  my  own  satisfaction, 
and  am  not  in  the  least  pain  whether  1  am  liked. 
However,  my  dear  Felicia's  kindness  is  not  the 
less,  and  I  shall  always  think  myself  happy  in  BO 
true  a  friend. 

From  this  time  they  never  saw  each  other  with- 
out mutual  professions  of  esteem,  and  declara- 
tions of  confidence,  but  went  soon  after  into  the 
country  to  visit  their  relations.  When  they  came 
back,  they  were  prevailed  on,  by  the  importunity 
of  new  acquaintance,  to  take  lodgings  in  different 
parts  of  the  town,  and  had  frequent  occasion, 
when  they  met,  to  bewail  the  distance  at  which 
they  were  placed,  and  the  uncertainty  which 
each  experienced  of  finding  the  other  at  home. 

Thus  are  the  fondest  and  firmest  friendships 
dissolved,  by  such  openness  and  sincerity  as  in- 
terrupt our  enjoyment  of  our  own  approbation, 
or  recall  us  to  the  remembrance  of  those  failings 
which  we  are  more  willing  to  indulge  than  to 
correct. 

It  is  by  no  means  necessary  to  imagine,  that 
he  who  is  offended  at  advice,  was  ignorant  of 
the  fault,  and  resents  the  admonition  as  a  false 
charge ;  for  perhaps  it  is  most  natural  to  be  en 
raged,  when  there  is  the  strongest  conviction  of 
our  own  guilt.  While  we  can  easily  defend  out 
character,  we  are  no  more  disturbed  at  an  accu 
sation,  than  we  are  alarmed  by  an  enemy  whom 
we  are  sure  to  conquer ;  and  whose  attack,  there- 
fore, will  bring  us  honour  without  danger.  But 
when  a  man  feels  the  reprehension  of  a  friend 
seconded  by  his  own  heart,  he  is  easily  heated  in- 
to resentment  and  revenge,  either  because  he 
hoped  that  the  fault  of  which  he  was  conscious 
had  escaped  the  notice  of  others;  or  that  his 
friend  had  looked  upon  it  with  tenderness  and  ex- 
tenuation, and  excused  it  for  the  sake  of  his  other 
virtues ;  or  had  considered  him  as  too  wise  to 
need  advice,  or  too  delicate  to  be  shocked  with 
reproach:  or,  because  we  cannot  feel  without 
pain  those  reflections  roused  which  we  have  been 
endeavouring  to  lay  asleep ;  and  when  pain  has 
produced  anger,  who  would  not  willingly  believe, 
that  it  ought  to  be  discharged  on  others,  rather 
than  on  himself? 

The  resentment  produced  by  sincerity,  what- 
ever be  its  immediate  cause,  is  so  certain,  and 
generally  so  keen,  that  very  few  have  magnani 
mity  sufficient  for  the  practice  of  a  duty,  which, 
above  most  others,  exposes  its  votaries  to  hard- 
ships and  persecution ;  yet  friendship  without  it  is 
of  very  little  value,  since  the  great  use  of  so  close 
an  intimacy  is,  that  our  virtues  may  be  guarded 
and  encouraged,  and  our  vices  repressed  in  their 
first  appearance  by  timely  detection  and  salutary 
remonstrances. 

It  is  decreed  by  Providence,  that  nothing  truly 
valuable  shall  be  obtained  in  our  present  state, 
but  with  difficulty  and  danger.  He  that  hopes 
for  that  advantage  which  is  to  be  gained  from  un- 
restrained communication,  must  sometimes  ha- 
zard, by  unpleasing  truths,  that  friendship  which 
he  aspires  to  merit.  The  chief  rule  to  be  observ- 
ed in  the  exercise  of  this  dangerous  office,  is  to 
preserve  it  pure  from  all  mixture  of  interest  or 
vanity ;  to  forbear  admonition  or  reproof,  when 


74 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  41 


our  consciences  tell  us  that  they  are  incited,  not 
by  the  hopes  of  reforming  faults,  but  the  desire 
of  showing  our  discernment,  or  gratifying  our 
own  pride  by  the  mortification  of  another.  It  is 
not  indeed  certain,  that  the  most  refined  caution 
will  tind  a  proper  time  for  bringing  a  man  to  the 
knowledge  of  his  own  failings,  or  the  most  zeal- 
ous benevolence  reconcile  him  to  that  judgment, 
by  which  they  are  detected ;  but  he  who  endea- 
vours only  the  happiness  of  him  whom  he  re- 
proves, will  always  have  either  the  satisfaction 
of  obtaining  or  deserving  kindness;  if  he  succeeds, 
he  benefits  his  friend  ;  and  if  he  fails,  he  has  at 
least  the  consciousness  that  he  suffers  icr  only 
doing  well. 


No.  41.]     TUESDAY,  AUGUST  7,  1750. 

Nulla  recordanti  lux  est  ingrata  gravisque, 

Ifullafuil  citjus  non  meminisse  velit. 
Ampliat  alalis  spatium  sibi  vir  bonus,  hoc  est 

yivere  bis,  vita  posse  priore  frui.  MART. 

No  day's  remembrance  shall  the  good  regret, 
Nor  wish  one  bitter  moment  to  forget ; 
They  stretch  the  limits  of  this  narrow  span, 
And,  by  enjoying,  live  past  life  again.— F.  LEWIS. 

So  few  of  the  hours  of  life  are  filled  up  with  ob- 
jects adequate  to  the  mind  of  man,  and  so  fre- 
quently are  we  in  want  of  present  pleasure  or 
employment,  that  we  are  forced  to  have  recourse 
every  moment  to  the  past  and  future  for  supple- 
mental satisfactions,  and  relieve  the  vacuities  of 
our  being,  by  recollection  of  former  passages,  or 
anticipation  of  events  to  come. 

I  cannot  but  consider  this  necessity  of  search- 
ing on  every  side  for  matter  on  which  the  atten- 
tion may  be  employed,  as  a  strong  proof  of  the 
superior  and  celestial  nature  of  the  soul  of  man. 
We  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  other  creatures 
have  higher  faculties,  or  more  extensive  capaci- 
ties, than  the  preservation  of  themselves,  or  their 
species  requires ;  they  seem  always  to  be  fully 
employed,  or  to  be  completely  at  ease  without 
employment,  to  feel  few  intellectual  miseries  or 
pleasures,  and  to  have  no  exuberance  of  under- 
standing to  lay  out.  upon  curiosity  or  caprice,  but 
to  have  their  minds  exactly  adapted  to  their  bo- 
dies, with  few  other  ideas  than  such  as  corporeal 
pain  or  pleasure  impress  upon  them. 

Of  memory,  which  makes  so  large  a  part  of  the 
excellence  of  the  human  soul,  and  which  has  so 
much  influence  upon  all  its  other  powers,  but  a 
small  portion  has  been  allotted  to  the  animal 
world.  We  do-  Hot  find  the  grief  with  which  the 
dams  lament  the  loss  of  their  young,  proportion- 
ate to  the  tenderness  with  which  they  caress,  the 
assiduity  with  which  they  feed,  or  the  vehemence 
with  which  they  defend  them.  Their  regard  for 
their  offspring,  when  it  is  before  their  eyes,  is  not, 
in  appearance,  less  than  that  of  a  human  parent; 
but  when  it  is  taken  away,  it  is  very  soon  for- 
gotten, and,  after  a  short  absence,  if  brought 
again,  wholly  disregarded. 

That  they  have  very  little  remembrance  of  any- 
thing once  out  of  the  reach  of  their  senses,  and 
scarce  any  power  of  comparing  the  present  with 
the  past,  and  regulating  their  conclusions  from 
experience,  may  be  gathered  from  this,  that  their 
intellects  are  produced  in  their  full  perfection 
1  he  sparrow  that  was  hatched  last  spring  makes 


her  first  nest  the  ensuing  season,  of  the  same 
materials,  and  with  the  same  art,  as  in  any  fol- 
lowing year;  and  the  hen  conducts  and  shelters 
her  first  brood  of  chickens  with  all  the  prudence 
that  she  ever  attains. 

It  has  been  asked  by  men  who  love  to  perplex 
any  thing  that  is  plain  to  common  understand- 
ings, how  reason  differs  from  instinct:  and  Prior 
has  with  no  great  propriety  made  Solomon  him- 
self declare,  that  to  distinguish  them  is  the  fooVs 
ignorance,  and  the  pedant's  pride.  To  give  an  ac- 
curate answer  to  a  question,  of  which  the  terms 
are  not  completely  understood,  is  impossible ;  we 
do  not  know  in  what  either  reason  or  instinct 
consist,  and  therefore  cannot  tell  with  exactness 
how  they  differ;  but  surely  he  that  contemplates 
a  ship  and  a  bird's  nest,  will  not  be  long  without 
finding  out,  that  the  idea  of  the  one  was  impress- 
ed at  once,  and  continued  through  all  the  pro- 
gressive descents  of  the  species,  without  varia- 
tion or  improvement ;  and  that  the  other  is  the 
result  of  experiments  compared  with  experi- 
ments ;  has  grown,  by  accumulated  observation, 
from  less  to  greater  excellence ;  and  exhibits  the 
collective  knowledge  of  different  ages  and  vari- 
ous professions. 

Memory  is  the  purveyor  of  reason,  the  power 
which  places  those  images  before  the  mind  upon 
which  the  judgment  is  to  be  exercised,  and  which 
treasures  up  the  determinations  that  are  once 
passed,  as  the  rules  of  future  action,  or  grounds 
of  subsequent  conclusions. 

It  is,  indeed,  the  faculty  of  remembrance,  which 
may  be  said  to  place  us  in  the  class  of  moral 
agents.  If  we  were  to  act  only  in  consequence 
of  some  immediate  impulse,  and  receive  no  di- 
rection from  internal  motives  of  choice,  we  should 
be  pushed  forward  by  an  invincible  fatality,  with- 
out power  or  reason  for  the  most  part  to  prefei 
one  thing  to  another,  because  we  could  make  no 
comparison  but  of  objects  which  might  both  hap 
pen  to  be  present. 

We  owe  to  memory  not  only  the  increase  of 
our  knowledge  and  our  progress  in  rational  in- 
quiries,  but  many  other  intellectual  pleasures. 
Indeed,  almost  all  that  we  can  be  said  to  enjoy 
is  past  or  future ;  the  present  is  in  perpetual  mo- 
tion, leaves  us  as  soon  as  it  arrives,  ceases  to  bo 
present  before  its  presence  is  well  perceived,  and 
is  only  known  to  have  existed  by  the  effects  which 
it  leaves  behind.  The  greatest  part  of  our  ideas 
arises,  therefore,  from  the  view  before  or  behind 
us,  and  we  are  happy  or  miserable,  according  as 
we  are  affected  by  the  survey  of  our  life,  or  our 
prospect  of  future  existence. 

With  regard  to  futurity,  when  events  are  at 
such  a  distance  from  us  that  we  cannot  take  the 
whole  concatenation  into  our  view,  we  have  ge- 
nerally power  enough  over  our  imagination  to 
turn  it  upon  pleasing  scenes,  and  can  promise 
ourselves,  riches,  honours,  and  delights  without 
intermingling  those  vexations  and  anxieties  with 
which  all  human  enjoyments  are  polluted.  If  fear 
breaks  in  on  one  side,  and  alarms  us  with  dan- 
gers and  disappointments,  we  can  call  in  hope  on 
the  other,  to  solace  us  with  rewards,  and  escapes, 
and  victories;  so  that  we  are  seldom  without 
means  of  palliating  remote  evils,  and  can  gene- 
rally soothe  ourselves  to  tranquillity,  whenever 
any  troublesome  presage  happens  to  attack  us. 

It  is  therefore,  I  believe,  much  more  common 
for  the  solitary  and  thoughtful,  to  amuse  them- 


No.  42.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


75 


selves  with  schemes  of  the  future,  than  reviews 
of  the  past.  For  the  future  is  pliant  and  ductile, 
and  will  be  easily  moulded  by  a  strong  fancy 
into  any  form:  but  the  images  which  memory 
presents  are  of  a  stubborn  and  untractable  na- 
ture, the  objects  of  remembrance  have  already 
existed,  and  left  their  signature  behind  them  im- 
pressed upon  the  mind,  so  as  to  defy  all  attempts 
of  razure  or  of  change. 

As  the  satisfactions,  therefore,  arising  from 
memory  are  less  arbitrary,  they  are  more  solid, 
and  are,  indeed,  the  only  joys  which  we  can  call 
our  own.  Whatever  we  have  once  reposited,  as 
Dryden  expresses  it,  in  the  sacred  treasure  of  the 
past,  is  out  of  the  reach  of  accident,  or  violence, 
nor  can  be  lost  either  by  our  own  weakness,  or 
another's  malice: 

JVon  tamen  irritum 

Qiiodcunque  retro  est  effieift,  neque 
Dijjingct,  infcctumque  reddet, 
Quodfugicnsscmelhora  vixit. 

Be  fair  or  foul,  or  rain  or  shine. 

The  joys  I  have  possess'd,  in  spite  of  fate  are  mine. 

Not  Heaven  itself  upon  the  past  has  power, 

But  what  has  boon,  has  been,  and  I  have  had  my  hour. 

DRYDEN. 

There  is  certainly  no  greater  happiness  than 
to  be  able  to  look  back  on  a  life  usefully  and 
virtuously  employed,  to  trace  our  own  progress 
in  existence,  by  such  tokens  as  excite  neither 
shame  nor  sorrow.  Life,  hi  which  nothing  has 
been  done  or  suffered,  to  distinguish  one  day 
from  another,  is  to  him  that  has  passed  it  as  if 
it  had  never  been,  except  that  he  is  conscious 
ho  will  he  has  husbanded  the  great  deposit  of  his 
Creator.  Life,  made  memorable  by  crimes,  and 
diversified  through  its  several  periods  by  wicked- 
ness, is  indeed  easily  reviewed,  but  reviewed 
only  with  horror  and  remorse. 

The  great  consideration  which  ought  to  influ- 
ence us  in  the  use  of  the  present  moment,  is  to 
arise  from  the  effect,  which,  as  well  or  ill  applied, 
it  must  have  upon  the  time  to  come  ;  for  though 
its  actual  existence,  be  inconceivably  short,  yet 
its  effects  are  unlimited;  and  there  is  not  the 
smallest  point  of  time  but  may  extend  its  con- 
sequences, either  to  our  hurt  or  our  advantage, 
through  all  eternity,  and  give  us  reason  to  re- 
member it  for  ever,  with  anguish  or  exultation. 

The  time  of  life,  in  which  memory  seems  par- 
ticularly to  claim  predominance  over  the  other 
faculties  of  the  mind,  is  our  declining  age.  It 
has  been  remarked  by  former  writers,  that  old 
men  are  generally  narrative,  and  fall  easily  into 
recitals  of  past  transactions,  and  accounts  of 
persons  known  to  them  in  their  youth.  When 
we  approach  the  verge  of  the  grave  it  is  more 
eminently  true : 

Vita  summa  brevis  spem  nos  retat  inchoare  longam. 

Life's  span  forbids  thee  to  extend  thy  cares, 
And  stretch  thy  hopes  beyond  thy  years. 

CREECH. 

We  have  no  longer  any  possibility  of  great  vi- 
cissitudes in  our  favour :  the  changes  which  are 
to  happen  in  the  world  will  come  too  late  for  our 
accommodation ;  and  those  who  have  no  hop 
before  them,  arid  to  whom  their  present  state  is 
painful  and  irksome,  must  of  necessity  turn 
their  thoughts  back  to  try  what  retrospect  will 


afford.  It  ought,  therefore,  to  be  the  care  of 
those  who  wish  to  pass  the  last  hours  with  com- 
fort, to  lay  up  such  a  treasure  of  pleasing  ideas, 
as  shall  support  the  expenses  of  that  time,  which 
is  to  depend  wholly  upon  the  fund  already  ac- 
quired. 

Petite  hinc,jiwenesqne  seneiqne, 

t'incm  animu  certnm,  mistrisque  viatica  cants. 

Seek  here,  ye  young,  the  anchor  of  your  mind; 
Here,  suffering  age,  a  bless'd  provision  find 

EI.PH1NSTOH 

In  youth,  however  unhappy,  we  solace  our- 
selves with  the  hope  of  better  fortune,  and  how- 
ever vicious,  appease  our  consciences  with  in- 
tentions of  repentance ;  but  the  time  comes  at 
last,  in  which  life  has  no  more  to  promise,  in 
which  happiness  can  be  drawn  only  from  recol- 
lection, and  virtue  will  be  all  that  we  can  recol 
lect  with  pleasure. 


No.  42.]      SATURDAY,  AUGUST  11,  1750. 

Miki  tardajhtuni  inffrataque  tempora. 

ROB. 

How  heavily  my  time  revolves  along ! 

ELPHINSTON 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

MR.  RAMBLER, 

I  AM  no  great  admirer  of  grave  writings,  ana 
therefore  very  frequently  lay  your  papers  aside 
before  I  have  read  them  through ;  yet  I  cannot  but 
confess  that,  by  slow  degrees,  you  have  raised  my 
opinion  of  your  understanding;  and  that,  though 
I  believe  it  will  be  long  before  I  can  be  prevailed 
upon  to  regard  you  with  much  kindness,  you 
have,  however,  more  of  my  esteem  than  those 
whom  I  sometimes  make  happy  with  opportuni- 
ties to  fill  my  tea-pot,  or  pick  up  my  fan.  I  shall 
therefore  choose  you  for  the  confidant  of  my  dis- 
tresses, and  ask  your  counsel  with  regard  to  the 
means  of  conquering  or  escaping  them,  though 
I  never  expect  from  you  any  of  that  softness  and 
pliancy,  which  constitutes  the  perfection  of  a 
companion  for  the  ladies:  as,  in  the  place  where 
I  now  am,  I  have  recourse  to  the  mastiff  for  pro- 
tection, though  I  have  no  intention  of  making 
him  a  lap-dog. 

My  mamma  is  a  very  fine  lady,  who  has  more 
numerous  arid  more  frequent  assemblies  at  her 
house  than  any  other  person  in  the  same  quar- 
ter of  the  town.  I  was  bred  from  my  earliest 
infancy  in  a  perpetual  tumult  of  pleasure,  and 
remember  to  have  heard  of  little  else  than  mes- 
sages, visits,  play-houses,  and  balls ;  of  the  awk- 
wardness of  one  woman,  and  the  coquetry  of 
another ;  the  charming  convenience  of  some 
rising  fashion,  the  difficulty  of  playing  a  new 
game,  the  incidents  of  a  masquerade,  and  the 
dresses  of  a  court-night.  I  knew  before  I  was 
ten  years  old  all  the  rules  of  paying  and  receiving 
visits,  and  to  how  much  civility  every  one  of  my 
acquaintance  was  entitled ;  and  was  able  to  re- 
turn, with  the  proper  degree  of  reserve  or  of  vi- 
vacity, the  stated  and  established  answer  to  every 
compliment ;  so  that  I  was  very  soon  celebrated 
as  a  wit  and  a  beauty,  and  had  heard  before  I  was 


76 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  42 


thirteen  ail  Uiat  is  ever  said  to  a  young  lady.  My 
mother  was  generous  to  so  uncommon  a  degree 
as  to  be  pleased  with  my  advances  into  lite,  and 
allowed  me  without  envy  or  reproof,  to  enjoy  the 
sain.'  happiness  with  herself;  though  most  wo- 
men about  her  own  age  were  very  angry  to  see 
young  girls  so  forward,  and  many  line  gentlemen 
told  her  how  cruel  it  was  to  throw  new  chains 
upon  mankind,  and  to  tyi  mnize  over  them  at  the 
same  time  with  her  own  charms  and  those  of  her 
daughter. 

I  have  now  lived  two  and  twenty  years,  and 
have  passed  of  each  year  nine  months  in  town, 
and  three  at  Richmond;  so  that  my  time  has 
been  spent  uniformly  in  the  same  company,  and 
the  same  amusements,  except  as  fashion  has  in- 
troduced new  diversions,  or  the  revolutions  of 
the  gay  world  have  afforded  new  successions  of 
wits  and  beaus.  However,  my  mother  is  so 
good  an  economist  of  pleasure,  that  I  have  no 
spare  hours  upon  my  hands ;  for  every  morning 
brings  some  new  appointment,  and  every  night 
is  hurried  away  by  the  necessity  of  making  our 
appearance  at  different  places,  and  of  being  with 
one  lady  at  the  opera,  and  with  another  at  the 
card-table. 

When  the  time  came  of  settling  our  scheme 
of  felicity  for  the  summer,  it  was  determined  that 
I  should  pay  a  visit  to  a  rich  aunt  in  a  remote 
county.  As  you  know  the  chief  conversation  of 
all  tea-tables,  in  the  spring,  arises  from  a  com- 
munication of  the  manner  in  which  time  is  to  be 
passed  till  winter,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  the  bar- 
renness of  our  topics,  to  relate  the  pleasures  that 
were  in  store  for  me,  to  describe  my  uncle's  seat, 
with  the  park  and  gardens,  the  charming  walks 
and  beautiful  waterfalls ;  and  every  one  told 
me  how  much  she  envied  me,  and  what  satis- 
faction she  had  once  enjoyed  in  a  situation  of  the 
same  kind. 

As  we  were  all  credulous  in  our  own  favour, 
and  willing  to  imagine  some  latent  satisfaction  in 
any  thing  which  we  have  not  experienced,  I  will 
confess  to  you  without  restraint,  that  I  had  suf- 
fered my  head  to  be  filled  with  expectations  of 
some  nameless  pleasure  in  a  rural  life,  and  that 
I  hoped  for  the  happy  hour  that  should  set  me 
free  from  noise,  and  nutter,  and  ceremony,  dis- 
miss me  to  the  peaceful  shade,  and  lull  me  in 
content  and  tranquillity.  To  solace  myself  under 
the  misery  of  delay,  I  sometimes  heard  a  studi- 
ous lady  of  my  acquaintance  read  pastorals  ;  I 
wan  delighted  with  scarce  any  talk  but  of  leav- 
ing the  town,  and  never  went  to  bed  without 
dreaming  of  groves,  and  meadows,  and  frisking 
lambs. 

At  length  I  had  all  my  clothes  in  a  trunk,  and 
saw  the  coach  at  the  door ;  I  sprung  in  with  ec- 
stacy,  quarrelled  with  my  maid  for  being  too  long 
in  taking  leave  of  the  other  servants,  and  rejoiced 
as  the  ground  grew  less,  wliich  lay  between  me 
and  the  completion  of  my  wishes.  A  few  days 
brought  me  to  a  large  old  house,  encompassed  on 
three  sides  with  woody  hills,  and  looking  from 
the  front  on  a  gentle  river,  the  sight  of  which  re- 
newed all  my  expectations  of  pleasure,  and  gave 
me  some  regret  for  having  lived  so  long  without 
the  enjoyment  which  these  delightful  scenes  were 
now  to  afford  me.  My  aunt  carne  out  to  receive 
me,  but  in  a  dress  so  far  removed  from  the  pre- 
it  fashion,  that  I  could  scarcely  look  upon  her 
without  laughter,  which  would  have  been  no 


kind  requital  for  the  trouble  which  she  had  taken 
to  make  herself  fine  against  my  arrival.  The 
night  and  the  next  morning  were  driven  along 
with  inquiries  about  our  family ;  my  aunt  then 
explained  our  pedigree,  and  told  me  stories  of 
my  great  grandfather's  bravery  in  the  civil  wars; 
nor  was  it  less  than  three  days  before  I  could 
persuade  her  to  leave  me  to  myself. 

At  last  economy  prevailed ;  she  went  in  the 
usual  manner  about  her  own  affairs,  and  1  was  at 
liberty  to  range  in  the  wilderness,  and  sit  by  the 
cascade.  The  novelty  of  the  objects  about  me 
pleased  me  for  a  while,  but  after  a  few  days  they 
were  new  no  longer,  and  I  soon  began  to  per- 
ceive that  the  country  was  not  my  element ;  that 
shades,  and  flowers,  and  lawns,  and  waters,  had 
very  soon  exhausted  all  their  power  of  pleasing, 
and  that  I  had  not  in  myself  any  fund  of  satisfac- 
tion, with  which  I  could  supply  the  loss  of  my 
customary  amusements. 

I  unhappily  told  my  aunt,  in  the  first  warmth 
of  our  embraces,  that  I  had  leave  to  stay  with  her 
ten  weeks.  Six  only  are  yet  gone,  and  how  shall 
I  live  through  the  remaining  four  ?  I  go  out,  and 
return ;  I  pluck  a  flower,  and  throw  it  away ;  I 
catch  an  insect,  and  when  I  have  examined  its 
colours,  set  it  at  liberty;  I  fling  a  pebble  into  the 
water,  and  see  one  circle  spread  after  another. 
When  it  chances  to  rain,  I  walk  in  the  great  hall, 
and  watch  the  minute-hand  upon  the  dial,  or  play 
with  a  litter  of  kittens,  which  the  cat  happens  to 
have  brought  in  a  lucky  time. 

My  aunt  is  afraid  I  shall  grow  melancholy, 
and  therefore  encourages  the  neighbouring  gen 
try  to  visit  us.  They  came  at  first  with  great 
eagerness  to  see  the  fine  lady  from  London,  hut 
when  we  met  we  had  no  common  topic  on  which 
we  could  converse,  they  had  no  curiosity  after 
plays,  operas,  or  music :  and  I  find  as  little  satis- 
faction from  the  accounts  of  the  quarrels  or  alli- 
ances of  families,  whose  names,  when  once  I  can 
escape,  I  shall  never  hear.  The  women  have 
now  seen  me,  know  how  my  gown  is  made,  and 
are  satisfied ;  the  men  are  generally  afraid  of  me, 
and  say  little,  because  they  think  themselves  not 
at  liberty  to  talk  rudely. 

Thus  I  am  condemned  to*solitude  ;  the  clay 
moves  slowly  forward,  and  I  see  the  dawn  with 
uneasiness,  because  I  consider  that  night  is  at  a 
great  distance.  I  have  tried  to  sleep  by  a  brook, 
but  find  its  murmurs  ineffectual :  so  that  I  am 
forced  to  be  awake  at  least  twelve  hours, -without 
visits,  without  cards,  without  laughter,  and  with- 
out flattery.  I  walk  because  I  am  disgusted 
with  sitting  still,  and  sit  down  because  I  am 
weary  with  walking.  I  have  no  motive  to  ac- 
tion, nor  any  object  of  love,  or  hate,  or  fear,  or 
inclination.  I  cannot  dress  with  spirit,  for  I  have 
neither  rival  nor  admirer;  I  cannot  dance  with- 
out a  partner ;  nor  be  kind  or  cruel,  without  a 
lover. 

Such  is  the  life  of  Euphelia,  and  such  it  is  like- 
ly to  continue  for  a  month  to  come.  I  have  not 
yet  declared  against  existence,  nor  called  upon 
the  Destinies  to  cut  my  thread ;  but  I  have  sin- 
cerely resolved  not  to  condemn  myself  to  such 
another  summer,  nor  too  hastily  to  flatter  my 
self  with  happiness.  Yet  I  have  heard,  Mr. 
Rambler,  of  those  who  never  thought  themselves 
so  much  at  ease  as  in  solitude,  and  cannot  but 
suspect  it  to  be  some  way  or  other  my  own  fault, 
that,  without  great  pain,  either  of  mind  or  body, 


No.  43.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


77 


I  am  thus  weary  of  myself:  that  the  current  of 
youth  stagnates  and  that  I  am  languishing  in  a 
dead  calm,  for  want  of  some  external  impulse. 
I  shall  therefore  think  you  a  benefactor  to  our 
sex,  if  you  will  teach  me  the  art  of  living  alone ; 
for  I  am  confident  that  a  thousand  and  a  thou- 
sand and  a  thousand  ladies,  who  affect  to  talk 
with  ecstacies  of  the  pleasures  of  the  country, 
are  in  reality  like  me,  longing  for  the  winter, 
and  wishing  to  be  delivered  from  themselves  by 
company  and  diversion. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  EUPHELIA. 


No.  43.]     TUESDAY,  AUGUST  14,  1750. 

Flumine  perpctuo  torrens  solet  acrius  ire, 
Scd  tamen  hccc  brevis  est,  Ma  perennis  aqua. 

OVID. 

In  course  impetuous  soon  the  torreut  dries, 
The  brook  a  constant  peaceful  stream  supplies. 

r.  LEWIS. 

IT  is  observed  by  those  who  have  written  on  the 
constitution  of  the  human  body,  and  the  original 
of  those  diseases  by  which  it  is  afflicted,  that  eve- 
ry man  comes  into  the  world  morbid,  that  there 
is  no  temperature  so  exactly  regulated  but  that 
some  humour  is  fatally  predominant,  and  that  we 
are  generally  impregnated,  in  our  first  entrance 
upon  life,  with  the  seeds  of  that  malady,  which, 
in  time,  shall  bring  us  to  the  grave. 

This  remark  has  been  extended  by  others  to 
the  intellectual  faculties.  Some  that  imagine 
themselves  to  have  looked  with  more  than  com- 
mon penetration  into  human  nature,  have  endea- 
voured to  persuade  us  that  each  man  is  born  with 
a  mind  formed  peculiarly  for  certain  purposes, 
and  with  desires  unalterably  determined  to  par- 
ticular objects,  from  which  the  attention  cannot 
be  long  diverted,  and  which  alone,  as  they  are 
well  or  ill  pursued,  must  produce  the  praise  or 
blame,  the  happiness  or  misery  of  his  future  life. 

This  position  has  not,  indeed,  been  hitherto 
proved  with  strength  proportionate  to  the  assur- 
ance with  which  it  has  been  advanced,  and  per- 
haps will  never  gain  much  prevalence  by  a  close 
examination. 

If  the  doctrine  of  innate  ideas  be  itself  disputa- 
ble, there  seems  to  be  little  hope  of  establishing 
an  opinion,  which  supposes  that  even  complica- 
tions of  ideas  have  been  given  us  at  our  birth, 
and  that  we  are  made  by  nature  ambitious,  or 
covetous,  before  we  know  the  meaning  of  either 
power  or  money. 

Yet  as  every  step  in  the  progression  of  exist- 
ence changes  our  position  with  respect  to  the 
things  about  us,  so  as  to  lay  us  open  to  new  as- 
saults and  particular  dangers,  and  subjects  us  to 
inconveniences  from  which  any  other  situation 
is  exempt ;  as  a  public  or  a  private  life,  youth 
and  age,  wealth  and  poverty,  have  all  some  evil 
closely  adherent,  which  cannot  wholly  be  escap- 
ed but  by  quitting  the  state  to  which  it  is  annex- 
ed, and  submitting  to  the  incumbrances  of  some 
other  condition  ;  so  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
every  difference  in  the  structure  of  the  mind  has 
its  advantages  and  its  wants  ;  and  that  failures 
and  defects  being  inseparable  from  humanity, 
however  the  powers  of  understanding  be  extended 
or  contracted,  there  will  on  one  side  or  the  other 
always  be  an  avenue  to  error  and  miscarriage. 


There  seem  to  be  some  souls  suited  to  great, 
and  others  to  little  employments  :  some  formed 
to  soar  aloft,  and  take  in  wide  views,  and  others 
to  grovel  on  the  ground,  and  confine  their  regard 
to  a  narrow  sphere.  Of  these  the  one  is  always 
in  danger  of  becoming  useless  by  a  daring  negli- 
gence, the  other  by  a  scrupulous  solicitude ;  the 
one  collects  many  ideas,  but  confused  and  indis- 
tinct ;  the  other  is  busied  in  minute  accuracy,  but 
without  compass  and  without  dignity. 

The  general  error  of  those  who  possess  power- 
ful and  elevated  understandings,  is,  that  they  form 
schemes  of  too  great  extent,  and  flatter  them- 
selves too  hastily  with  success ;  they  feel  their 
own  force  to  be  great,  and  by  the  complacency 
with  which  every  man  surveys  himself,  imagine 
it  still  greater :  they  therefore  look  out  for  under- 
takings worthy  of  their  abilities,  and  £  ngage  in 
them  with  very  little  precaution,  for  they  imagine 
that  without  premeditated  measures,  they  shall 
be  able  to  find  expedients  in  all  difficulties.  They 
are  naturally  apt  to  consider  all  prudential  max- 
ims as  below  their  regard,  to  treat  with  contempt 
those  securities  and  resources  which  others  know 
themselves  obliged  to  provide,  and  disdain  to  ac- 
complish their  purposes  by  established  means, 
and  common  gradations. 

Precipitation,  thus  incited  by  the  pride  of  intel- 
lectual superiority,  is  very  fatal  to  great  designs. 
The  resolution  of  the  combat  is  seldom  equal  to 
the  vehemence  of  the  charge.  He  that  meets 
with  an  opposition  which  he  did  not  expect,  loses 
his  courage.  The  violence  of  his  first  onset  is 
succeeded  by  a  lasting  and  unconquerable  lan- 
guor ;  miscarriage  makes  him  fearful  of  giving 
way  to  new  hopes ;  and  the  contemplation  of  an 
attempt  in  which  he  has  fallen  below  his  own  ex- 
pectations is  painful  and  vexatious ;  he  therefore 
naturally  turns  his  attention  to  more  pleasing  ob- 
jects, and  habituates  his  imagination  to  other  en- 
tertainments, till,  by  slow  degrees,  he  quits  his 
first  pursuit,  and  suffers  some  other  project  to 
take  possession  of  his  thoughts,  in  which  the 
same  ardour  of  mind  promises  him  again  certain 
success,  and  which  disappointments  of  the  same 
kind  compel  him  to  abandon. 

Thus  too  much  vigour  in  the  beginning  of  an 
undertaking  often  intercepts  and  prevents  the 
steadiness  and  perseverance  always  necessary 
in  the  condi?"*  of  a  complicated  scheme,  where 
many  interests  are  to  be  connected,  many  move- 
ments to  be  adjusted,  and  the  joint  effort  of  dis- 
tinct and  independent  powers  to  be  directed  to  a 
single  point.  In  all  important  events  which  have 
been  suddenly  brought  to  pass,  chance  has  been 
the  agent  rather  than  reason ;  and  therefore,  how- 
ever those  who  seemed  to  preside  in  the  transac- 
tion, may  have  been  celebrated  by  such  as  loved 
or  feared"  them,  succeeding  times  have  commonly 
considered  them  as  fortunate  rather  than  prudent. 
Every  design  in  which  the  connexion  is  regularly 
traced  from  the  first  motion  to  the  last,  must  be 
formed  and  executed  by  calm  intrepidity,  and  re- 
quires not  only  courage  which  danger  cannot 
turn  aside,  but  constancy  which  fatigues  cannot 
weary,  and  contrivance  which  impediments  can- 
not exhaust. 

All  the  performances  of  human  art,  at  which 
we  look  with  praise  or  wonder,  are  instances  of 
the  resistless  force  of  perseverance  ;  it  is  by  this 
that  the  quarry  becomes  a  pyramid,  and  that  dis- 
tant countries  are  united  with  canals.  If  a  man 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[JN7o.  44 


was  to  compare  the  effect  of  a  single  stroke  of  the 
Dick-axe,  or  of  one  impression  of  the  spade,  with 
the  general  design  and  last  result,  he  would  be 
overwhelmed  by  the  sense  of  their  disproportion ; 
yet  those  petty  operations,  incessantly  continued, 
in  time  surmount  the  greatest  difficulties,  and 
mountains  are  levelled,  and  oceans  bounded,  by 
the  slender  force  of  human  beings. 

It  is  therefore  of  the  utmost  importance  that 
those  who  have  any  intention  of  deviating  from 
the  beaten  roads  of  life,  and  acquiring  a  reputa- 
tion superior  to  names  hourly  swept  away  by 
time  among  the  refuse  of  fame,  should  add  to 
their  reason,  and  their  spirit,  the  power  of  persist- 
ing in  their  purposes;  acquire  the  art  of  sapping 
what  they  cannot  batter,  and  the  habit  of  van- 
quishingobstinate  resistance  by  obstinate  attacks. 

The  student  who  would  build  his  knowledge 
on  solid  foundations,  and  proceed  by  just  degrees 
to  the  pinnacles  of  truth,  is  directed  by  the  great 
philosopher  of  France  to  begin  by  doubting  of  his 
own  existence.  In  like  manner,  whoever  would 
complete  any  arduous  and  intricate  enterprise, 
should,  as  soon  as  his  imagination  can  cool  after 
the  first  blaze  of  hope,  place  before  his  own  eyes 
every  possible  embarrassment  that  may  retard  or 
defeat  him.  He  should  first  question  the  proba- 
bility of  success,  and  then  endeavour  to  remove 
the  objections  that  he  has  raised.  It  is  proper, 
says  old  Markham,*  to  exercise  your  horse  on 
the  more  inconvenient  side  of  the  course,  that  if 
he  should,  in  the  race,  be  forced  upon  it,  he  may 
not  be  discouraged ;  and  Horace  advises  his  po- 
etical friend  to  consider  every  day  as  the  last 
which  he  shall  enjoy,  because  that  will  always 
give  pleasure  which  we  receive  beyond  our  hopes. 
If  we  alarm  ourselves  beforehand  with  more  diffi- 
culties than  we  really  find,  we  shall  be  animated 
by  unexpected  facility  with  double  spirit ;  and  if 
we  find  our  cautions  and  fears  justified  by  the 
consequence,  there  will  however  happen  nothing 
against  which  provision  has  not  been  made,  no 
sudden  shock  will  be  received,  nor  will  the  main 
scheme  be  disconcerted. 

There  is,  indeed,  some  danger  lest  he  that  too 
scrupulously  balances  probabilities,  and  too  per- 
spicaciously  foresees  obstacles,  should  remain 
always  in  a  state  of  inaction,  without  venturing 
upon  attempts  on  which  he  may  perhaps  spend 
his  labour  without  advantage.  But.  previous  de- 
spondence is  not  the  fault  of  those  for  whom  this 
essay  is  designed  ;  they  who  require  to  be  warn- 
ed against  precipitation,  will  not  suffer  more  fear 
to  intrude  into  their  contemplations  than  is  ne- 
cessary to  allay  the  effervescence  of  an  agitated 
fancy.  As  Das  Cartes  has  kindly  shown  how  a 
man  may  prove  to  himself  his  own  existence,  if 
once  he  can  be  prevailed  upon  to  question  it,  so 
the  ardent  and  adventurous  will  not  be  long  with- 
out finding  some  plausible  extenuation  of  the 
greatest  difficulties.  Such,  indeed,  is  the  uncer- 
tainty of  all  human  affairs,  that  security  and  de- 
spair are  equal  follies ;  and  as  it  is  presumption 
and  arrogance  to  anticipate  triumphs,  it  is  weak- 
ness aud  cowardice  to  prognosticate  miscarriages. 
Tho  nnmb?rs  that  have  been  stopped  in  their  ca- 
r.XT  of  happiness  are  sufficient  to  show  the  unccr- 


*  Gervase  Slarkham,  in  his  book  entitled  "Perfect 
Horsemanship,''  l-m  >.  1671.  He  was  a  dramatic  poet,  and 
•  voluminous  writer,  on  various  subjects. 


tainty  of  human  foresight ;  but  there  arc  not 
wanting  contrary  instances  of  such  success  ob- 
tained against  all  appearances,  as  may  warrant 
the  boldest  flights  of  genius,  if  they  are  supported 
by  unshaken  perseverance. 


No.  44.]     SATURDAY,  AUGUST  18,  1750. 

*Ovap  IK  Ai6s  ten.  HOMER. 
Dreams  descend  from  Jove.  POPE. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

I  HAD  latelya\ery  remarkahledream,  which  made 
so  strong  an  impression  on  me,  that  I  remember 
it  every  word ;  and  if  you  are  not  better  employ- 
ed, you  may  read  the  relation  of  it  as  follows : 

Methought  I  was  in  the  midst  of  a  very  enter- 
taining set  of  company,  and  extremely  delighted 
in  attending  to  a  lively  conversation,  when  on  a 
sudden  I  perceived  one  of  the  most  shocking 
figures  imagination  can  frame  advancing  towards 
me.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  her  skin  was  con- 
tracted into  a  thousand  wrinkles,  her  eyes  deep 
sunk  in  her  head,  and  her  complexion  pale  and 
livid  as  the  countenance  of  death.  Her  looks 
were  filled  with  terror  and  unrelenting  severity, 
and  her  hands  armed  with  whips  and  scorpion's. 
As  soon  as  she  came  near,  with  a  horrid  frown, 
and  a  voice  that  chilled  my  verv  blood,  she  bid 
me  follow  her.  I  obeyed,  and  she  led  me  through 
rugged,  paths,  beset  with  briars  and  thorns,  into 
a  deep  solitary  valley.  Wherever  she  passed, 
the  fading  verdure  withered  beneath  her  steps  ; 
her  pestilential  breath  infected  the  air  with  ma- 
lignant  vapours,  obscured  the  lustre  of  the  sun, 
and  involved  the  fair  face  of  heaven  in  universal 
gloom.  Dismal  howlings  resounded  through  the 
forest,  from  every  baleful  tree  the  night  raven  ut- 
tered his  dreadful  note,  and  the  prospect  was  fill- 
ed with  desolation  and  horror.  In  the  midst  of 
this  tremendous  scene  my  execrable  guide  ad- 
dressed me  in  the  following  manner  : 

"Retire  with  me,  O  rash  unthinking  mortal, 
from  the  vain  allurements  of  a  deceitful  world, 
and  learn  that  pleasure  was  not  designed  the  por- 
tion of  human  life.  Man  was  born  to  mourn  and 
to  be  wretched  ;  this  is  the  condition  of  all  below 
the  stars,  and  whoever  endeavours  to  oppose  it, 
acts  in  contradiction  to  the  will  of  Heaven.  Fly 
then  from  the  fatal  enchantments  of  youth  and 
social  delight,  and  here  consecrate  the  solitary 
hours  to  lamentation  and  wo.  Misery  is  the  duty 
of  all  sublunary  beings,  and  every  enjoyment  is 
an  offence  to  the  Deity,  who  is  to  be  worshipped 
only  by  the  mortification  of  every  sense  of  plea- 
sure, and  the  everlasting  exercise  of  sighs  ano 
tears." 

This  melancholy  picture  of  life  quite  sunk  my 
spirits,  and  seemed  to  annihilate  every  principle 
of  joy  within  me.  I  threw  myself  beneath  a  blast- 
ed yew,  where  the  winds  blew  cold  and  dismal 
round  my  head,  and  dreadful  apprehensions  chill- 
ed my  heart.  Here  I  resolved  to  lie  till  the  hand 
of  death,  which  I  impatiently  invoked,  should 
put  an  end  to  the  miseries  of  a  life  so  deplorably 
wretched.  In  this  sad  situation  I  espied  on  one 
hand  of  me  a  deep  muddy  river,  whose  heavy 
waves  rolled  on  in  slow  sullen  murmurs.  Here 


No.  44.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


I  determined  to  plunge,  and  was  just  upon  the  i 
brink,  when  I  found  myself  suddenly  drawn  back. 
I  turned  about,  and  was  surprised  by  the  sight  of 
the  loveliest  object  I  had  ever  beheld.  The  most 
engaging  charms  of  youth  and  beauty  appeared 
in  all  her  form :  effulgent  glories  sparkled  in  her 
eyes,  and  their  awful  splendours  were  softened 
by  the  gentlest  looks  of  compassion  and  peace. 
At  her  approach  the  frightful  spectre,  who  had 
before  tormented  me,  vanished  away,  and  with 
her  all  the  horrors  she  had  caused.  The  gloomy 
clouds  brightened  into  cheerful  sunshine,  the 
groves  recovered  their  verdure,  and  the  whole  re- 
gion looked  gay  and  blooming  as  the  garden  of 
Eden.  I  was  quite  transported  at  this  unexpect- 
ed change,  and  reviving  pleasure  began  to  glad 
my  thoughts,  when,  with  a  look  of  inexpressible 
sweetness,  my  beauteous  deliverer  thus  uttered 
her  divine  instructions : 

"  My  name  is  Religion.  I  am  the  offspring  of 
Truth  and  Love,  and  the  parent  of  Benevolence, 
Hope,  and  Joy.  That  monster  from  whose 
power  I  have  freed  you  is  called  Superstition,  she 
is  the  child  of  Discontent,  and  her  followers  are 
Fear  and  Sorrow.  Thus  different  as  we  are,  she 
has  often  the  insolence  to  assume  my  name  and 
character,  and  seduces  unhappy  mortals  to  think 
us  the  same,  till  she  at  length  drives  them  to  the 
borders  of  despair,  that  dreadful  abyss  into  which 
you  were  just  going  to  sink. 

"  Look  round  and  survey  the  various  beauties 
«f  the  globe,  which  Heaven  has  destined  for  the 
seat  of  the  human  race,  and  consider  whether  a 
world  thus  exquisitely  framed  could  be  meant  for 
the  abode  of  misery  and  pain.  For  what  end  has 
the  lavish  hand  of  Providence  diffused  such  innu- 
merable objects  of  delight,  but  that  all  might  re- 
joice in  the  privilege  of  existence,  and  be  filled 
with  gratitude  to  the  beneficent  Author  of  it? 
Thus  to  enjoy  the  blessings  he  has  sent,  is  virtue 
and  obedience ;  and  to  reject  them,  merely  as 
means  of  pleasure,  is  pitiable  ignorance  or  absurd 
perverseness.  Infinite  goodness  is  the  source  of 
created  existence ;  the  proper  tendency  of  every 
rational  being,  from  the  highest  order  of  rap- 
tured seraphs,  to  the  meanest  rank  of  men,  is  to 
rise  incessantly  from  lower  degrees  of  happiness 
to  higher.  They  have  each  faculties  assigned 
them  for  various  orders  of  delights." 

"What,"  cried  I,  "is  this  the  language  of  Re- 
ligion ?  Does  she  lead  her  votaries  through  flow- 
ery paths,  and  bid  them  pass  an  unlaborious  life  ? 
Where  are  the  painful  toils  of  virtue,  the  morti- 
fications of  penitence,  the  self-denying  exercises 
of  saints  and  heroes  i" 

"  The  true  enjoyments  of  a  reasonable  being," 
answered  she  mildly,  "do  notconsistin  unbound- 
ed indulgence,  or  luxurious  ease,  in  the  tumult 
of  passions,  the  languor  of  indolence,  or  the  flut- 
ter of  light  amusements.  Yielding  to  immoral 
pleasure  corrupts  the  mind,  living  to  animal  and 
trifling  ones  debases  it :  both  in  their  degree  dis- 
qualify it  for  its  genuine  good,  and  consign  it 
over  to  wretchedness.  Whoever  would  be  real- 
ly happy,  must  make  the  diligent  and  regular 
exercise  of  his  superior  powers  his  chief  atten- 
tion, adoring  the  perfections  of  his  Maker,  ex- 
pressing good  will  to  his  fellow  creatures,  culti- 
vating inward  rectitude.  To  his  lower  faculties 
he  must  allow  such  gratifications  as  will,  by  re- 
freshing him,  invigorate  his  nobler  pursuits.  In 
I  he  regions  inhabited  by  angelic  natures,  unmin- 


gled  felicity  for  ever  blooms,  joy  flows  there  with 
a  perpetual  and  abundant  stream,  nor  needs 
there  any  mound  to  check  its  course.  Beings 
conscious  of  a  frame  of  mind  originally  diseased, 
as  all  the  human  race  has  cause  to  be,  must  use 
the  regimen  of  a  stricter  self-government.  Who- 
ever has  been  guilty  of  voluntary  excesses  must 
patiently  submit  both  to  the  painful  workings  ot 
nature,  and  needful  severities  of  medicine,  in  or 
der  to  his  cure.  Still  he  is  entitled  to  a  moderate 
share  of  whatever  alleviating  accommodations 
this  fair  mansion  of  his  merciful  Parent  affords, 
consistent  with  his  recovery.  And  in  proportion 
as  this  recovery  advances,  the  liveliest  joy  will 
spring  from  his  secret  sense  of  an  amended  and 
improving  heart.  So  far  from  the  horrors  of  de- 
spair is  the  condition  even  of  the  guilty.  Shud- 
der, poor  mortal,  at  the  thought  of  the  gulf  into 
which  thou  wast  but  now  going  ta  plunge. 

"  While  the  most  faulty  have  ever  encourage- 
ment to  amend,  the  more  innocent  soul  will  be 
supported  with  still  sweeter  consolations  under 
all  its  experience  of  human  infirmities  ;  support- 
ed by  the  gladdening  assurances  that  every  sin- 
ceie  endeavour  to  outgrow  them  shall  be  assisted, 
accepted,  and  rewarded.     To  such  a  one  the 
lowliest  self-abasement  is  but  a  deep-laid  found- 
ation for  the  most  elevated  hopes ;    since  they 
who  faithfully  examine  and  acknowledge  what 
they  are,  shall  be  enabled  under  my  conduct  to 
become  what  they  desire.     The  Christian  and 
the  hero  are  inseparable ;  and  to  aspirings  of  un- 
assuming trust,  and  filial  confidence,  are  set  no 
bounds.     To  him  who  is  animated  with  a  view 
of  obtaining  approbation  from  the  Sovereign  ol 
the  universe,  no  difficulty  is  insurmountable.   Se- 
cure in  this  pursuit  of  every  needful  aid,  his  con 
flict  with  the  severest  pains  and  trials,  is  little 
more  than  the  vigorous  exercise  of  a  mind  in 
health.     His  patient  dependence  on  that  Provi- 
dence which  looks  through  all  eternity,  his  silent 
resignation,    his   ready   accommodation   of  his 
thoughts  and  behaviour  to  its  inscrutable  ways, 
is  at  once  the  most  excellent  sort  of  self-denial, 
and  a  source  of  the  most  exalted  transports.    So 
ciety  is  the  true  sphere  of  human  virtue.     In  so 
cial,  active  life,  difficulties  will  perpetually  be 
met  with  ;  restraints  of  many  kinds  will  be  ne 
cessary  ;  and  studying  to  behave  right  in  res 
pect  of  these  is  a  discipline  of  the  human  heart, 
useful  to  others,  and  improving  to  itself.     Suf 
fering  is  no  duty,  but  wnere  it  is  necessary  to 
avoid  guilt,  or  to'do  good  ;  nor  pleasure  a  crime, 
but  where  it  strengthens  the  influence  of  bad  in 
clinations,  or  lessens  the  generous   activity  of 
virtue.     The  happiness  allotted  to  man  in  his 
present  state,  is  indeed  faint  and  low,  compared 
with  his  immortal  prospects  and  noble  capaci- 
ties ;  but  yet  whatever  portion  of  it  the  distribut- 
ing hand  of  Heaven  offers  to  each  individual,  is 
a  needful  support  and  refreshment  for  the  present 
moment,  so  far  as  it  may  not  hinder  the  attaining 
of  his  final  destination. 

"  Return  then  with  me  from  continual  misery 
to  moderate  enjoyment  and  grateful  alacrity.  Re- 
turn from  (he  contracted  views  of  solitude  to  the 
proper  duties  of  a  relative  and  dependent  being. 
Religion  is  not  confined  to  cells  and  closets,  nor 
restrained  to  sullen  retirement.  These  are  the 
eloomy  doctrines  of  Superstition,  by  which  she 
endeavours  to  break  those  chains  of  benevolence 
and  social  affection,  that  link  the  welfare  of  every 


80 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  45. 


particular  with  that  of  the  whole.  Remember 
that  the  greatest  honour  you  can  pay  to  the  Au- 
thor oi' your  being  is  by  such  a  cheerful  behaviour, 
as  discovers  a  mind  satisfied  with  his  dispensa- 
tions." 

Here  my  preceptress  paused,  anc.  1  was  going 
to  express  my  acknowledgments  for  her  discourse, 
when  a  ring  of  bells  from  the  neighbouring  vil- 
lage, and  a  new  rising  sun  darting  his  beams 
through  my  windows,  awaked  me.* 

I  am  yours,  &c. 


No.  45.]     TUESDAY,  AUGUST  21,  1750. 

"Hirtp  /ityiaTtj  •ylyverai  aiartpla, 
"Orav  yvvrj  vobf  avipa  ftfi  ii^oaraTfi, 
NDv  <5'  f;0>a  irdvra.  - 


This  is  the  chief  felicity  of  life, 

That  concord  smiles  on  the  connubial  bed  ; 

But  now  'tis  hatred  all. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


THOUGH,  in  the  dissertations  which  you  have 
given  us  on  marriage,  very  just  cautions  are  laid 
down  against  the  common  causes  of  infelicity  and 
the  necessity  of  having,  in  that  important  choice, 
the  first  regard  to  virtue,  is  carefully  inculcated  ; 
yet  I  cannot  think  the  subject  so  much  exhausted, 
but  that  a  little  reflection  would  present  to  the 
mind  many  questions,  in  the  discussion  of  which 
great  numbers  are  interested,  and  many  precepts 
which  deserve  to  be  more  particularly  and  forci- 
bly impressed. 

You  seem,  like  most  of  the  writers  that  have 
gone  before  you,  to  have  allowed  as  an  uncon- 
tested  principle,  that  marriage  is  generally  unhap- 
py :  but  I  know  not  whether  a  man,  who  pro- 
fesses to  think  for  himself,  and  concludes  from 
his  own  observations,  does  not  depart  from  his 
character  when  he  follows  the  crowd  thus  impli- 
citly, and  receives  maxims  without  recalling 
them  to  a  new  examination,  especially  when 
they  comprise  so  wide  a  circuit  of  life,  and  include 
such  variety  of  circumstances.  As  I  have  an 
equal  right  with  others  to  give  my  opinion  of  the 
objects  about  me,  and  a  better  title  to  determine 
concerning  that  state  which  I  have  tried,  than 
many  who  talk  of  it  without  experience,  I  am 
unwilling  to  be  restrained  by  mere  authority  from 
advancing  what,  I  believe,  an  accurate  view  of 
the  world  will  confirm,  that  marriage  is  not  com- 
monly unhappy,  otherwise  than  as  life  is  unhap- 
py; and  that  most  of  those  who  complain  of  con- 
nubial miseries,  have  as  much  satisfaction  as  their 
nature  would  have  admitted,  ov  their  conduct 
procured,  in  any  other  condition. 

It  is,  indeed,  common  to  hear  both  sexes  re- 
pine at  their  change,  relate  the  happiness  of  their 
earlier  years,  blame  the  folly  and  rashness  of 
their  own  choice,  and  warn  those  whom  they  see 
coming  into  the  world  against  the  same  precipi- 
tance and  infatuation.  But  it  is  to  be  remem- 
bcp-d,  that  the  days  which  they  so  much  wish  to 
call  back,  arc  the  days  not  only  of  celibacy,  but 


-  This  pnpcr,  and  No.  100,  were  written  by  the  late  Mrs. 
•lizobeth  Lnrter,  of  Deal  in  Kent,  who  died  February  19, 


1800— C. 


of  youth,  the  days  of  novelty  and  improvement, 
of  ardour  and  of  hope,  of  health  and  vigour  of 
body,  of  gayety  and  lightness  of  heart.  It  is 
not  easy  to  surround  life  with  any  circumstances 
in  which  youth  will  not  be  delightful  ;  and  I  am 
afraid  that  whether  married  or  unmarried,  we 
shall  find  the  vesture  of  terrestrial  existence  more 
heavy  and  cumbrous,  the  longer  it  is  worn. 

That  they  censure  themselves  for  the  indisure 
tion  of  their  choice,  is  not  a  sufficient  proof  that 
they  have  chosen  ill,  since  we  see  the  same  dis- 
content at  every  other  part  of  life  which  we  can- 
not change.  Converse  with  almost  any  man, 
grown  old  in  a  profession,  and  you  will  rind  him 
regretting  that  he  did  not  enter  into  some  different 
course,  to  which  he  too  late  finds  his  genius  bet- 
ter adapted,  or  in  which  he  discovers  that  wealth 
and  honour  are  more  easily  attained.  "The 
merchant,"  says  Horace,  "  envies  the  soldier, 
and  the  soldier  recounts  the  felicity  of  the  mer- 
chant ;  the  lawyer,  when  his  clients  harass  him, 
calls  out  for  the  quiet  of  the  countryman  ;  and 
the  countryman,  when  business  calls  him  to 
town,  proclaims  that  there  is  no  happiness  but 
amidst  opulence,  and  crowds."  Every  man  re- 
counts the  inconveniences  of  his  own  station,  and 
thinks  those  of  any  other  less,  because  he  has 
not  felt  them.  Thus  the  married  praise  the  ease 
and  freedom  of  a  single  state,  and  the  single  fly 
to  marriage  from  the  weariness  of  solitude.  From 
all  our  observations  we  may  collect  with  certain- 
ty, that  misery  is  the  lot  of  man,  but  cannot  dis- 
cover in  what  particular  condition  it  will  find 
most  alleviations ;  or  whether  all  external  ap- 
pendages are  not,  as  we  use  them,  the  causes 
either  of  good  or  ill. 

Whoever  feels  great  pain,  naturally  hopes  for 
ease  from  change  of  posture  ;  he  changes  it,  and 
finds  himself  equally  tormented  :  and  of  the 
same  kind  are  the  expedients  by  which  we  en- 
deavour to  obviate  or  elude  those  uneasinesses, 
to  which  mortality  will  always  be  subject.  It  is 
not  likely  that  the  married  state  is  eminently 
miserable,  since  we  see  such  numbers,  whom  the 
death  of  their  partners  has  set  free  from  it,  enter- 
ing it.  again. 

Wives  and  husbands  are,  indeed,  incessantly 
complaining  of  each  other ;  and  there  would  be 
reason  for  imagining  that  almost  every  house  was 
infested  with  perverseness  or  oppression  beyond 
human  sufferance,  did  we  not  know  upon  how 
small  occasions  some  minds  burst  out  into  la- 
nentations  and  reproaches,  and  how  naturally 
every  animal  revenges  his  pain  upon  those  who 
happen  to  be  near,  without  any  nice  examination 
of  its  cause.  We  are  always  willing  to  fancy 
ourselves  within  a  little  of  happiness,  and  when, 
with  repeated  efforts,  we  cannot  reach  it,  per- 
suade ourselves  that  it  is  intercepted  by  an  ill- 
paired  mate,  since,  if  we  could  find  any  other 
obstacle,  it  would  be  our  own  fault  that  it  was 
not  removed. 

Anatomists  have  often  remarked  that  though 
our  diseases  are  sufficiently  numerous  and  se- 
vere, yet  when  we  inquire  into  the  structure  of 
the  body,  the  tenderness  of  some  parts,  the  mi- 
nuteness of  others,  and  the  immense  multiplicity 
of  animal  functions  that  must  concur  to  the  health- 
ful and  vigorous  exercise  of  all  our  powers,  there 
appears  reason  to  wonder  rather  that  we  are  pre- 
served so  long,  than  that  we  perish  so  soon,  and 
that  our  frame  subsists  for  a  single  day,  or  hour, 


No.  46.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


81 


without  disorder,  rather  than  that  it  should  be 
broken  or  obstructed  by  violence  of  accidents  o 
length  of  time. 

The  same  reflection  arises  in  my  mind,  upon 
observation  of  the  manner  in  which  marriage  is 
frequently  contracted.  When  I  see  the  avari- 
cious and  crafty  taking  companions  to  their  ta- 
bles a  nd  their  beds  without  any  inquiry,  but  af- 
ter farms  and  money;  or  the  giddy  and  thought- 
less uniting  themselves  for  life  to  those  whom 
they  have  only  seen  by  the  light  of  tapers  at  a 
ball ;  when  parents  make  articles  for  their  chil- 
dren, without  inquiring  after  their  consent;  when 
some  marry  for  heirs  to  disappoint  their  brothers, 
and  others  throw  themselves  into  the  arms  oi 
those  whom  they  do  not  love,  because  they  have 
found  themselves  rejected  where  they  were  more 
solicitous  to  please  ;  when  some  marry  because 
their  servants  cheat  them,  some  because  they 
squander  their  own  money,  some  because  their 
houses  are  pestered  with  company,  some  because 
they  will  live  like  other  people,  and  some  only 
because  they  are  sick  of  themselves,  I  am  not  so 
much  inclined  to  wonder  that  marriage  is  some- 
times unhappy,  as  that  it  appears  so  little  loaded 
with  calamity  ;  and  cannot  but  conclude  that  so- 
ciety has  something  in  itself  eminently  agreeable 
to  human  nature,  when  I  find  its  pleasures  so 
great,  that  even  the  ill  choice  of  a  companion  can 
hardly  overbalance  them. 

By  the  ancient  custom  of  the  Muscovites,  the 
men  and  women  never  saw  each  other  till  they 
were  joined  beyond  the  power  of  parting.  It  may 
be  suspected  that  by  this  method  many  unsuita- 
ble matches  were  produced,  and  many  tempers 
associated  that  were  not  qualified  to  give  pleasure 
to  each  other.  Yet  perhaps,  among  a  people  so 
little  delicate,  where  the  paucity  of  gratifications, 
and  the  uniformity  of  life,  gave  no  opportunity 
for  imagination  to  interpose  its  objections,  there 
was  not  much  danger  of  capricious  dislike ;  and 
while  they  felt  neither  cold  nor  hunger,  they 
might  live  quietly  together,  without  any  thought 
of  the  defects  of  one  another. 

Amongst  us  whom  knowledge  has  made  nice, 
and  affluence  wanton,  there  are,  indeed,  more 
cautions  requisite  to  secure  tranquillity ;  and  yet 
if  we  observe  the  manner  in  which  those  con- 
verse, who  have  singled  out  each  other  for  mar- 
riage, we  shall,  perhaps,  not  think  that  the  Rus- 
sians lost  much  by  their  restraint.  For  the  whole 
endeavour  of  both  parties,  during  the  times  of 
courtship,  is  to  hinder  themselves  from  being 
known,  and  to  disguise  their  natural  temper,  and 
real  desires,  in  hypocritical  imitation,  studied 
compliance,  and  continual  affectation.  From  the 
time  that  their  love  is  avowed,  neither  sees  the 
other  but  in  a  mask,  and  the  cheat  is  managed  of- 
ten on  both  sides  with  so  much  art,  and  discovered 
afterward  with  so  much  abruptness,  that  each 
has  reason  to  suspect  that  some  transformation 
has  happened  on  the  wedding  night,  and  that,  by 
a  strange  imposture,  one  has  been  courted,  and 
another  married. 

I  desire  you,  therefore,  Mr.  Rambler,  to  ques- 
tion all  who  shall  hereafter  come  to  you  with  ma- 
trimonial complaints,  concerning  their  behaviour 
in  the  time  of  courtship,  and  inform  them  that 
they  are  neither  to  wonder  nor  repine,  when  a 
contract  begun  with  fraud  has  ended  in  disap- 
pointment. 

I  am,  &c. 


Xo.  46.]      SATURDAY,  JUNE  25,  1750. 


Genus,  etproavos,  et  qv<e  non  fecimvs  ipsi. 

Vix  ca  nustra  toco  OVIT> 

Nought  from  my  birth  or  ancestors  I  claim; 
All  is  my  own,  my  honour  and  my  shame 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


SINCE  I  find  that  you  have  paid  so  much  rrgara 
to  my  complaints  as  to  publish  them,  I  am  in- 
clined by  vanity,  or  gratitude,  to  continue  our  cor 
respondence ;  and,  indeed,  without  either  of  these 
motives,  am  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  write,  for 
I  am  not  accustomed  to  keep  in  any  thing  that 
swells  my  heart,  and  have  here  none  with  whom 
I  can  freely  converse.  While  I  am  thus  em- 
ployed, some  tedious  hours  will  slip  away,  and 
when  I  return  to  watch  the  clock,  I  shall  find 
that  I  have  disburdened  myself  of  part  of  the 
day. 

You  perceive  that  I  do  not  pretend  to  write 
with  much  consideration  of  any  thing  but  my  own 
convenience ;  and,  not  to  conceal  from  you  my 
real  sentiments,  the  little  time  which  I  have 
spent,  against  my  will,  in  solitary  meditation, 
has  not  much  contributed  to  my  veneration  for 
authors,  I  have  now  sufficient  reason  to  suspect, 
that,  with  all  your  splendid  professions  of  wis- 
dom, and  seeming  regard  for  truth,  you  have 
very  little  sincerity  ;  that  you  either  write  what 
you  do  not  think,  and  willingly  impose  upon 
mankind,  or  that  you  take  no  care  to  think  right, 
but  while  you  set  up  yourselves  as  guides,  mis- 
lead your  followers  by  credulity  or  negligence ; 
that  you  produce  to  the  public  whatever  notions 
you  can  speciously  maintain,  or  elegantly  ex- 
press, without  inquiring  whether  they  are  just, 
and  transcribe  hereditary  falsehoods  from  old 
authors  perhaps  as  ignorant  and  careless  as 
yourselves. 

You  may  perhaps  wonder  that  I  express  my- 
self with  so  much  acrimony  on  a  question  in 
which  women  are  supposed  to  have  very  little 
nterest ;  and  you  are  likely  enough,  for  I  have 
seen  many  instances  of  the  sauciness  of  scholars, 
to  tell  me,  that  I  am  more  properly  employed  in 
)laying  with  my  kittens,  than  in  giving  myself 
airs  of  criticism,  and  censuring  the  learned.  But 
fou  are  mistaken,  if  you  imagine  that,  I  am  to  be 
ntimidated  by  your  contempt,  or  silenced  by 
your  reproofs.  As  I  read,  I  have  a  right  to  judge; 
as  1  am  injured,  I  have  a  right  to  complain ;  and 
these  privileges,  which  I  have  purchased  at  so 
dear  a  rate,  I  shall  not  easily  be  persuaded  to 
resign. 

To  read  has,  indeed,  never  been  my  business, 
but  as  there  are  hours  of  leisure  in  the  most  ac- 
tive life,  I  have  passed  the  superfluities  of  time, 
which  the  diversions  of  the  town  left  upon  my 
hands,  in  turning  over  a  large  collection  of  tra- 
gedies and  romances,  where,  amongst  other  sen- 
timents, common  to  all  authors  of  this  class,  I 
have  found  almost  every  page  filled  with  the 
charms  and  happiness  of  a  country  life :  that 
life  to  which  every  statesman  in  the  highest  ele- 
vation of  his  prosperity  is  contriving  to  retire ; 
that  life  to  which  every  tragic  heroine  in  some 
scene  or  other  wishes  to  have  been  born,  and 
which  is  represented  as  a  certain  refuge  from 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  47. 


folly,  from  anxiety,  from  passion,  and  from 
guilt. 

It  was  impossible  to  read  so  many  passionate 
exclamations,  and  soothing  descriptions,  with- 
out feeling  some  desire  to  enjoy  the  state  in  which 
all  this  felicity  was  to  be  enjoyed  ;  and  therefore 
I  received  with  raptures  the  invitation  of  my 
good  aunt,  and  expected  that  by  some  unknown 
influence  I  should  find  all  hopes  and  fears, 
jealousies  and  competitions,  vanish  from  my 
heart  upon  my  first  arrival  at  the  seats  of  inno- 
cence and  tranquillity;  that  I  should  sleep  in 
halcyon  bowers,  and  wander  in  elysian  gardens, 
where  I  should  meet  with  nothing  but  softness 
of  benevolence,  the  candour  of  simplicity,  and 
the  cheerfulness  of  content  ;  where  I  should  see 
reason  exerting  her  sovereignty  over  life,  with- 
out any  interruption  from  envy,  avarice,  or  am- 
bition, and  every  day  passing  in  such  a  manner 
as  the  severest  wisdom  should  approve. 

This,  Mr.  Rambler,  I  tell  you  I  expected,  and 
this  I  had  by  a  hundred  authors  been  taught  to 
expect.  By  this  expectation  I  was  led  hither, 
and  here  I  live  in  perpetual  uneasiness,  without 
any  other  comfort  than  that  of  hoping  to  return 
to  London. 

Having,  since  I  wrote  my  former  letter,  been 
driven,  by  the  mere  necessity  of  escaping  from 
absolute  inactivity,  to  make  myself  more  ac- 
quainted with  the  affairs  and  inhabitants  of  this 
place,  I  am  now  no  longer  an  absolute  stranger 
to  rural  conversation  and  employments,  but  am 
far  from  discovering  in  them  more  innocence  or 
wisdom,  than  in  the  sentiments  or  conduct  of 
those  with  whom  I  have  passed  more  cheerful 
and  more  fashionable  hours. 

It  is  common  to  reproach  the  tea-table,  and  the 
park,  with  giving  opportunities  and  encourage- 
ment to  scandal.  I  cannot  wholly  clear  them 
from  the  charge  ;  but  must,  however,  observe, 
in  favour  of  the  modish  prattlers,  that,  if  not  by 
principle,  we  are  at  least  by  accident  less  guilty 
of  defamation  than  the  country  ladies.  For  hav- 
ing greater  numbers  to  observe  and  censure,  we 
are  commonly  content  to  charge  them  only  with 
their  own  faults  or  follies,  and  seldom  give  way 
to  malevolence,  but  such  as  arises  from  some  in- 
jury or  affront,  real  or  imaginary,  offered  to  our- 
selves. But  in  these  distant  provinces,  where 
the  same  families  inhabit  the  same  houses  from 
age  to  age,  they  transmit  and  recount  the  faults 
of  a  whole  succession.  I  have  been  informed 
how  every  estate  in  the  neighbourhood  was 
originally  got,  and  find,  if  I  may  credit  the  ac- 
counts given  me,  that  there  is  not  a  single  acre 
in  the  hands  of  the  right  owner.  I  have  been 
told  of  intrigues  between  beaux,  and  toasts  that 
have  been  now  three  centuries  in  their  quiet 
graves,  and  am  often  entertained  with  traditional 
scandal  on  persons  of  whose  names  there  would 
nave  been  no  remembrance,  had  they  not  com- 
mitted somewhat  that  might  disgrace  their  de- 
scendants. 

In  one  of  my  visits  I  happened  to  commend 
the  air  and  dignity  of  a  young  lady,  who  had  just 
left  the  company  ;  upon  which  two  grave  matrons 
looked  with  great  slyness  at  each  other,  and  the 
elder  asked  me  whether  I  had  ever  seen  the  pic- 
ture of  Henry  the  Eighth.  You  may  imagine  that 
I  did  not  immediately  perceive  the  propriety  of 
the  question:  but  after  having  waited  a  while  for 
information,  I  was  told  that  the  lady's  grandmo- 


ther  had  a  great-great-grandruothor  that  was  an 
attendant  on  Anna  Bullen,  and  supposed  to  have 
been  too  much  a  favourite  of  the  king. 

If  once  there  happens  a  quarrel  between  the 
principal  persons  of  two  families,  the  malignity 
is  continued  without  end,  and  it  is  common  for 
old  maids  to  fall  out  about  some  election,  in 
which  their  grandfathers  were  competitors  ;  the 
heart-burnings  of  the  civil  war  are  not  yet  extin- 
guished ;  there  are  two  families  in  the  neighbour 
hood  who  have  destroyed  each  other's  game  from 
the  time  of  Philip  and  Mary  ;  and  when  an  ac- 
count came  of  an  inundation,  which  had  injured 
the  plantations  of  a  worthy  gentleman,  one  of 
the  hearers  remarked,  with  exultation,  that  he 
might  now  have  some  notion,  of  the  ravages  com- 
mitted by  his  ancestors  in  their  retreat  from  Bos- 
worth. 

Thus  malice  and  hatred  descend  here  with  an 
inheritance,  and  it  is  necessary  to  be  well  versed 
in  history,  that  the  various  factions  of  thiscountry 
may  be  understood.  You  cannot  expect  to  be 
on  good  terms  with  families  who  are  resolved  to 
love  nothing  in  common  ;  and,  in  selecting  youi 
intimates,  you  are  perhaps  to  consider  which 
party  you  most  favour  in  the  barons'  wars.  I 
have  often  lost  the  good  opinion  of  my  aunt's  vi- 
sitants by  confounding  the  interests  of  York  and 
Lancaster,  and  was  once  censured  for  sitting  si- 
lent  when  William  Rufus  was  called  a  tyrant. 
I  have,  however,  now  thrown  aside  all  pretences 
to  circumspection,  for  I  find  it  impossible  in  less 
than  seven  years  to  learn  all  the  requisite  cau- 
tions. At  London,  if  you  know  your  company, 
and  their  parents,  you  are  safe  ;  but.  you  are  here 
suspected  of  alluding  to  the  slips  of  great-grand- 
mothers, and  of  reviving  contests  which  were  de- 
cided in  armour  by  the  redoubted  knights  of  an- 
cient times.  I  hope  therefore  that  you  will  not 
condemn  my  impatience,  if  I  am  weary  of  attend- 
ing where  nothing  can  be  learned,  and  of  quar- 
relling where  there  is  nothing  to  contest,  and  that 
you  will  contribute  to  divert  me  while  I  stay  here 
by  some  facetious  performance. 
I  am,  Sir, 

EUPHELIA. 


No.  47.]     TUESDAY,  AUGUST  28,  1750. 

Quanquam  his  solatiis  aequicscam,  debilitor  et  fraiiffor 
cadem  ilia  kumanitate  qua  me,  ut  hoc  ipsum  permitte- 
remtinduxit.  JVon  idea  tamen  dim  durior  fieri :  nee  ig- 
noro  alias  hvjusmodi  casus  nihil  amplivs  voearc  quum 
damnum ;  toque  sibi  magnos  homines  ct  sapientes  vi- 
deri.  Qwt  an  magni  sapientesque  sint,  nescio  :  huminis 
non  stint.  Hominis  est  enim  ajfici  ditlort,  sentire :  re- 
sistere  tamen,  et  solatia  admittere  ;  non  solatiis  non 
egere.  ri.ix. 

These  proceedings  have  afforded  me  some  comfort  in  my 
distress  ;  notwithstanding  which,  I  am  still  dispirited  and 
unhinged  by  the  same  motives  of  humanity  that  induced 
me  to  grant  such  indulgences.  However,  I  by  no  means 
wish  to  become  less  susceptible  of  tenderness.  I  know 
these  kind  of  misfortunes  would  be  estimated  by  other 
persons  only  as  common  losses,  and  from  such  sensations 
they  would  conceive  themselves  great  and  wise  men.  I 
shall  not  determine  either  their  greatness  or  their  wis- 
dom; but  I  am  certain  they  have  no  humanity.  It  is  the 
part  of  a  man  to  be  affected  with  grief,  to  feel  sorrow,  at 
the  same  time  that  lie  is  to  resist  it,  and  to  admit  of  com 
fort. — Earl  of  Orrery. 

OF  the  passions  with  which  the  mind  of  man  13 
agitated,  it  may  be  observed,  that  they  naturally 


JVo.  47.J 


THE  RAMBLER. 


S3 


hasten  towards  their  own  extinction,  by  inciting 
and  quickening  the  attainment  of  their  objects. 
Thus  fear  urges  our  flight,  and  desire  animates 
our  progress ;  and  if  there  are  some  which  per- 
haps may  be  indulged  till  they  outgrow  the  good 
appropriated  to  their  satisfaction,  as  it  is  fre- 
quently observed  of  avarice  and  ambition,  yet 
their  immediate  tendency  is  to  some  means  of 
happiness  really  existing,  and  generally  within 
the  prospect.  The  miser  always  imagines  that 
there  is  a  certain  sum  that  will  fill  his  heart  to 
the  brim ;  and  every  ambitious  man,  like  King 
Pyrrhus,  has  an  acquisition  in  his  thoughts  that 
is  to  terminate  his  labours,  after  which  he  shall 
pass  the  rest  of  his  life  in  ease  or  gayety,  in  re- 
pose or  devotion. 

Sorrow  is  perhaps  the  only  affection  of  the 
breast  that  can  be  excepted  from  this  general  re- 
mark, and  it  therefore  deserves  the  particular  at- 
tention of  those  who  have  assumed  the  arduous 
province  of  preserving  the  balance  of  the  mental 
constitution.  The  other  passions  are  diseases 
indeed,  but  they  necessarily  direct  us  to  their 
proper  cure.  A  man  at  once  feels  the  pain  and 
knows  the  medicine,  to  which  he  is  carried  with 
greater  haste  as  the  evil  which  requires  it  is  more 
excruciating,  and  cures  himself  by  unerring  in- 
stinct, as  the  wounded  stags  of  Crete  are  related 
by  JEAinn  to  have  recourse  to  vulnerary  herbs. 
But  for  sorrow  there  is  no  remedy  provided  by 
nature ;  it  is  often  occasioned  by  accidents  irre- 
parable, and  dwells  upon  objects  that  have  lost 
or  changed  their  existence ;  it  requires  what  it 
cannot  hope,  that  the  laws  of  the  universe  should 
be  repealed ;  that  the  dead  should  return,  or  the 
past  should  be  recalled. 

Sorrow  is  not  that  regret  for  negligence  or  er- 
ror which  may  animate  us  to  future  care  or  acti- 
vity, or  that  repentance  of  crimes  for  which,  how- 
ever irrevocable,  our  Creator  has  promised  to  ac- 
cept it  as  an  atonement;  the  pain  which  arises 
from  these  causes  has  very  salutary  effects,  and 
is  every  hour  extenuating  itself  by  the  reparation 
of  those  miscarriages  that  produce  it.  Sorrow 
is  properly  that  state  of  the  mind  in  which  our 
desires  are  fixed  upon  the  past,  without  looking 
forward  to  the  future,  an  incessant  wish  that 
something  were  otherwise  than  it  has  been,  a 
tormenting  and  harassing  want  of  some  enjoy- 
ment or  possession  which  we  have  lost,  and 
which  no  endeavours  can  possibly  regain.  Into 
such  anguish  many  have  sunk  upon  some  sudden 
diminution  of  their  fortune,  an  unexpected  blast 
of  their  reputation,  or  the  loss  of  children  or  of 
friends.  They  have  suffered  all  sensibility  of 
pleasure  to  be  destroyed  by  a  single  blow,  have 
given  up  for  ever  the  hopes  of  substituting  any 
other  object  in  the  room  of  that  which  they  la- 
ment, resigned  their  lives  to  gloom  and  despond- 
ency, and  worn  themselves  out  in  unavailing 
.Tiisery. 

Yet  so  much  is  this  passion  the  natural  conse- 
quence of  tenderness  and  endearment,  that  how- 
ever painful  and  however  useless,  it  is  justly  re- 
proachful not  to  feel  it  on  some  occasions ;  and 
so  widely  and  constantly  has  it  always  prevailed, 
that  the  laws  of  some  nations,  and  the  customs 
of  others,  have  limited  a  time  for  the  external 
appearances  of  grief  caused  by  the  dissolution  of 
close  alliances,  and  the  breach  of  domestic  union. 

It  seems  determined  by  the  general  suffrage  of 
mankind,  that  sorrow  is  to  a  certain  point  lauda- 


ble, as  the  offspring  of  love,  or  at  least  pardon- 
able, as  the  effect  of  weakness  ;  but  that  it  ought 
not  to  be  suffered  to  increase  by  indulgence,  but 
must  give  way,  after  a  stated  time,  to  social  du 
ties,  and  the  common  avocations  of  life.  It  is  at 
first  unavoidable,  and  therefore  must  be  allowed, 
whether  with  or  without  our  choice ;  it  may  after- 
wards be  admitted  as  a  decent  and  affectionate 
testimony  of  kindness  and  esteem;  something 
will  be  extorted  by  nature,  and  something  may 
be  given  to  the  world.  But  all  beyond  the  bursts 
of  passion,  or  the  forms  of  solemnity,  is  not  only 
useless,  but  culpable ;  for  we  have  no  right  to 
sacrifice,  to  the  vain  longings  of  affection,  that 
time  which  Providence  allows  us  for  the  task  of 
our  station. 

Yet  it  too  often  happens  that  sorrow,  thus  law- 
fully entering,  gains  such  a  firm  possession  of 
the  mind,  that  it  is  not  afterward  to  be  ejected ; 
the  mournful  ideas,  first  violently  impressed  and 
afterwards  willingly  received,  so  much  engross 
the  attention,  as  to  predominate  in  every  thought, 
to  darken  gayety,  an  d  perplex  ratiocination.  An 
habitual  sadness  seizes  upon  the  soul,  and  the 
faculties  are  chained  to  a  single  object,  which 
can  never  be  contemplated  but  with  hopeless 
uneasiness. 

From  this  state  of  dejection  it  is  very  difficult 
to  rise  to  cheerfulness  and  alacrity ;  and  therefore 
many,  who  have  laid  down  rules  of  intellectual 
health,  think  preservatives  easier  than  remedies, 
and  teach  us  not  to  trust  ourselves  with  favour- 
ite enjoyments,  not  to  indulge  the  luxury  of  fond- 
ness, but  to  keep  our  minds  always  suspended 
in  such  indifference,  that  we  may  change  the  ob- 
jects about  us  without  emotion. 

An  exact  compliance  with  this  rule  might,  per- 
haps, contribute  to  tranquillity,  but  surely  it 
would  never  produce  happiness.  He  that  re- 
gards none  so  much  as  to  be  afraid  of  losing  them, 
must  live  for  ever  without  the  gentle  pleasures 
of  sympathy  and  confidence ;  he  must  feel  no 
melting  fondness,  no  warmth  of  benevolence,  nor 
any  of  those  honest  joys  which  nature  annexes 
to  the  power  of  pleasing.  And  as  no  man  can 
justly  claim  more  tenderness  than  he  pays,  he 
must  forfeit  his  share  in  that  officious  and  watch- 
ful kindness  which  love  only  can  dictate,  and 
those  lenient  endearments  by  which  love  only 
can  soften  life.  He  may  justly  be  overlooked 
and  neglected  by  such  as  have  more  warmth  in 
their  heart ;  for  who  would  be  the  friend  of  him, 
whom,  with  whatever  assiduity  he  may  be  court- 
ed, and  with  whatever  services  obliged,  his  prin- 
ciples will  not  suffer  to  make  equal  returns,  and 
who,  when  you  have  exhausted  all  the  instances 
of  good-will,  can  only  be  prevailed  on  not  to  be 
an  enemy  ? 

An  attempt  to  preserve  life  in  a  state  of  neu- 
trality and  indifference,  is  unreasonable  and  vain. 
If  by  excluding  joy  we  could  shut  out  grief,  the 
scheme  would  deserve  very  serious  attention  ; 
but  since,  however  we  may  debar  ourselves  from 
happiness,  misery  will  find  its  way  at  many  in- 
lets, and  the  assaults  of  pain  will  force  our  re- 
gard, though  we  may  withhold  it  from  the  invita- 
tions of  pleasure,  we  may  surely  endeavour  to 
raise  life  above  the  middle  point  of  apathy  at  one 
time,  since  it  will  necessarily  sink  below  it  at 
another. 

But  though  it  cannot  be  reasonable  not  to  gain 
happiness  for  fear  of  losing  it,  yet  it  must  be  con- 


84  THE  RAMBLER. 

fessed,  that  in  proportion  to  the  pleasure  of  pos- 
session, will  be  for  some  time  our  sorrow  for  the 
loss  ;  it  is  therefore  the  province  of  the  moralist 
to  inquire  whether  such  pains  may  not  quickly 
give  way  to  mitigation.  Some  have  thought  that 
the  most  certain  way  to  clear  the  heart  from  its 
embarrassment  is  to  drag  it  by  force  into  scenes 
of  merriment.  Others  imagine,  that  such  a  tran- 
sition is  too  violent,  and  recommend  rather  to 
soothe  it  into  tranquillity,  by  making  it  acquaint- 
ed with  miseries  more  dreadful  and  afflictive,  and 
diverting  to  the  calamities  of  others  the  regard 
which  we  are  inclined  to  fix  too  closely  upon  our 
own  misfortunes. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  either  of  those  re- 
medies will  be  sufficiently  powerful.  The  effi- 
cacy of  mirth  it  is  not  always  easy  to  try,  and 
the  indulgence  of  melancholy  may  be  suspected 
to  be  one  of  those  medicines,  which  will  destroy, 
if  it  happens  not  to  cure. 

The  safe  and  general  antidote  against  sorrow 
is  employment.  It  is  commonly  observed,  that 
among  soldiers  and  seamen,  though  there  is 
much  kindness,  there  is  little  grief;  they  see  their 
friend  fall  without  any  of  that  lamentation  which 
is  indulged  in  security  and  idleness,  because  they 
have  no  leisure  to  spare  from  the  care  of  them- 
selves ;  and  whoever  shall  keep  his  thoughts 
equally  busy,  will  find  himself  equally  unaffected 
with  irretrievable  losses. 

Time  is  observed  generally  to  wear  out  sor- 
row, and  its  effects  might  doubtless  be  accelerat- 
ed by  quickening  the  succession,  and  enlarging 
the  variety  of  objects. 

Si  tempore  longo 

Leniri  poterit  luctus,  tu  sperne  morari, 
Qui  sapiet  sibi  tempits  erit. GROTIUS. 

'Tis  long  ere  time  can  mitigate  your  grief; 
To  wisdom  fly,  she  quickly  brings  relief. 

F.  LEWIS. 

Sorrow  is  a  kind  of  rust  of  the  soul,  which  eve- 
ry new  idea  contributes  in  its  passage  to  scour 
away.  It  is  the  putrefaction  of  stagnant  life,  and 
is  Remedied  by  exercise  and  motion. 


[No.  4S. 


No.  48.]        SATURDAY,  SEPT.  1,  1750. 
!fo»  est  vivere,  sed  valere,  vita. 
For  life  is  not  to  live,  but  to  be  well. 


ELPHINSTON. 


AMONG  the  innumerable  follies,  by  which  we  lay 
up  in  our  youth  repentance  and  remorse  for  the 
succeeding  part  of  pur  lives,  there  is  scarce  any 
against  which  warnings  are  of  less  efficacy  than 
the  neglect  of  health.  When  the  springs  of  mo- 
tion arc  yet  elastic,  when  the  heart  bounds  with 
vigour,  and  the  eye  sparkles  with  spirit,  it  is  with 
difficulty  that  we  are  taught  to  conceive  the  im- 
becility that  every  hour  is  bringing  upon  us,  or  to 
imagine  that  the  nerves  which  are  now  braced 
with  so  much  strength,  and  the  limbs  which  play 
with  so  much  activity,  will  lose  all  their  power 
under  the  gripe  of  time,  relax  with  numbness,  and 


totter  with  debility. 
To  the  arguments 


which    have   been  used 


against  complaints  under  the  miseries  of  life,  the 
phil  jsophers  have,  I  think,  forgot  to  add  the  in- 


credulity of  those  to  whom  we  recount  our  suf 
ferings.  But  if  the  purpose  of  lamentation  be  to 
excite  pity,  it  is  surely  superfluous  for  age  and 
weakness  to  tell  their  plaintive  stories;  for  pity 
presupposes  sympathy,  and  a  little  attention  will 
show  them,  that  those  who  do  not  feel  pain,  sel- 
dom think  that  it  is  felt;  and  a  short  recollection 
will  inform  almost  every  man,  that  he  is  only  re- 
paid the  insult  which  he  has  given,  since  he  may 
remember  how  often  he  has  mocked  infirmity, 
laughed  at  its  cautions,  and  censured  its  im- 
patience. 

The  valetudinarian  race  have  made  the  care 
of  health  ridiculous  by  suffering  it  to  prevail  over 
all  other  considerations,  as  the  miser  has  brought 
frugality  into  contempt,  by  permitting  the  love 
of  money  not  to  share,  but  to  engross,  his  mind: 
they  both  err  alike,  by  confounding  the  means 
with  the  end ;  they  grasp  at  health  only  to  be 
well,  as  at  money  only  to  be  rich ;  and  forget 
that  every  terrestrial  advantage  is  chiefly  valua- 
ble as  it  furnishes  abilities  for  the  exercise  of 
virtue. 

Health  is  indeed  so  necessary  to  all  the  duties, 
as  well  as  pleasures,  of  life,  that  the  crime  of 
squandering  it  is  equal  to  the  folly  ;  and  he  that 
for  a  short  gratification  brings  weakness  and 
diseases  upon  himself,  and  for  the  pleasure  of  a 
few  years  passed  in  the  tumults  of  diversion  and 
clamours  of  merriment,  condemns  the  maturer 
and  more  experienced  part  of  his  life  to  the  cham- 
ber and  the  couch,  may  be  justly  reproached, 
not  only  as  a  spendthrift  of  his  own  happiness, 
but  as  a  robber  of  the  public ;  as  a  wretch  that 
has  voluntarily  disqualified  himself  for  the  busi- 
ness of  his  station,  and  refused  that  part  which 
Providence  assigns  him  in  the  general  task  of 
human  nature. 

There  are  perhaps  very  few  conditions  more 
to  be  pitied  than  that  of  an  active  and  elevated 
mind,  labouring  under  the  weight  of  a  distem- 
pered body.  The  time  of  such  a  man  is  always 
spent  in  forming  schemes,  which  a  change  of 
wind  hinders  him  from  executing,  his  powers 
fume  away  in  projects  and  in  hope,  and  the  day 
of  action  never  arrives.  He  lies  down  delighted 
with  the  thoughts  of  to-morrow,  pleases  his  am- 
bition with  the  fame  he  shall  acquire,  or  his  be- 
nevolence with  the  good  he  shall  confer.  But  in 
the  night  the  skies  are  overcast,  the  temper  of 
the  air  is  changed,  he  wakes  in  languor,  impa- 
tience and  distraction,  and  has  no  longer  any 
wish  but  for  ease,  nor  any  attention  but  to  mi- 
sery. It  may  be  said  that  disease  generally  be- 
gins that  equality  which  death  completes;  the 
distinctions  which  set  one  man  so  much  above 
another  are  very  little  perceived  in  the  gloom  of 
a  sick  chamber,  where  it  will  be  vain  to  expect 
entertainment  from  the  gay,  or  instruction  from 
the  wise ;  where  all  human  glory  is  obliterated, 
the  wit  is  clouded,  the  reasoner  perplexed,  and 
the  hero  subdued ;  where  the  highest  and  bright- 
est of  mortal  beings  finds  nothing  left  him  but  the 
consciousness  of  innocence. 

There  is  among  the  fragments  of  the  Greek 
poets  a  short  hymn  to  Health,  in  which  her 
power  of  exalting  the  happiness  of  life,  of  height- 
ening the  gifts  of  fortune,  and  adding  enjoyment 
to  possession,  is  inculcated  with  so  much  force 
and  beauty,  that  no  one,  who  has  ever  languished 
under  the  discomforts  and  infirmities  of  a  linger 
ing  disease,  can  read  it  without  feeling  the  ima 


No.  49.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


85 


ges  dance  in  his  heart,  and  adding  from  his  own 
experience  new  vigour  to  the  wish,  and  from  his 
own  imagination  new  colours  to  the  picture. 
The  particular  occasion  of  this  little  composition 
is  not  known,  but  it  is  probable  that  the  author 
had  been  sick,  and  in  the  first  raptures  of  re- 
turning vigour  addressed  Health  in  the  following 


'tyltia  xpt<T@i<?Ta  Ma/capuv, 

Mcra  aou  vaioipi 
Td  \c.irc6fiivov  ffioras 
Sfi  &i  jioi  Ttpoijipiav  avvotKo;  UTJI. 
Ei  yap  TI$  >j  TrAoProu  %ap<S  >}  rt/c/ur, 

Taj  tulai/ionds  T'  avdpuirois 
Ba(r<A);'<5oj  do^as,  >j  trodwv, 
Ofcf  Kpv<piois  'A.(f>poSin/s  apicvaiv  Oiiotvofitv, 
"H  £t  rif  aAAa  OcoScv  dvdpwiroif  rtpi^iy, 

"H  rroviav  a^Ttvoa  -nit^avrai' 
Mtrd  (7£(0,  j-uiKtiioa  vYyieia, 
Ttflr/At  Trai'ra,  Kat  \djnrti  %apiTtav  cap' 

2£0£V  Of  ^<opif,  oii&eis,  ci>&ain<i>v  TTfAtt' 

"Health,  most  venerable  of  the  powers  of  hea- 
ven !  with  thee  may  the  remaining  part  of  my 
life  be  passed,  nor  do  thou  refuse  to  bless  me 
with  thy  residence.  For  whatever  there  is  of 
beauty  or  of  pleasure  in  wealth,  in  descendants, 
or  in  sovereign  command,  the  highest  summit  of 
human  enjoyment,  or  in  those  objects  of  human 
desire  which  we  endeavour  to  chase  into  the 
toils  of  love;  whatever  delight,  or  whatever  so- 
lace is  granted  by  the  celestials,  to  softejj  our  fa- 
tigues, in  thy  presence,  thou  parent  of  happiness, 
all  those  joys  spread  out  and  flourish;  in  thy 
presence  blooms  the  spring  of  pleasure,  and  with- 
out thee  no  man  is  happy." 

Such  is  the  power  of  health,  that  without  its 
co-operation  every  other  comfort  is  torpid  and 
lifeless,  as  the  powers  of  vegetation  without  the 
sun.  And  yet  this  bliss  is  commonly  thrown 
away  in  thoughtless  negligence,  or  in  foolish  ex- 
periments on  our  own  strength  ;  we  let  it  perish 
without  remembering  its  value,  or  waste  it  to 
show  how  much  we  have  to  spare ;  it  is  some- 
times given  up  to  the  management  of  levity  and 
chance,  and  sometimes  sold  for  the  applause  of 
jollity  and  debauchery. 

Health  is  equally  neglected,  and  with  equal 
impropriety,  by  the  votaries  of  business  and  the 
followers  of  pleasure.  Some  men  ruin  the  fabric 
of  their  bodies  by  incessant  revels,  and  others  by 
intemperate  studies ;  some  batter  it  by  excess, 
and  others  sap  it  by  inactivity.  To  the  noisy 
rout  of  bacchanalian  rioters,  it  will  be  to  little 
purpose  that  advice  is  offered,  though  it  requires 
no  great  abilities  to  prove,  that  he  loses  pleasure 
who  loses  health ;  their  clamours  are  too  loud  for 
the  whispers  of  caution,  and  they  run  the  course 
of  life  with  too  much  precipitance  to  stop  at  the 
call  of  wisdom.  Nor  perhaps  will  they  that  are 
busied  in  adding  thousands  to  thousands,  pay 
much  regard  to  him  that  shall  direct  them  to  has- 
ten more  slowly  to  their  wishes.  Yet  since  lov- 
ers of  money  are  generally  cool,  deliberate  and 
thoughtful,  they  might  surely  consider,  that  the 
greater  good  ought  not  to  be  sacrificed  to  the 
less.  Health  is  certainly  more  valuable  than 
money,  because  it  is  by  health  that  money  is  pro- 
cured ;  but  thousands  and  millions,  are  of  small 
avail  to  alleviate  the  protracted  tortures  of  the 
gout,  to  repair  the  broken  organs  of  sense,  or  re- 


suscitate the  powers  of  digestion.  Poverty  is, 
indeed,  an  evil  from  which  we  naturally  fly  ;  bul 
let  us  not  run  from  one  enemy  to  another,  nor 
take  shelter  in  the  arms  of  sickness. 

Projecere  animam  !  guam  vellenl  tcthere  in  alto 
Nunc  et  pauperiem,  et  duros perferre  laborei ! 

VIRG. 

For  healthful  indigence  in  vain  they  pray, 
In  quest  of  wealth  who  throw  their  lives  away 

Those  who  lose  their  health  in  an  irregular  and 
impetuous  pursuit  of  literary  accomplishments 
are  yet  less  to  be  excused ;  for  they  ought  to 
know  that  the  body  is  not  forced  beyond  its 
strength,  but  with  the  loss  of  more  vigour  than  is 
proportionate  to  the  effect  produced.  Whoever 
takes  up  life  beforehand,  by  depriving  himself  of 
rest  and  refreshment,  must  not  only  pay  back  the 
hours,  but  pay  them  back  with  usury  ;  and  for 
the  gain  of  a  few  months  but  half  enjoyed  must 
give  up  years'  to  the  listlessness  of  languor,  and 
the  implacability  of  pain.  They  whose  endea- 
vour is  mental  excellence,  will  learn,  perhaps  too 
late,  how  much  it  is  endangered  by  diseases  of 
the  body,  and  find  that  knowledge  may  easily  be 
lost  in  the  starts  of  melancholy,  the  flights  of  im- 
patience, and  the  peevishness  of  decrepitude. 


No.  49.]      TUESDAY,  SEPT.  4,  1750. 

Jfon  omnis  mortar,  muliaque  pars  mei 
fitabit  Lib  it  inn  m,  usque  ego  posttra 
Crescam  laude  recens.  HOR. 

Whole  Horace  shall  not  die ;  his  songs  shall  save 
The  greatest  portion  from  the  greedy  grave. 

CREECH. 

THE  first  motives  of  human  actions  are  those  ap- 
petites which  Providence  has  given  to  man  in 
common  with  the  rest  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
earth.  Immediately  after  our  birth,  thirst  and 
hunger  incline  us  to  the  breast,  which  we  draw 
by  instinct,  like  other  young  creatures,  and  when 
we  are  satisfied,  we  express  our  uneasiness  by  im- 
portunate and  incessant  cries,  till  we  have  Ob- 
tained a  place  or  posture  proper  for  repose. 

The  next  call  that  rouses  us  from  a  state  of  in- 
activity, is  that  of  our  passions  ;  we  quickly  be- 
gin to  be  sensible  of  hope  and  fear,  love  and  ha- 
tred, desire  and  aversion  ;  these  arising  from  the 
power  of  comparison  and  reflection,  extend  their 
range  wider,  as  our  reason  strengthens,  and  our 
knowledge  enlarges.  At  first  we  have  no  thought 
of  pain,  but  when  we  actually  feel  it ;  we  after- 
wards begin  to  fear  it,  yet  not  before  it  approaches 
us  very  nearly :  but  by  degrees  we  discover  it  at 
a  greater  distance,  and  find  it  lurking  in  remote 
consequences.  Ouf  terror  in  time  improves  into 
caution,  and  we  learn  to  look  round  with  vigil- 
ance and  solicitude,  to  stop  all  the  avenues  at 
which  misery  can  enter,  and  to  perform  or  en- 
dure many  things  in  themselves  toilsome  and  un- 
pleasing,  because  we  know  by  reason  or  by  ex- 
perience, that  our  labour  will  be  overbalanced  by 
the  reward,  that  it  will  either  procure  some  posi- 
tive good,  or  avert  some  evil  greater  than  itself. 

But  as  the  soul  advances  to  a  fuller  exercise  of 
its  powers,  the  animal  appetites  and  the  passions 
immediately  arising  from  them,  are  not  sufficient 


66 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  49 


to  find  it  employment;  the  wants  of  nature  are 
soon  supplied,  the  fear  of  their  return  is  easily 
precluded,  and  something  more  is  necessary  to  re- 
lieve the  long  intervals  of  inactivity,  and  to  give 
those  faculties,  which  cannot  lie  wholly  quies- 
cent, some  particular  direction.  For  this  reason, 
new  desires  and  artificial  passions  are  by  degrees 
produced ;  and,  from  having  wishes  only  in  con- 
sequence of  our  wants,  we  begin  to  feel  wants  in 
consequence  of  our  wishes ;  we  persuade  our- 
selves to  set  a  value  upon  things  which  are  of  no 
use,  but  because  we  have  agreed  to  value  them  ; 
things  which  can  neither  satisfy  hunger  nor  miti- 
gate pain,  nor  secure  us  from  any  real  calamity, 
and  which  therefore,  we  find  of  no  esteem  among 
those  nations,  whose  artless  and  barbarous  man- 
ners keep  them  always  anxious  for  the  necessa- 
ries of  life. 

This  is  the  original  of  avarice,  vanity,  ambi- 
tion, and  generally  of  all  those  desires  which  arise 
from  the  comparison  of  our  condition  with  that  of 
others.  He  that  thinks  himself  poor  because  his 
neighbour  is  richer ;  he  that,  like  Caesar,  would 
rather  be  the  first  man  of  a  village,  than  the  se- 
cond in  the  capital  of  the  world,  has  apparently 
kindled  in  himself  desires  which  he  never  receiv- 
ed from  nature,  and  acts  upon  principles  esta- 
blished only  by  the  authority  of  custom. 

Of  those  adscititious  passions,  some,  as  ava- 
rice and  envy,  are  universally  condemned :  some, 
as  friendship  and  curiosity,  generally  praised; 
but  there  are  others  about  which  the  suffrages  of 
the  wise  are  divided,  and  of  which  it  is  doubted, 
whether  they  tend  most  to  promote  the  happi- 
ness or  increase  the  miseries  of  mankind. 

Of  this  ambiguous  and  disputable  kind  is  the 
love  of  fame,  a  desire  of  filling  the  minds  of 
others  with  admiration,  and  of  being  celebrated 
by  generations  to  come  with  praises  which  we 
Bhall  not  hear.  This  ardour  has  been  considered 
by  some,  as  nothing  better  than  splendid  mad- 
ness, as  a  flame  kindled  by  pride,  and  fanned  by 
folly ;  for  what,  say  they,  can  be  more  remote 
from  wisdom,  than  to  direct  all  our  actions  by  the 
hope  of  that  which  is  not  to  exist  till  we  ourselves 
are  in  the  grave  ?  To  pant  after  that  which  can 
n^per  be  possessed,  and  of  which  the  value  thus 
widely  put.  upon  it,  arises  from  this  particular 
condition,  that,  during  life,  it  is  not  to  be  obtain- 
td  ?  To  gain  the  favour,  and  hear  the  applauses 
of  our  contemporaries,  is  indeed  equally  desira- 
ble with  any  other  prerogative  of  superiority,  be- 
cause fame  may  be  of  use  to  smooth  the  paths  of 
life,  to  terrify  opposition,  and  fortify  tranquillity ; 
but  to  what  end  shall  we  be  the  darlings  of  man- 
kind, when  we  can  no  longer  receive  any  bene- 
fits from  their  favour  ?  It  is  more  reasonable  to 
wish  for  reputation,  while  it  may  yet  be  enjoyed, 
as  Anacreon  calls  upon  his  companions  to  give 
him  for  present  use  the  wine  and  garlands  which 
they  purpose  to  bestow  upon  his  tomb. 

The  advocates  for  the  love  of  fame  allege  in  its 
vindication,  that  it  is  a  passion  natural  and  uni- 
versal ;  a  flame  lighted  by  Heaven,  and  always 
burning  with  greatest  vigour  in  the  most  en- 
larged and  elevated  minds.  That  the  desire  of 
being  praised  by  posterity  implies  a  resolution  to 
deserve  their  praises,  and  that  the  folly  charged 
upon  it,  is  only  a  noble  and  disinterested  gene- 
rosity, which  is  not  felt,  and  therefore  not  un- 
derstood, by  those  who  have  been  always  accus- 


tomed to  refer  every  thing  to  themselves,  and 
whose  selfishness  has  contracted  their  under- 
standings. That  the  soul  of  man,  formed  for 
eternal  life,  naturally  springs  forward  beyond  the 
limits  of  corporeal  existence,  and  rejoices  to  con- 
sider herself  as  co-operating  with  future  ages, 
and  as  co-extended  with  endless  duration.  That 
the  reproach  urged  with  so  much  petulance,  the 
reproach  of  labouring  for  what  cannot  be  enjoyed, 
is  founded  on  an  opinion  which  may  with  great 
probability  be  doubted ;  for  since  we  suppose  the 
powers  of  the  soul  to  be  enlarged  by  its  separa- 
tion, why  should  we  conclude  that  its  knowledge 
of  sublunary  transactions  is  contracted  or  ex- 
tinguished. 

Upon  an  attentive  and  impartial  review  of  the 
argument,  it  will  appear  that  the  love  of  fame  is 
to  be  regulated  rather  than  extinguished  ;  and 
that  men  should  be  taught  not  to  be  wholly  care- 
less about  their  memory,  but  to  endeavour  that 
they  may  be  remembered  chiefly  for  their  virtues, 
since  no  other  reputation  will  be  able  to  transmit 
any  pleasure  beyond  the  grave. 

It  is  evident  that  fame,  considered  merely  as 
the  immortality  of  a  name,  is  not  less  likely  to 
be  the  reward  of  bad  actions  than  of  good  ;  he 
therefore  has  no  certain  principle  for  the  regula- 
tion of  his  conduct,  whose  single  aim  is  not  to  be 
forgotten.  And  history  will  inform  us,  that  this 
blind  and  undistinguishing  appetite  of  renown  has 
always  been  uncertain  in  its  effects,  and  directed 
by  accident  or  opportunity,  indifferently  to  the 
benefit  or  devastation  of  the  world.  When  The- 
mistocles  complained  that  the  trophies  of  Miltia- 
des  hindered  him  from  sleep,  he  was  animated  by 
them  to  perform  the  same  services  in  the  same 
cause.  But  Caesar,  when  he  wept  at  the  sight  of 
Alexander's  picture,  having  no  honest  opportu- 
nities of  action,  let  his  ambition  break  out  to  the 
ruin  of  his  country. 

If,  therefore,  the  love  of  fame  is  so  far  indulged 
by  the  mind  as  to  become  independent  and  pre- 
dominant, it  is  dangerous  and  irregular;  but  it 
may  be  usefully  employed  as  an  inferior  and  se- 
condary motive,  and  will  serve  sometimes  to  re- 
vive our  activity,  when  we  begin^to  languish  and 
lose  sight  of  that  more  certain,  more  valuable,  and 
more  durable  reward,  which  ought  always  to  be 
our  first  hope  and  our  last.  But  it  must  be 
strongly  impressed  upon  our  minds  that  virtue  is 
not  to  be  pursued  as  one  of  the  means  to  fame, 
but  fame  to  be  accepted  as  the  only  recompense 
which  mortals  can  bestow  on  virtue  ;  to  be  ac- 
cepted with  complacence,  but  not  sought  with 
eagerness.  Simply  to  be  remembered  is  no  ad- 
vantage ;  it  is  a  privilege  which  satire  as  well  as 
panegyric  can  confer,  and  is  not  more  enjoyed  by 
Titus  or  Constantino,  than  by  Timocreon  of 
Rhodes,  of  whom  we  only  know  from  his  epitaph, 
that  he  had  eaten  many  a  meal,  drank  many  a  fla- 
gon, and  uttered  many  a  reproach. 

IIoXAa  (fiaywv.  KOI  froXAii  7T«iv,  KOI  roXXa  Kax'  ciiruv 
'Af&fxiirous,  Kcifiai  TifiOKptW  vPoiios. 

The  true  satisfaction  which  is  to  be  drawn  from 
the  consciousness  that  we  shall  share  the  atten- 
tion of  future  times,  must  arise  from  the  hope, 
that  with  our  name,  our  virtues  will  be  propagat- 
ed ;  and  that  those  whom  we  cannot  benefit  in 
our  lives,  may  receive  instruction  from  our  ex- 
amples, and  incitement  from  our  renown. 


No.  SO.] 

No.  50.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  8,  1750. 


THE  RAMBLER. 


87 


Credebant  hoc  grande  nefas,  el  morte  piandum, 
Sijuvenis  vetulu  non  assurreicrat ;  et  si 
Jiarbato  cuicunque  jntcr,  licet  ipse  viderct 
PLura  domifruga,  et  majores  gland  is  itceri-os. 

JUV. 

And  had  not  men  the  hoary  head  revered, 
And  boys  paid  reverence  when  a  man  appear'd 
Botli  must  have  died,  though  richer  skins  they  wore, 
And  saw  more  heaps  of  acorus  iii  their  store. 

CREECH. 

1  HAVE  always  thought  it  the  business  of  those 
who  turn  their  speculations  upon  the  living  world, 
to  commend  the  virtues  as  well  as  to  expose  the 
faults  of  their  contemporaries,  and  to  confute  a 
false  as  well  as  to  support  a  just  accusation  ;  not 
only  because  it  is  peculiarly  the  business  of  a  mo- 
nitor to  keep  his  own  reputation  untainted,  lest 
those  who  can  once  charge  him  with  partiality, 
should  indulge  themselves  afterwards  in  disbe- 
lieving him  at  pleasure ;  but  because  he  may 
find  real  crimes  sufficient  to  give  full  employ- 
ment to  caution  or  repentance,  without  distracting 
the  mind  by  needless  scruples  and  vain  solicitudes. 

There  are  certain  fixed  and  stated  reproaches 
that  one  part  of  mankind  has  in  all  ages  thrown 
upon  another,  which  are  regularly  transmitted 
through  continued  successions,  and  which  he 
that  has  once  suffered  them  is  certain  to  use  with 
the  same  undistinguishing  vehemence,  when  he 
has  changed  his  station,  and  gained  the  prescrip- 
tive right  of  inflicting  on  others  what  he  had  for- 
merly endured  himself. 

To  these  hereditary  imputations,  of  which  no 
man  sees  the  justice,  till  it  becomes  his  interest 
to  see  it,  very  little  regard  is  to  be  shown ;  since 
it  does  not  appear  that  they  are  produced  by  ra- 
tiocination or  inquiry,  but  received  implicitly,  or 
caught  by  a  kind  of  instantaneous  contagion  and 
supported  rather  by  willingness  to  credit,  than 
ability  to  prove  them. 

It  has  been  always  the  practice  of  those  who 
are  desirous  to  believe  themselves  made  venera- 
ble by  length  of  time,  to  censure  the  new  comers 
into  life,  1'or  want  of  respect  to  gray  hairs  and 
sage  experience,  for  heady  confidence  in  their 
own  understandings,  for  hasty  conclusions  upon 
partial  views,  for  disregard  of  counsels,  which 
their  fathers  and  grandsires  are  ready  to  afford 
them,  and  a  rebellious  impatience  of  that  subor- 
dination to  which  youth  is  condemned  by  na- 
ture, as  necessary  to  its  security  from  evils  into 
•which  it  would  be  otherwise  precipitated,  by  the 
rashness  of  passion,  and  the  blindness  of  igno- 
rance. 

Every  old  man  complains  of  the  growing  de- 
pravity of  the  world,  of  the  petulance  and  inso- 
lence of  the  rising  generation.  He  recounts  the 
decency  and  regularity  of  former  times,  and  cele- 
brates the  discipline  and  sobriety  of  the  age  in 
which  his  youth  was  passed  ;  a  happy  age,  which 
is  now  no  more  to  be  expected,  since  confusion 
has  broken  in  upon  the  world  and  thrown  down 
all  the  boundaries  of  civility  and  reverence. 

It  is  not  sufficiently  considered  how  much  he 
assumes  who  dares  to  claim  the  privilege  of  com- 
plaining;  for  as  every-  man  has,  in  his  own  opinion, 
a  full  share  of  the  miseries  of  life,  he  is  inclined  to 
consider  all  clamorous  uneasiness  as  a  proof  of 
impatience  rather  than  of  affliction,  and  to  ask, 
What  merit  has  this  man  to  show,  by  which  he 


has  acquired  a  right  to  repine  at  the  distributions 
of  nature  ?  Or,  why  does  he  imagine  that  ex- 
emptions should  be  granted  him  from  the  gene- 
ral condition  of  man  ?  We  find  ourselves  excited 
rather  to  captiousness  than  pity,  and  instead  of 
being  in  haste  to  soothe  his  complaints  by  sym- 
pathy and  tenderness,  we  inquire,  whether  the 
pain  be  proportionate  to  the  lamentation  ;  and 
whether,  supposing  the  affliction  real,  it  is  not  the 
effect  of  vice  and  lolly,  rather  than  calamity. 

The  querulousness  and  indignation  which  is 
observed  so  often  to  disfigure  the  last  scene  of 
life,  naturally  leads  us  to  inquiries  like  these. 
For  surely  it  will  be  thought  at  the  first  view  of 
things,  that  if  age  be  thus  contemned  and  ridi- 
culed, insulted  and  neglected,  the  crime  must  at 
least  be  equal  on  either  part.  They  who  have 
had  opportunities  of  establishing  their  authority 
over  minds  ductile  and  unresisting,  they  who 
have  been  the  protectors  of  helplessness,  and  the 
instructors  of  ignorance,  and  who  yet  retain  in 
their  own  hands  the  power  of  wealth,  and  the 
dignity  of  command,  must  defeat  their  influence 
by  their  own  misconduct,  and  make  use  of  all 
these  advantages  with  very  "little  skill,  if  they 
cannot  secure  to  themselves  an  appearance  of 
respect,  and  ward  off  open  mockery,  and  declar- 
ed contempt. 

The  general  story  of  mankind  will  evince,  that 
lawful  and  settled  authority  is  very  seldom  re- 
sisted when  it  is  well  employed.  Gross  corrup- 
tion, or  evident  imbecility  is  necessary  to  the  sup- 
pression of  that  reverence  with  which  the  majority 
of  mankind  look  upon  their  governors  ;  on  those 
whom  they  see  surrounded  by  splendour,  and  for- 
tified by  power.  For  though  men  are  drawn  by 
their  passions  into  forgetfulness  of  invisible  re- 
wards and  punishments,  yet  they  are  easily  kept 
obedient  to  those  who  have  temporal  dominion 
in  their  hands,  till  their  veneration  is  dissipated 
by  such  wickedness  and  folly  as  can  neither  be 
defended  nor  concealed. 

It  may,  therefore,  very  reasonably  be  suspect- 
ed that  the  old  draw  upon  themselves  the  great- 
est part  of  those  insults  which  they  so  much 
lament,  and  that  age  is  rarely  despised  but  when 
it  is  contemptible.  If  men  imagine  that  excess 
of  debauchery  can  be  made  reverend  by  time, 
that  knowledge  is  the  consequence  of  long  life, 
however  idly  and  thoughtlessly  employed,  that 
priority  of  birth  will  supply  the  want  of  steadi 
ness  or  honesty,  can  it  raise  much  wonder  thai 
their  hopes  are  disappointed,  and  that  they  see 
their  posterity  rather  willing  to  trust  their  own 
eyes  in  their  progress  into  life,  than  enlist  them 
selves  under  guides  who  have  lost  their  way? 

There  are,  indeed,  many  truths  which  time 
necessarily  and  certainly  teaches,  and  which 
might,  by  those  who  have  learned  them  from  ex- 
perience, be  communicated  to  their  successors  at 
a  cheaper  rate  ;  but  dictates,  though  liberally 
enough  bestowed,  are  generally  without  effect, 
the  teacher  gains  few  proselytes  by  instruction 
which  his  own  behaviour  contradicts ;  and  young 
men  miss  the  benefit  of  counsel,  because  they  are 
not  very  ready  to  believe  that  those  who  fall  be- 
low them  in  practice,  can  much  excel  them  in 
theory.  Thus  the  progress  of  knowledge  is  re- 
tarded, the  world  is  kept  long  in  the  same  state 
and  every  new  race  is  to  gain  the  prudence  of 
their  predecessors  by  committing  and  redressing 
the  same  miscarriages. 


83 


THE  RAM13LER. 


[No.  61 


To  secure  to  the  old  that  influence  which  they 
are  willing  to  claim,  and  which  might  so  much 
contribute  to  the  improvement  of  the  arts  of  life, 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  they  give  them- 
selves up  to  the  duties  of  declining  years  ;  and 
contentedly  resign  to  youth  its  levity,  its  plea- 
sures, its  frolics,  and  its  fopperies.  It  is  a  hope- 
less endeavour  to  unite  the  contrarieties  of  spring 
and  winter;  it  is  unjust  to  claim  the  privileges  of 
age,  and  retain  the  playthings  of  childhood.  The 
young  always  form  magnificent  ideas  of  the  wis- 
dom and  gravity  of  men,  whom  they  consider  as 
placed  at  a  distance  from  them  in  the  ranks  of  ex- 
istence, and  naturally  look  on  those  whom  they 
find  trifling  with  long  beards  with  contempt  and 
indignation,  like  that  which  women  feel  at  the 
effeminacy  of  men.  If  dotards  will  contend  with 
boys  in  those  performances  in  which  boys  must 
alwavs  excel  them  ;  if  they  will  dress  crippled 
limbs  in  embroidery,  endeavour  at  gayety  with 
faltering  voices,  and  darken  assemblies  of  plea- 
sure with  the  ghastliness  of  disease,  they  may 
well  expect  those  who  find  their  diversions  ob- 
structed will  hoot  them  away ;  and  that  if  they 
descend  to  competition,  with  youth,  they  must 
hear  the  insolence  of  successful  rivals. 

Lnsisti  satis,  edisti  satis,  atgve  bibisti  : 
Tempus  abire  tibi  est. 

You've  had  your  share  of  mirth,  of  meat  and  drink  ; 
"Tis  time  to  quit  the  scene — 'tis  time  to  think. 

ELPHINSTON. 

Another  vice  of  age,  by  which  the  rising  gene- 
ration may  be  alienated  from  it,  is  severity  and 
censoriousness,  that  gives  no  allowance  to  the 
failings  of  early  life,  that  expects  artfulness  from 
childhood  and  constancy  from  youth,  that  is  pe- 
remptory in  every  command,  and  inexorable  to 
every  failure.  There  are  many  who  live  merely 
to  hinder  happiness,  and  whose  descendants  can 
only  tell  of  long  life,  that  it  produces  suspicion, 
malignity,  peevishness,  and  persecution :  and 
yet  even  these  tyrants  can  talk  of  the  ingratitude 
of  the  age,  cursa  their  heirs  for  impatience,  and 
wonder  that  young  men  cannot  take  pleasure  in 
their  father's  company. 

He  that  would  pass  the  latter  part  of  life  with 
honour  and  decency,  must,  when  he  is  young, 
consider  that  he  shall  one  day  be  old  ;  and  re- 
member, when  he  is  old,  that  he  has  once  been 
young.  In  youth  he  must  lay  up  knowledge  for 
his  support,  when  his  powers  of  acting  shall  for- 
sake him ;  and  in  age  forbear  to  animadvert 
with  rigoui  on  faults  which  experience  only  can 
correct. 


No.  51.]     TUESDAT,  SEPT.  11,  1750. 

Stultus  labor  eft  eneptiarum.—  MART. 

How  foolish  is  the  toil  of  trifling  cares  '. 

ELPHISSTON. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

As  you  have  allowed  a  place  in  your  paper  to 
Euphelia's  letters  from  the  country,  and  appear 
to  think  no  form  of  human  life  unworthy  of  your 
attention,  I  have  resolved,  after  many  struggles 
with  idleness  and  diffidence,  to  give  you  some 


ccount  of  my  entertainment  in  this  sober  seasor 
of  universal  retreat,  and  to  describe  to  yoa  the 
employments  of  those  who  look  with  contempt 
on  the  pleasures  and  diversions  of  polite  life,  and 
mploy  all  their  powers  of  censure  and  invective 
upon  the  uselessness,  vanity,  and  folly,  of  dress, 
visits,  and  conversation. 

When  a  tiresome  and  vexatious  journey  of 
four  days  had  brought  me  to  the  house,  where 
invitation,  regularly  sent  for  seven  years  toge- 
ther, had  at  last  induced  me  to  pass  the  summer, 
I  was  surprised,  after  the  civilities  of  my  first  re- 
ception, to  find,  instead  of  the  leisure  and  tran- 
quillity, which  a  rural  life  always  promises,  and, 
'i  well  conducted,  might  always  afford,  a  confus- 
ed wildness  of  care,  and  a  tumultuous  hurry  of 
diligence,  by  which  every  face  was  clouded,  and 
every  motion  agitated.  The  old  lady,  who  was 
my  father's  relation,  was,  indeed,  very  full  of  the 
happiness  which  she  received  from  my  visit,  and 
according  to  the  forms  of  obsolete  breeding,  in 
sisted  that  I  should  recompense  the  long  delay 
of  my  company  with  a  promise  not  to  leave  her  till 
winter.  But,  amidst  all  her  kindness  and  caress- 
es, she  very  frequently  turned  her  head  aside,  and 
whispered,  with  anxious  earnestness,  some  ordci 
to  her  daughters,  which  never  failed  to  send  them 
out  with  unpolite  precipitation.  Sometimes  her 
impatience  would  not  suffer  her  to  stay  behind  ; 
she  begged  my  pardon,  she  must  leave  me  for  a 
moment;  she  went,  and  returned  and  sat  down 
again,  but  was  again  disturbed  by  some  new 
care,  dismissed  her  daughters  with  the  same  tre 
pidation,  and  followed  them  with  the  same  coun 
tenance  of  business  and  solicitude. 

However  I  was  alarmed  at  this  show  of  eager 
ness  and  disturbance,  and  however  my  curiosity 
was  excited  by  such  busy  preparations  as  natu- 
rally promised  some  great  event,  I  was  yet  IOG 
much  a  stranger  to  gratify  myself  with  inquiries; 
but  finding  none  of  the  family  in  mourning,  I 
pleased 'myself  with  imagining  that  I  should 
rather  see  a  wedding  than  a  funeral. 

At  last  we  sat  down  to  supper,  when  I  was  in- 
formed that  one  of  the  young  ladies,  after  whom 
I  thought  myself  obliged  to  inquire,  was  under  a 
necessity  of  attending  some  affair  that  could  not 
be  neglected :  soon  afterward  my  relation  began 
to  talk  of  the  regularity  of  her  family,  and  the 
inconvenience  of  London  hours  ;  and  at  last  let 
me  know  that  they  had  purposed  that  night  to 
go  to  bed  sooner  than  was  usual,  because  they 
were  to  rise  early  in  the  morning  to  make  cheese- 
cakes. This  hint  sent  me  to  my  chamber,  to 
which  I  was  accompanied  by  all  the  ladies,  who 
begged  me  to  excuse  some  large  sieves  of  leaves 
and  flowers  that  covered  two-thirds  of  the  floor, 
for  they  intended  to  distil  them  when  they  were 
dry,  and  they  had  no  other  room  that  so  conveni- 
ently received  the  rising  sun. 

The  scent  of  the  plants  hindered  me  from  rest, 
and  therefore  I  rose  early  in  the  morning  with  u 
resolution  to  explore  my  new  habitation.  I  stole 
unperceived  by  my  busy  cousins  into  the  garden, 
where  I  found  nothing  either  more  great  or  ele- 
gant, than  in  the  same  number  of  acres  cultivated 
for  the  market.  Of  the  gardener  I  soon  learned 
that  his  lady  was  the  greatest  manager  in  that 
part  of  the  country,  and  that  I  was  come  hithei 
at  the  time  in  which  I  might  learn  to  make  more 
pickles  and  conserves,  than  could  be  seen  at  any 
other  house  a  hundred  miles  round. 


No.  51.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


89 


It  was  not  long  before  her  ladyship  gave  me 
sufficient  opportunities  of  knowing  her  character, 
for  she  was  too  much  pleased  with  her  own  ac- 
complishments to  conceal  them,  and  took  occa- 
sion, from  some  sweetmeats  which  she  set  next 
day  upon  the  table,  to  discourse  for  two  long 
hours  upon  robs  and  gellies ;  laid  down  the  best 
methods  of  conserving,  reserving,  and  preserving 
all  sorts  of  fruit;  told  us  with  great  contempt  of 
the  London  lady  in  the  neighbourhood,  by  whom 
these  terms  were  very  often  confounded ;  and 
hinted  how  much  she  should  be  ashamed  to  set 
before  company,  at  her  own  house,  sweetmeats 
of  so  dark  a  colour  as  she  had  often  seen  at  Mis- 
tress Sprightly's. 

It  is,  indeed,  the  great  business  of  her  life,  to 
watch  the  skillet  on  the  fire,  to  see  it  simmer  with 
the  due  degree  of  heat,  and  to  snatch  it  off  at 
the  moment  of  projection  ;  and  the  employments 
to  which  she  has  bred  her  daughters,  are  to  turn 
rose-leaves  in  the  shade,  to  pick  out  the  seeds  of 
currants  with  a  quill,  to  gather  fruit  without  bruis- 
ing it,  and  to  extract  bean-flower  water  for  the 
skin.  Such  are  the  tasks  with  which  every  day, 
since  I  came  hither,  has  begun  and  ended,  to 
which  the  early  hours  of  life  are  sacrificed,  and 
in  which  that  time  is  passing  away  which  never 
shall  return. 

But  to  reason  or  expostulate  are  hopeless  at- 
tempts. The  lady  has  settled  her  opinions,  and 
maintains  the  dignity  of  her  own  performances 
with  all  the  firmness  of  stupidity  accustomed  to 
be  flattered.  Her  daughters  having  never  seen 
any  house  but  their  own,  believe  their  mother's 
excellence  on  her  own  word.  Her  husband  is  a 
mere  sportsman,  who  is  pleased  to  see  his  table 
well  furnished,  and  thinks  the  day  sufficiently 
successful,  in  which  he  brings  home  a  leash  of 
hares  to  be  potted  by  his  wife. 

After  a  few  days  I  pretended  to  want  hooks, 
out  my  lady  soon  told  mo  that  none  of  her  books 
would  suit  my  taste  ;  for  her  part  she  never  loved 
to  sc-e  young  women  give  their  minds  to  such  fol- 
lies, by  which  they  would  only  learn  to  use  hard 
words  ;  she  bred  up  her  daughters  to  understand 
a  house,  and  whoever  should  marry  them,  if  they 
knew  any  thing  of  good  cookery,  would  never 
repent  it. 

There  are,  however,  some  things  in  the  culi- 
nary science  too  sublime  for  youthful  intellects, 
mysteries  into  which  they  must  not  be  initiated 
till  the  years  of  serious  maturity,  and  which  are 
referred  to  the  day  of  marriage,  as  the  supreme 
qualification  for  connubial  life.  She  makes  an 
orange  pudding,  which  is  the  envy  of  all  the 
neighbourhood,  and  which  she  has  hitherto  found 
means  of  mixing  and  baking  with  such  secrecy, 
that  the  ingredient  to  which  it  owes  its  flavour 
has  n?vor  b?en  discovered.  She  indeed,  con- 
ducts this  great  affair  with  all  the  caution  that 
human  policy  can  suggest  It  is  never  known 
beforehand  when  this  pudding  will  be  produced; 
sh.2  takes  the  ingredients  privately  into  her  own 
closet,  employs  her  maids  and  daughters  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  house,  orders  the  oven  to  be 
heated  for  a  pie,  and  places  the  pudding  in  it 
with  her  own  hands,  the  mouth  of  the  oven  is 
then  stopped,  and  all  inquiries  are  vain. 

The  composition  of  the  pudding  she  has,  how- 
ever, promised  Clarinda,  that  if  she  pleases  her 
in  marriage,  she  shall  be  told  without  reserve. 
But  the  art  of  making  English  capers  she  has  not 
M 


yet  persuaded  herself  to  discover,  but  seems  ra 
solved  that  secret  shall  perish  with  her,  as  somt 
alchymists  have  obstinately  suppressed  the  art  of 
transmuting  metals. 

I  once  ventured  to  lay  my  fingers  on  her  book 
of  receipts,  which  she  left  upon  the  table,  having 
intelligence  that  a  vessel  of  gooseberry  wine  had 
burst  the  hoops.  But  though  the  importance  of 
the  event  sufficiently  engrossed  her  care,  to  pre- 
vent any  recollection  of  the  danger  to  which  her 
secrets  were  exposed,  I  was  not  able  to  make  use 
of  the  golden  moments  ;  for  this  treasure  of  here- 
ditary knowledge  was  so  well  concealed  by  th« 
manner  of  spelling  used  by  her  grandmother,  hor 
mother,  and  herself,  that  I  was  totally  unable  to 
understand  it,  and  lost  the  opportunity  of  con 
suiting  the  oracle,  for  want  of  knowing  the  lan- 
guage in  which  its  answers  were  returned. 

It  is,  indeed,  necessary,  if  I  have  any  regard  to 
her  ladyship's  esteem,  that  I  should  apply  mysell 
to  some  of  these  economical  accomplishments 
for  I  overheard  her  two  days  ago,  warning  her 
daughters,  by  my  mournful  example,  against  ne- 
gligence of  pastry,  and  ignorance  in  carving;  for 
you  saw,  said  she,  that,  with  all  her  pretensions 
to  knowledge,  she  turned  the  partridge  the  wrong 
way  when  she  attempted  to  cut  it,  and,  I  believe, 
scarcely  knows  the  difference  between  paste  rais 
ed,  and  paste  in  a  dish. 

The  reason,  Mr.  Rambler,  why  I  have  laid 
Lady  Bustle's  character  before  you,  is  a  desire  to 
be  informed  whether,  in  your  opinion,  it  is  wor- 
thy of  imitation,  and  whether  I  shall  throw  away 
the  books  which  I  have  hitherto  thought  it  my 
duty  to  read,  for  the  lady's  closet  opened,  the  com- 
plete servant  maid,  and  the  court  cook,  and  resign 
all  curiosity  after  right  and  wrong,  for  the  art  of 
scalding  damascenes,  without  bursting  them,  and 
preserving  the  whiteness  of  pickled  mushrooms. 

Lady  Bustle  has,  indeed,  by  this  incessant  ap- 
plication to  fruits  and  flowers,  contracted  her 
cares  into  a  narrow  space,  and  set  herself  free 
from  many  perplexities  with  which  other  minds 
are  disturbed.  She  has  no  curiosity  after  the 
events  of  a  war,  or  the  fate  of  heroes  in  distress ; 
she  can  hear,  without  the  least  emotion,  the  ra- 
vage of  a  fire,  or  devastations  of  a  storm ;  her 
neighbours  °-row  rich  or  poor,  come  into  the  world 
or  go  out  of  it,  without  regard,  while  she  is  press- 
ing the  jelly-bag,  or  airing  the  store-room ;  but  I 
cannot  perceive  that  she  is  more  free  from  dis- 
quiets  than  those  whose  understandings  take  a 
wider  range.  Her  marigolds,  when  they  are 
almost  cured,  are  often  scattered  by  the  wind, 
and  the  rain  sometimes  falls  upon  fruit  when  it 
ought  to  be  gathered  dry.  While  her  artificial 
wines  are  fermenting,  her  whole  life  is  restless- 
ness and  anxiety.  Her  sweetmeats  are  not 
always  bright,  and  the  maid  sometimes  forgets 
the  just  proportions  of  salt  and  pepper,  when  veni- 
son is  to  be  baked.  Her  conserves  mould,  her 
wines  sour,  and  pickles  mother ;  and,  like  all  the 
rest  of  mankind,  she  is  every  day  mortified  with 
the  defeat  of  her  schemes,  and  the  disappoint- 
ment of  her  hopes. 

With  regard  to  vice  and  virtue  she  seems  a 
kind  of  neutral  being.  She  has  no  crime  but  luxu- 
ry, nor  any  virtue  but  chastity ;  she  has  no  desire 
to  be  praised  but  for  her  cookery ;  nor  wishes  any 
ill  to  the  rest  of  mankind,  but  that  whenever  they 
aspire  to  a  feast,  their  custards  may  be  whevJBk, 
and  their  pie- crusts  tough. 


90 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  52. 


I  am  now  very  impatient  to  know  whether  I 
am  to  look  on  these  ladies  as  the  great  patterns 
of  our  sex,  and  to  consider  conserves  and  pickles 
as  the  business  of  my  life ;  whether  the  censures 
which  I  now  suffer  be  just,  and  whether  the  brew- 
ers of  wines,  and  the  distillers  of  washes',  have  a 
right  to  look  with  insolence  on  the  weakness  of 

CORNELIA. 


No.  52.]      SATURDAY,  SEPT.  15,  1750. 

Qtwtiesjlenti  Theaeita  heroa 

Siate  modum,  diiit  negue  enimfortuna  guerenda 
Sola  tua  eat,  aimilea  aliorvm  respice  caaus, 
Mitiua  ittaferet.  OVID- 

How  oft  in  vain  the  son  of  Theseus  said, 
The  stormy  sorrows  be  with  patience  laid ; 
Nor  are  thy  fortunes  to  be  wept  alone  ; 
Weigh  other's  woes,  and  learn  to  bear  thy  own. 

CATCOTT. 

AMONG  the  various  methods  of  consolation,  to 
which  the  miseries  inseparable  from  our  present 
state  have  given  occasion,  it  has  been,  as  I  have 
already  remarked,  recommended  by  some  writers 
to  put  the  sufferer  in  mind  of  heavier  pressures, 
and  more  excruciating  calamities,  than  those  of 
which  he  has  himself  reason  to  complain. 

This  has,  in  all  ages,  been  directed  and  prac- 
tised ;  and,  in  conformity  to  this  custom,  Lipsius, 
the  great  modern  master  of  the  Stoic  philosophy, 
has,  in  his  celebrated  treatise  on  steadiness  of 
mind,  endeavoured  to  fortify  the  breast  against 
too  much  sensibility  of  misfortune,  by  enumerat- 
ing the  evils  which  have  in  former  ages  fallen 
upon  the  world,  the  devastation  of  wide-extended 
regions,  the  sack  of  cities,  and  massacre  of  na- 
tions. And  the  common  voice  of  the  multitude 
uninstructed  by  precept,  and  unprejudiced  by  au- 
thority, which,  in  questions  that  relate  to  the 
heart  of  man,  is,  in  my  opinion,  more  decisive 
than  the  learning  of  Lipsius,  seems  to  justify  the 
efficacy  of  this  procedure ;  for  one  of  the  first 
comforts  which  one  neighbour  administers  to  ano- 
ther, is  a  relation  of  the  like  infelicity,  combined 
with  circumstances  of  greater  bitterness. 

But  this  medicine  of  the  mind  is  like  many  re- 
medies applied  to  the  body,  of  which,  though  we 
see  the  effects,  we  are  unacquainted  with  the 
manner  of  operation,  and  of  which,  therefore, 
some,  who  are  unwilling  to  suppose  any  thing 
out  of  the  reach  of  their  own  sagacity,  have  been 
inclined  to  doubt  whether  they  have  really  those 
virtues  for  wh'ch  they  are  celebrated,  and  whether 
their  reputaUo.i  is  not  the  mere  gift  of  fancy,  pre- 
judice, and  credulity. 

Consolation,  or  comfort,  are  words  which,  in 
their  proper  acceptation,  signify  some  alleviation 
of  that  pain  to  which  it  is  not  in  our  power  to  af- 
ford the  proper  and  adequate  remedy  ;  they  im- 
ply rather  an  augmentation  of  the  power  of  bear- 
ing than  a  diminution  of  the  burden.  A  prison- 
er is  relieved  by  him  that  sets  him  at  liberty,  but 
receives  comfort  from  such  as  suggest  considera- 
tions by  which  he  is  made  patient  under  the  in- 
convenience of  confinement.  To  that  grief  which 
arises  from  a  great  loss,  he  only  brings  the  true 
remedy  who  makes  his  friend's  condition  the 
same  as  before ;  but  he  may  be  properly  termed 
a  comforter,  who  by  persuasion  extenuates  the 
pain  of  poverty,  and  shows  in  the  style  ofHesiod, 
that  half  is  more  than  the  whole. 


It  is,  perhaps,  not  immediately  obvious,  how  it 
can  lull  the  memory  of  misfortune,  or  appease 
the  throbbings  of  anguish,  to  hear  that  others  are 
more  miserable ;  others,  perhaps,  unknown  or 
wholly  indifferent,  whose  prosperity  raises  no 
envy,  and  whose  fall  can  gratify  no  resentment. 
Some  topics  of  comfort  arising,  like  that  which 
*ave  hope  and  spirit  to  the  captive  of  Sesostris, 
rom  the  perpetual  vicissitudes  of  life,  and  muta- 
bility of  human  affairs,  may  as  properly  raise  the 
dejected  as  depress  the  proud,  and  have  an  im- 
mediate tendency  to  exhilarate  and  revive.  But 
low  can  it  avail  the  man  who  languishes  in  the 
2;loom  of  sorrow  without  prospect  of  emerging 
nto  the  sunshine  of  cheerfulness,  to  hear  that 
others  are  sunk  yet  deeper  in  the  dungeon  of 
misery,  shackled  with  heavier  chains,  and  sur- 
rounded with  darker  desperation? 

The  solace  arising  from  this  consideration, 
seems  indeed  the  weakest  of  all  others,  and  is 
perhaps  never  properly  applied,  but  in  cases 
where  there  is  no  place  for  reflections  of  more 
speedy  and  pleasing  efficacy.  But  even  from  such 
calamities  life  is  by  no  means  free ;  a  thousand 
11s  incurable,  a  thousand  losses  irreparable,  a 
thousand  difficulties  insurmountable,  are  known, 
or  will  be  known,  by  all  the  sons  of  men.  Native 
deformity  cannot  be  rectified,  a  dead  friend  can- 
not return,  and  the  hours  of  youth  trifled  away 
in  folly,  or  lost  in  sickness,  cannot  be  restored. 

Under  the  oppression  of  such  melancholy,  it 
tias  been  found  useful  to  take  a  survey  of  the 
world,  to  contemplate  the  various  scenes  of  dis- 
tress in  which  mankind  are  struggling  round  us, 
and  acquaint  ourselves  with  the  terribiles  visa  for- 
ma, the  various  shapes  of  misery,  which  make 
havoc  of  terrestrial  happiness,  range  all  corners 
almost  without  restraint,  trample  down  our  hopes 
at  the  hour  of  harvest,  and,  when  we  have  buill 
our  schemes  to  the  top,  ruin  their  foundations. 

The  first  effect  of  this  meditation  is,  that  il 
furnishes  a  new  employment  for  the  mind,  and 
engages  the  passions  on  remoter  objects ;  as  kings 
have  sometimes  freed  themselves  from  a  subject 
too  haughty  to  be  governed,  and  too  powerful  to 
be  crushed,  by  posting  him  in  a  distant  province, 
till  his  popularity  has  subsided  or  his  pride  been 
repressed.  The  attention  is  dissipated  by  varie- 
ty, and  acts  more  weakly  upon  any  single  part, 
as  that  torrent  may  be  drawn  off  to  different  chan- 
nels, which,  pouring  down  in  one  collected  body, 
cannot  be  resisted.  This  species  of  comfort  is, 
therefore,  unavailing,  in  severe  paroxysms  of  cor- 
poreal pain,  when  the  mind  is  every  instant  call- 
ed back  to  misery,  and  in  the  first  shock  of  any 
sudden  evil ;  but  will  certainly  be  of  use  against 
encroaching  melancholy,  and  a  settled  habit  oi 
gloomy  thoughts. 

It  is  further  advantageous,  as  it  supplies  us 
with  opportunities  of  making  comparisons  in  our 
own  favour.  We  know  that  very  little  of  the 
pain,  or  pleasure,  which  does  not  begin  and  end 
in  our  senses,  is  otherwise  than  relative ;  we  are 
rich  or  poor,  great  or  little,  in  proportion  to  the 
number  that  excel  us,  or  fall  beneath  us,  in  any 
of  these  respects ;  and,  therefore,  a  man,  whose 
uneasiness  arises  from  reflection  on  any  misfor- 
tune that  throws  him  below  those  with  whom  he 
was  once  equal,  is  comforted  by  finding  that  he 
is  not  yet  the  lowest. 

There  is  another  kind  of  comparison,  less  tend- 
ing towards  the  vice  of  envy,  very  well  illustrated 


No.  53.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


91 


by  an  old  poet,*  whose  system  will  not  afford 
man\' reasonable  motives  to  content.  "It  is," 
says  he,  "  pleasing  to  look  from  shore  upon  the 
tumults  of  a  storm,  and  to  see  a  ship  struggling 
with  the  billows ;  it  is  pleasing,  not  because  the 
pain  of  another  can  give  us  delight,  but  because 
we  have  a  stronger  impression  of  the  happiness 
of  safety.'1  Thus,  when  we  look  abroad,  and 
behold  the  multitudes  that  are  groaning  under 
evils  heavier  than  those  which  we  have  experi- 
enced, we  shrink  back  to  our  own  state,  and  in- 
stead of  repining  that  so  much  must  be  felt,  learn 
to  rejoice  that  we  have  not  more  to  feel. 

By  this  observation  of  the  miseries  of  others, 
fortitude  is  strengthened,  and  the  mind  brought  to 
a  more  extensive  knowledge  of  her  own  powers. 
As  the  heroes  of  action  catch  the  flame  from  one 
to  another,  so  they,  to  whom  Providence  has  al- 
lotted the  harder  task  of  suffering  with  calmness 
and  dignity,  may  animate  themselves  by  the  re- 
membrance of  those  evils  which  have  been  laid  on 
others,  perhaps  naturally  as  weak  as  themselves, 
and  bear  up  with  vigour  and  resolution  against 
their  own  oppressions,  when  they  see  it  possible 
that  more  severe  afflictions  may  be  borne. 

There  is  still  another  reason  why,  to  many 
minds,  the  relation  of  other  men's  infelicity  may 
give  a  lasting  and  continual  relief.  Some,  not 
well  instructed  in  the  measures  by  whiph  Provir 
dence  distributes  happiness,  are  perhaps  misled 
by  divines,  who,  as  Bellarmine  makes  temporal 
prosperity  one  of  the  characters  of  the  true  church, 
nave  represented  wealth  and  ease  £ 


ease  as  the  certain 


concomitants  of  virtue,  and  the  unfailing  result  of 
the  Divine  approbation.  Such  sufferers  are  de- 
jected in  their  misfortunes,  not  so  much  for  what 
they  feel,  as  for  what  they  dread ;  not  because 
they  cannot  support  the  sorrows,  or  endure  the 
wants,  of  their  present  condition,  but  because 
they  consider  them  as  only  the  beginnings  of 
more  sharp  and  more  lasting  pains.  To  these 
mourners  it  is  an  act  of  the  highest  charity  to  re- 
present the  calamities  which  not  only  virtue  has 
suffered,  but  virtue  has  incurred  ;  to  inform  them 
that  one  evidence  of  a  future  state,  is  the  uncer- 
tainty of  any  present  reward  for  goodness ;  and 
to  remind  them,  from  the  highest  authority,  of  the 
distresses  and  penury  of  men  of  whom  the  world 
was  not  worthy. 


No.  53.J       TUESDAY,  SEPT.  18,  1750. 


Epigram  Vet. 


Husband  thy  possessions. 


THERE  is  scarcely  among  the  evils  of  human  life 
any  so  generally  dreaded  as  poverty.  Every 
other  species  of  misery,  those,  who  are  not  much 
accustomed  to  disturb  the  present  moment  with 
reflection,  can  easily  forget,  because  it  is  not  al- 
ways forced  upon  their  regard;  but  it  is  impos- 
sible to  pass  a  day  or  an  hour  in  the  confluxes  of 
men,  without  seeing  how  much  indigence  is  ex- 
posed to  contumely,  neglect,  and  insult ;  and,  in 
its  lowest  state,  to  hunger  and  nakedness ;  to  in- 
juries against  which  every  passion  is  in  arms,  and 
to  wants  which  nature  cannot  sustain. 


Lucretius. — C. 


Against  other  evils  the  heart  is  often  hardened 
by  true  or  by  false  notions  of  dignity  and  reputa- 
tion ;  thus  we  see  dangers  of  every  kind  faced 
with  willingness,  because  bravery  in  a  pood  or 
bad  cause  is  never  without  its  encomiasts  and  ad- 
mirers. But  in  the  prospect  of  poverty,  there  is 
nothing  but  gloom  and  melancholy ;  the  mind 
and  body  suffer  together ;  its  miseries  bring  no 
alleviations ;  it  is  a  state  in  which  every  virtue  is 
obscured,  and  in  which  no  conduct  can  avoid  re- 
proach ;  a  state  in  which  cheerfulness  is  insen- 
sibility, and  dejection  sullenness,  of  which  the 
hardships  are  without  honour,  and  the  labours 
without  reward. 

Of  these  calamities  there  seems  not  to  be  want- 
ing a  general  conviction  ;  we  hear  on  every  side 
the  noise  of  trade,  and  see  the  streets  thronged 
with  numberless  multitudes,  whose  faces  are 
clouded  with  anxiety,  and  whose  steps  are  hur- 
ried by  precipitation,  from  no  other  motive  than 
the  hope  of  gain  ;  and  the  whole  world  is  put  in 
motion,  by  the  desire  of  that  wealth,  which  is 
chiefly  to  be  valued  as  it  secures  us  from  pover- 
ty ;  for  it  is  more  useful  for  defence  than  acquisi- 
tion, and  is  not  so  much  able  to  procure  good  as 
to  exclude  evil. 

Yet  there  are  always  some  whose  passions  or 
follies  lead  them  to  a  conduct  opposite  to  the  ge- 
neral maxims  and  practice  of  mankind ;  some  who 
seem  to  rush  upon  poverty  with  the  same  eager- 
ness with  which  others  avoid  it,  who  see  their 
revenues  hourly  lessened,  and  the  estates  which 
they  inherit  from  their  ancestors  mouldering 
away,  without  resolution  to  change  their  course 
of  life ;  who  persevere  against  all  remonstrances, 
and  go  forward  with  full  career,  though  they  see 
before  them  the  precipice  of  destruction. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  in  this  paper,  to  expostu- 
late with  such  as  ruin  their  fortunes  by  expensive 
schemes  of  buildings  and  gardens,  which  they 
carry  on  with  the  same  vanity  that  prompted  them 
to  begin,  choosing,  as  it  happens  in  a  thousand 
other  cases,  the  remote  evil  before  the  lighter,  and 
deferring  the  shame  of  repentance  till  they  incur 
the  miseries  of  distress.  Those  for  whom  I  in- 
tend my  present  admonitions,  are  the  thought- 
less, the  negligent,  and  the  dissolute,  who  having, 
by  the  viciousness  of  their  own  inclinations,  or 
the  seducements  of  alluring  companions,  been 
engaged  in  habits  of  expense,  and  accustomed  to 
move  in  a  certain  round  of  pleasures  dispropor- 
tioned  to  their  condition,  are  without  power  to 
extricate  themselves  from  the  enchantments  ol 
customs,  avoid  the  thought  because  they  know  it 
will  be  painful,  and  continue  from  day  to  day, 
and  from  month  to  month,  to  anticipate  their  re- 
venues, and  sink  every  hour  deeper  into  the  gulfs 
of  usury  and  extortion. 

This  folly  has  less  claim  to  pity,  because  it  can- 
not be  imputed  tp  the  vehemence  of  sudden  pas- 
sion ;  nor  can  the  mischief  which  it  produces  be 
extenuated  as  the  effect  of  any  single  act,  which 
rage,  or  desire,  might  execute  before  there  could 
be  time  for  an  appeal  to  reason.  These  men  are 
advancing  towards  misery  by  soft  approaches, 
and  destroying  themselves,  not  by  the  violence 
of  a  blow,  which  when  once  given,  can  never  be 
recalled,  but  by  a  slow  poison,  hourly  repeated, 
and  obstinately  continued. 

This  conduct  is  so  absurd  when  it  is  examined 

by  the  unprejudiced  eye  of  rational  judgment, 

i  that  nothing  but  experience  could  evince  its  pos- 


THE  RAMBLER. 


sibility ;  yet  absurd  as  it  is,  the  sudden  fall  of  some 
families,  and  the  sudden  rise  of  others,  prove  it 
to  be  common;  and  every  year  sees  many  wretch- 
es reduced  to  contempt  and  want,  by  their  costly 
sacrifices  to  pleasure  and  vanity. 

It  is  the  fate  of  almost  every  passion,  when  it 
nas  passed  the  bounds  which  nature  prescribes, 
to  counteract  its  own  purpose.  Too  much  rage 
hinders  the  warrior  from  circumspection,  too  much 
eagerness  of  profit  hurts  the  credit  of  the  trader, 
too  much  ardour  takes  away  from  the  lover  that 
easiness  6f  address  with  which  ladies  are  delight- 
ed. Thus  extravagance,  though  dictated  by  va- 
nity, and  incited  by  voluptuousness,  seldom  pro- 
cures ultimately  either  applause  or  pleasure. 

If  praise  be  justly  estimated  by  the  character 
of  those  from  whom  it  is  received,  little  satisfac- 
tion will  be  given  to  the  spendthrift  by  the  enco- 
miums which  he  purchases.  For  who  are  they 
that  animate  him  in  his  pursuits,  but  young  men, 
thoughtless  and  abandoned  like  himself,  unac- 
quainted with  all  on  which  the  wisdom  of  nations 
has  impressed  the  stamp  of  excellence,  and  de- 
void alike  of  knowledge  and  of  virtue !  By  whom 
is  his  profusion  praised,  but  by  wretches  who 
consider  him  as  subservient  to  their  purposes,  si- 
rens that  entice  him  to  shipwreck,  and  Cyclops 
that  are  gaping  to  devour  him  ? 

Every  man  whose  knowledge,  or  whose  vir- 
tue, can  give  value  to  his  opinion,  looks  with 
scorn,  or  pity,  neither  of  which  can  afford  much 
gratification  to  pride,  on  him  whom  the  panders 
ofluxury  have  drawn  into  the  circle  of  their  influ- 
ence, and  whom  he  sees  parcelled  out  among  the 
different  ministers  of  folly,  and  about  to  be  torn 
to  pieces  by  tailors  and  jockeys,  vintners  and 
attorneys,  who  at  once  rob  and  ridicule  him,  and 
who  are  secretly  triumphing  over  his  weakness, 
when  they  present  new  incitements  to  his  appe- 
tite, and  heighten  his  desires  by  counterfeited 
applause. 

Such  is  the  praise  that  is  purchased  by  prodi- 
gality. Even  when  it  is  yet  not  discovered  to  be 
false,  it  is  the  praise  only  of  those  whom  it  is  re- 
proachful to  please,  and  whose  sincerity  is  cor- 
rupted by  their  interest ;  men  who  live  by  the 
riots  which  they  encourage,  and  who  know  that 
whenever  their  pupil  grows  wise,  they  shall  lose 
their  power.  Yet  with  such  flatteries,  if  they 
could  last,  might  the  cravings  of  vanity,  which  is 
seldom  very  delicate,  be  satisfied  ;  but  the  time  is 
always  hastening  forward  when  this  triumph, 
poor  as  it  is,  shall  vanish,  and  when  those  who 
now  surround  him  with  obsequiousness  and  com- 
pliments, fawn  among  his  equipage,  and  animate 
his  riots,  shall  turn  upon  him  with  insolence,  and 
reproach  him  with  the  vices  promoted  by  them- 
selves. 

And  as  little  pretensions  has  the  man  who 
squanders  his  estate,  by  vain  or  vicious  expenses 
to  greater  degrees  of  pleasure  than  are  obtained 
by  others.  To  make  any  happiness  sincere,  it  is 
necessary  that  we  believe  it.  to  be  lasting ;  since 
whatever  we  suppose  ourselves  in  danger  of 
losing,  must  be  enjoyed  with  solicitude  and  un- 
easiness, and  the  more  value  we  set  upon  it,  the 
more  must  the  present  possession  be  embittered. 
How  can  he  then  be  envied  for  his  felicity,  who 
knows  that  its  continuance  cannot  be  expected, 
and  who  is  conscious  that  a  very  short  time  will 
give  him  up  to  the  gript  of  poverty,  which  will  be 
harder  to  be  borne,  as  he  has  given  wav  to  more 


excesses,  wantoned  in  greater  abundance,  and 
indulged  his  appetites  with  more  profuseness? 

It  appears  evident  that  frugality  is  necessary 
even  to  complete  the  pleasure  of  expense  ;  for  it 
may  be  generally  remarked  of  those  who  squan- 
der what  they  know  their  fortune  not  sufficient 
to  allow,  that  in  their  most  jovial  expense,  there 
always  breaks  out  some  proof  of  discontent  and 
mpatience ;  they  either  scatter  with  a  kind  of  wild 
desperation,  and  affected  lavishness,  as  criminals 
brave  the  gallows  when  they  cannot  escape  it, 
or  pay  their  money  with  a  peevish  anxiety,  and 
endeavour  at  once  to  spend  idly,  and  to  save 
meanly:  having  neither  firmness  to  deny  their 
passions,  nor  courage  to  gratify  them,  they  mur- 
mur at  their  own  enjoyments,  and  poison  the 
bowl  of  pleasure  by  reflection  on  the  cost. 

Among  these  men  there  is  often  the  vocifera- 
tion of  merriment,  but  very  seldom  the  tranquilli- 
ty of  cheerfulness ;  they  inflame  their  imagina- 
tions to  a  kind  of  momentary  jollity,  by  the  help 
of  wine  and  riot,  and  consider  it  as  the  first  busi- 
ness of  the  night  to  stupify  recollection,  and  lay 
that  reason  asleep  which  disturbs  their  gayety 
and  calls  upon  them  to  retreat  from  ruin. 

But  this  poor  broken  satisfaction  is  of  short  con- 
tinuance, and  must  be  expiated  by  a  long  series  of 
misery  and  regret.  In  a  short  time  the  creditor 
grows  impatient,  the  last  acre  is  sold,  the  pas- 
sions and  appetites  still  continue  their  tyranny, 
with  incessant  calls  for  their  usual  gratifications, 
and  the  remainder  of  life  passes  away  in  vain  re- 
pentance, or  impotent  desire. 


No.  54.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  22,  1750. 

Truditur  dies  die, 
Novteque  pergirnt  intcrire  lunte 

Tu  secanda  marmora 
Locas  sub  ipsumfur.us ;  et  snpulchn 

Immemor,  struts  domos.  HOB 

Day  presses  on  the  heels  of  day, 

And  moons  increase  totlicir  decay  ; 

But  you,  with  thoughtless  pride  elate, 

Unconscious  of  impending  fate, 

Command  the  pillar'd  dome  to  rise, 

When  lo!  thy  tomb  forgotten  lies.— FRANCIS 

TO  THE  RAMBLER 

SIR, 

I  HAVE  lately  been  called,  from  a  mingled  file 
of  business  and  amusement,  to  attend  the  last 
hours  of  an  old  friend  ;  an  office  which  has  filled 
me,  if  not  with  melancholy,  at  least  with  serious 
reflections,  and  turned  my  thoughts  towards  the 
contemplation  of  those  subjects,  which  though  of 
the  utmost  importance,  and  of  indubitable  cer- 
tainty, are  generally  secluded  from  our  regard,  by 
the  jollity  of  health,  the  hurry  of  employment,  and 
even  by  the  calmer  diversions  of  study  and  specula- 
tion ;  or  if  they  become  accidental  topics  of  con- 
versation and  argument,  yet  rarely  sink  deep  into 
the  heart,  but  give  occasion  only  to  some  subtil- 
ties  of  reasoning,  or  elegances  of  declamation, 
which  are  heard,  applauded,  and  forgotten. 

It  is,  indeed,  not  hard  to  conceive  how  a  man 
accustomed  to  extend  his  views  through  a  long 
concatenation  of  causes  and  effects,  to  trace 
things  from  their  origin  to  their  period,  and  com 
pare  means  with  ends,  may  discover  the  weak- 
ness of  human  schemes ;  detect  the  fallacie.-  by 


No.  54.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


93 


which  mortals  are  deluded ;  show  the  insufficien- 
cy of  wealth,  honours,  and  power,  to  real  happi- 
ness ;  and  please  himself,  and  his  auditors,  with 
learned  lectures  on  the  vanity  of  life. 

But  though  the  speculatist  may  see  and  show 
the  folly  of  terrestrial  hopes,  fears,  and  desiies, 
every  hour  will  give  proofs  that  he  never  felt  it 
Trace  him  through  the  day  or  year,  and  you  will 
find  him  acting  upon  principles  which  he  has  in 
common  with  the  illiterate  and  unenlightened, 
angry  and  pleased,  like  the  lowest  of  the  vulgar, 
pursuing  with  the  same  ardour,  the  same  de- 
signs, grasping,  with  all  the  eagerness  of  trans- 
port, those  riches  which  he  knows  he  cannot 
keep,  and  swelling  with  the  applause  which  he 
has  gained  by  proving  that  applause  is  of  no  value. 

The  only  conviction  that  rushes  upon  the  soul, 
and  takes  away  from  our  appetites  and  passions 
the  power  of  resistance,  is  to  be  found,  where  I 
have  received  it,  at  the  bed  of  a  dying  friend. 
To  enter  this  school  of  wisdom  is  not  the  peculiar 
privilege  of  geometricians ;  the  most  sublime  and 
important  precepts  require  no  uncommon  oppor- 
tunities, nor  laborious  preparations ;  they  are  en- 
forced without  the  aid  of  eloquence,  and  under- 
stood without  skill  in  analytic  science.  Every 
tongue  can  utter  them,  and  every  understanding 
can  conceive  them.  He  that  wishes  in  earnest 
to  obtain  just  sentiments  concerning  his  condi- 
tion, and  would  be  intimately  acquainted  with 
the  world,  may  find  instructions  on  every  side. 
He  that  desires  to  enter  behind  the  scene,  which 
every  art  has  been  employed  to  decorate,  and 
every  passion  labours  to  illuminate,  and  wishes 
to  see  life  stripped  of  those  ornaments  which 
make  it  glitter  on  the  stage,  and  exposed  in  its 
natural  meanness,  impotence,  and  nakedness, 
may  find  all  the  delusion  laid  open  in  the  cham- 
ber of  disease :  he  will  there  find  vanity  divested 
of  her  robes,  power  deprived  of  her  sceptre,  and 
hypocrisy  without  her  mask. 

The  friend  whom  I  have  lost  was  a  man  emi- 
nent for  genius,  and,  like  others  of  the  same 
class,  sufficiently  pleased  with  acceptance  and  ap- 
plause. Being  caressed  by  those  who  have  pre- 
ferments and  riches  in  their  disposal,  he  consider- 
ed himself  as  in  the  direct  road  of  advancement, 
and  had  caught  the  flame  of  ambition  by  ap- 
proaches to  its  object  But  in  the  midst  of  his 
hopes,  his  projects,  and  his  gayeties,  he  was 
seized  by  a  lingering  disease,  which,  from  its  first 
stage,  he  knew  to  be  incurable.  Here  was  an 
end  of  all  his  visions  of  greatness  and  happi- 
ness ;  from  the  first  hour  that  his  health  declined, 
all  his  former  pleasures  grew  tasteless.  His 
friends  expected  to  please  him  by  those  accounts 
of  the  growth  of  his  reputation,  which  were  for- 
merly certain  of  being  well  received  ;  but  they 
soon  found  how  little  he  was  now  affected  by 
compliments,  and  how  vainly  they  attempted,  by 
flattery,  to  exhilarate  the  languor  of  weakness, 
and  relieve  the  solicitude  of  approaching  death. 
Whoever  would  kr.ow  how  much  piety  and  vir- 
tue surpass  all  external  goods,  might  here  have 
seen  them  weighed  against  each  other,  where  all 
that  gives  motion  to  the  active,  and  elevation  to 
the  eminent,  all  that  sparkles  in  the  eye  of  hope, 
and  pants  in  the  bosom  of  suspicion,  at  once  be- 
came dust  in  the  balance,  without  weight  and 
without  regard.  Riches,  authority,  and  praise, 
lose  all  their  influence  when  they  are  considered 
as  riches  which  to-morrow  shall  be  bestowed 


upon  another,  authority  which  shall  this  night 
expire  for  ever,  and  praise  which,  however  merit- 
ed, or  however  sincere,  shall,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, be  heard  no  more. 

In  those  hours  of  seriousness  and  wisdom,  no- 
thing appeared  to  raise  his  spirits,  or  gladden  his 
heart,  but  the  recollection  of  acts  of  goodness ; 
nor  to  excite  his  attention,  but  some  opportunity 
for  the  exercise  of  the  duties  of  religion.  Every 
thing  that  terminated  on  this  side  of  the  grave 
was  received  with  coldness  and  indifference,  and 
regarded  rather  in  consequence  of  the  habit  of 
valuing  it,  than  from  any  opinion  that  it  deserved 
value;  it  had  little  more  prevalence  over  his 
mind  than  a  bubble  that  was  now  broken,  a 
dream  from  which  he  was  awake.  His  whole 
powers  were  engrossed  by  the  consideration  of 
another  state,  and  all  conversation  was  tedious, 
that  had  not  some  tendency  to  disengage  him 
from  human  affairs,  and  open  his  prospects  into 
futurity. 

It  is  now  past ;  we  have  closed  his  eyes,  and 
heard  him  breathe  the  groan  of  expiration.  At 
the  sight  of  this  last  conflict,  I  felt  a  sensation 
never  known  to  me  before ;  a  confusion  of  pas- 
sions, an  awful  stillness  of  sorrow,  a  gloomy  ter- 
ror without  a  name.  The  thoughts  that  entered 
my  soul  were  too  strong  to  be  diverted,  and  too 
piercing  to  be  endured ;  but  such  violence  can- 
not be  lasting,  the  storm  subsided  in  a  short  timr*, 
I  wept,  retired,  and  grew  calm. 

I  have  from  that  time  frequently  revolved  in 
my  mind  the  effects  which  the  observation  of 
death  produces,  in  those  who  are  not  wholly 
without  the  power  and  use  of  reflection  ;  for  by 
far  the  greater  part  it  is  wholly  unregarded. 
Their  friends  and  their  enemies  sink  into  the 
grave  without  raising  any  uncommon  emotion, 
or  reminding  them  that  they  are  themselves  on 
the  edge  of  the  precipice,  and  that  they  must 
soon  plunge  into  the  gulf  of  eternity. 

It  seems  to  me  remarkable  that  death  increases 
our  veneration  for  the  good,  and  extenuates  our 
hatred  of  the  bad.  Those  virtues  which  once  we 
envied,  as  Horace  observes,because  they  eclipsed 
our  own,  can  now  no  longer  obstruct  our  reputa- 
tion, and  we  have  therefore  no  interest  to  sup 
press  their  praise.  That  wickedness,  which  we 
feared  for  its  malignity,  is  'now  become  impo- 
tent, and  the  man  whose  name  filled  us  with 
alarm,  and  rage,  and  indignation,  can  at  last  be 
considered  only  with  pity  or  contempt. 

When  a  friend  is  carried  to  his  grave,  we  at 
once  find  excuses  for  every  weakness,  and  palli 
ations  of  every  fault ;  we  recollf.-ct  a  thousand  en 
dearments,  which  before  glided  ofF  our  minds 
without  impression,  a  thousand  favours  unrc- 
paid,  a  thousand  duties  unperformed,  and  wish, 
vainly  wish,  for  his  return,  not  so  much  that  we 
may  receive,  as  that  we  may  bestow,  happiness, 
and  recompense  that  kindness  which  before  we 
never  understood. 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  to  a  mind  woll  instruct- 
ed, a  more  painful  occurrence  than  the  death  of 
one  whom  we  have  injured  without  reparation. 
Our  crime  seems  now  irretrievable,  it  is  indelibly 
recorded,  and  the  stamp  of  fate  is  fixed  upon  it. 
We  consider,  with  the  most  afflictive  anguish, 
the  pain  which  we  have  given,  and  now  cannot 
alleviate,  and  the  losses  which  we  have  caused, 
and  now  cannot  repair. 

Of  the  same  kind  are  the  emotions  which  the 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  55. 


death  of  an  emulator  or  competitor  produces. 
Whoci-tr  had  qualities  to  alarm  our  jealousy, 
had  excellence  to  deserve  our  fondness  ;  and  to 
whatever  ardour  of  opposition  interest  may  in- 
flame us,  no  mnn  ever  outlived  an  enemy,  whom 
he  did  not  then  wish  to  have  made  a  friend. 
Those  who  are  versed  in  literary  history  know, 
that  the  elder  Scaliger  was  the  redoubted  antago- 
nist of  Cardan  and  Erasmus  ;  yet  at  the  death  of 
each  of  his  great  rivals  he  relented,  and  complain- 
ed that  they  were  snatched  away  from  him  before 
their  reconciliation  was  completed. 

Tune  etiam  mortem  ?  Ah !  quid  me  linqvis,  Erasme, 
Ante  meut  quam  sit  conciliate  amor  ? 

Art  thou  too  fallen 1  ere  anger  could  subside 
And  love  return,  has  great  Ercsmus  died  ? 

Such  are  the  sentiments  with  which  we  finally 
review  the  effects  of  passion,  but  which  we  some- 
times delay  till  we  can  no  longer  rectify  our  erT 
rors.  Let  us  therefore  make  haste  to  do  what 
we  shall  certainly  at  last  wish  to  have  done ;  let 
as  return  the  caresses  of  our  friends,  and  endea- 
vour by  mutual  endearments  to  heighten  that 
tenderness  which  is  the  balm  of  life.  Let  us  be 
quick  to  repent  of  injuries  while  repentance  may 
not  be  a  barren  anguish,  and  let  us  open  our  eyes 
to  every  rival  excellence,  and  pay  eaily  and  will- 
ingly those  honours  which  justice  will  compel  us 
to  pay  at  last. 

ATHANATUS. 


No.  55.]        TUESDAY,  SEPT.  25,  1750. 

Mature  propior  desinefuneri 

Inter  ludcrc  virgines, 
Et  stellis  ncbulam  spargere  candidia : 

Aon  fiquid  Pholoen  satis 
Et  te,  Cklori,  decet. 

Now  near  to  death  that  comes  but  slow, 
Now  thou  art  stepping  down  below; 
Sport  not  amongst  the  blooming  maids, 
But  think  on  ghosts  and  empty  shades: 
What  suits  with  Pholoe  in  her  bloom, 
Gray  Chloris,  will  not  thee  become ; 
A  bed  is  different  from  a  tomb. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


1  HAVE  been  but  a  little  time  conversant  in  the 
wond,  yet  I  have  already  had  frequent  oppor- 
tunities of  observing  the  little  efficacy  of  remon- 
strance and  complaint,  which,  however  extorted 
by  oppression,  or  supported  by  reason,  are  de- 
tested by  one  part  of  the  world  as  rebellion,  cen- 
sured by  another  as  peevishness,  by  some  heard 
with  an  appearance  of  compassion,  only  to  be- 
tray any  of  those  sallies  of  vehemence  and  re- 
sentment, which  are  apt  to  break  out  upon  en- 
couragement, and  by  others  passed  over  with  in- 
difference and  neglect,  as  matters  in  which  they 
have  no  concern,  and  which,  if  they  should  endea- 
vour to  examine  or  regulate,  they  might  draw 
mischief  upon  themselves. 

Yet  since  it  is  no  less  natural  for  those  who 
think  themselves  injured  to  complain,  than  for 
others  to  neglect  their  complaints,  I  shall  venture 
to  lay  my  case  before  you,  in  hopes  that  you  will 
enforce  my  opinion,  if  you  think  it  just,  or  endea- 
vour to  rectify  my  sentiments,  if  I  am  mistaken 


[  expect,  at  least  that  you  will  divest  yourself  of 
sartiality,  and  that  whatever  your  age  or  solemni- 
;y  may  be,  you  will  not,  with  the  dotard's  inso- 
ence,  pronounce  me  ignorant  and  foolish,  per- 
verse and  refractory,  only  because  you  perceive 
:hat  I  am  young. 

My  father  dying  when  I  was  but  ten  years  old, 
eft  me,  and  a  brother  two  years  younger  than 
myself,  to  the  care  of  my  mother,  a  woman  of 
)irth  and  education,  whose  prudence  or  virtue  he 
lad  no  reason  to  distrust.  She  felt,  for  some 
.ime,  all  the  sorrow  which  nature  calls  forth,  upon 
he  final  separation  of  persons  dear  to  one  ano- 
,her ;  and  as  her  grief  was  exhausted  by  its  own 
violence,  it  subsided  into  tenderness  for  me  and 
my  brother,  and  the  year  of  mourning  was  spent 
n  caresses,  consolations,  and  instruction,  in  cele- 
>ration  of  my  father's  virtues,  in  professions  of 
jerpetual  regard  to  his  memory,  and  hourly  in- 
stances of  such  fondness  as  gratitude  will  not 
easily  suffer  me  to  forget. 

But  when  the  term  of  this  mournful  felicity  waa 
expired,  and  my  mother  appeared  again  without 
he  ensigns  of  sorrow,  the  ladies  of  her  acquaint- 
ance began  to  tell  her,  upon  whatever  motives, 
that  it  was  time  to  live  like  the  rest  of  the  world ; 
a  powerful  argument,  which  is  seldom  used  to  a 
woman  without  effect.  Lady  Giddy  was  inces- 
santly relating  the  occurrences  of  the  town,  and 
Vlrs.  Gravely  told  her  privately,  with  great  ten 
derness,  that  it  began  to  be  publicly  observed  how 
much  she  overacted  her  part,  and  that  most  of 
ier  acquaintance  suspected  her  hope  of  procur- 
ng  another  husband  to  be  the  true  ground  of  all 
;hat  appearance  of  tenderness  and  piety. 

All  the  officiousness  of  kindness  and  folly  waa 
msied  to  change  her  conduct.  She  was  at  one 
time  alarmed  with  censure,  and  at  another  fired 
with  praise.  She  was  told  of  balls,  where  others 
shone  only  because  she  was  absent;  of  new 
comedies,  to  which  all  the  town  was  crowding ; 
and  of  many  ingenious  ironies,  by  which  domes- 
tic diligence,  was  made  contemptible. 

It  is  difficult  for  virtue  to  stand  alone  against 
Tear  on  one  side,  and  pleasure  on  the  other; 
especially  when  no  actual  crime  is  proposed,  and 
prudence  itself  can  suggest  many  reasons  for  re- 
axatiori  and  indulgence.  My  mamma  was  at 
!ast  persuaded  to  accompany  Miss  Giddy  to  a 
play.  She  was  received  with  a  boundless  pro- 
fusion of  compliments,  and  attended  home  by  a 
very  fine  gentleman.  Next  day  she  was  with  less 
difficulty  prevailed  on  to  play  at  Mrs.  Gravely's, 
and  came  home  gay  and  lively ;  for  the  distinc- 
tions that  had  been  paid  her  awakened  her  vani- 
ty, and  good  luck  had  kept  her  principles  of  fru- 
gality from  giving  her  disturbance.  She  now 
made  her  second  entrance  into  the  world,  and 
her  friends  were  sufficiently  industrious  to  pre- 
vent any  return  to  her  former  life ;  every  morning 
brought  messages  of  invitation,  and  every  even- 
ing was  passed  in  places  of  diversion,  from  which 
she  for  some  time  complained  that  she  had  rather 
be  absent.  In  a  short  time  she  began  to  feel  the 
happiness  of  acting  without  control,  of  being  un- 
accountable for  her  hours,  her  expenses,  and  her 
company;  and  learned  by  degrees  to  drop  an 
expression  of  contempt,  or  pity,  at  the  mention 
of  ladies  whose  husbands  were  suspected  of  re- 
straining their  pleasures,  or  their  play,  and  con- 
fessed that  she  loved  to  go  and  come  as  she  pleased 
I  was  still  favoured  with  some  incidental  pre 


No.  56.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


95 


cepts  and  transient  endearments,  and  was  now 
and  then  fondly  kissed  for  smiling  like  my  papa : 
but  most  part  of  her  morning  was  spent  in  com- 
paring the  opinion  of  her  maid  and  milliner,  con- 
triving some  variation  in  her  dress,  visiting  shops, 
and  sending  compliments ;  and  the  rest  of  the 
day  was  too  short  for  visits,  cards,  plays,  and 
concerts. 

She  now  began  to  discover  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  educate  children  properly  at  home.  Pa- 
rents could  not  have  them  always  in  their  sight ; 
the  society  of  servants  was  contagious;  company 
produced  boldness  and  spirit;  emulation  excited 
industry ;  and  a  large  school  was  naturally  the 
first  step  into  the  open  world.  A  thousand  other 
reasons  she  alleged,  some  of  little  force  in  them- 
selves, but  so  well  seconded  by  pleasure,  vanity, 
and  idleness,  that  they  soon  overcame  all  the  re- 
maining principles  of  kindness  and  piety,  and 
both  I  and  my  brother  were  despatched  to  board- 
ing schools. 

How  my  mamma  spent  her  time  when  she  was 
thus  disburdened  I  am  not  able  to  inform  you, 
but  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  trifles  and  amuse- 
ments took  still  faster  hold  of  her  heaft.  At 
first,  she  visited  me  at  school,  and  afterwards 
wrote  to  rne ;  but,  in  a  short  time,  both  her  visits 
and  her  letters  were  at  an  end,  and  no  other  no- 
tice was  taken  of  me  than  to  remit  money  for  my 
support. 

When  I  came  home  at  the  vacation,  I  found 
myself  coldly  received,  with  an  observation,  "that 
this  girl  will  presently  be  a  woman."  I  was, 
after  the  usual  stay,  sent  to  school  again,  and 
overheard  my  mother  say,  as  I  was  a-going, 
"Well,  now  I  shall  recover.'' 

In  six  months  more  I  came  again,  and  with 
the  usual  childish  alacrity,  was  running  to  my 
mother's  embrace,  when  she  stopped  me  with  ex- 
clamations at  the  suddenness  and  enormity  of  my 
growth,  having,  she  said,  never  seen  any  body 
shoot  up  so  much  at.  my  age.  She  was  sure  no 
other  girls  spread  at  that  rate,  and  she  hated  to 
have  children  to  look  like  women  before  their 
time.  I  was  disconcerted,  and  retired  without 
hearing  any  thing  more  than,  "Nay,  if  you  are 
angry,  Madam  Steeple,  you  may  walk  off." 

When  once  the  forms  of  civility  are  violated, 
there  remains  little  hope  of  return  to  kindness  or 
decency.  My  mamma  made  this  appearance  of 
resentment  a  reason  for  continuing  her  maligni- 
ty ;  and  poor  Miss  Maypole,  for  that  was  my  ap- 
pellation, was  never  mentioned  or  spoken  to  but 
with  some  expression  of  anger  or  dislike. 

She  had  yet  the  pleasure  of  dressing  me  like  a 
child,  and  I  know  not  when  I  should  have  been 
thought  fit  to  change  my  habit,  had  I  not  been 
rescued  by  a  maiden  sister  of  my  father,  who 
could  not  bear  to  see  women  in  hanging  sleeves, 
and  therefore  presented  me  with  brocade  for  a 
gown,  for  which  I  should  have  thought  myself 
under  great  obligations,  had  she  not  accompa- 
nied her  favour  with  some  hints  that  my  mamma 
might  now  consider  her  age,  and  give  me  her 
ear-rings,  which  she  had  shown  long  enough  in 
public  places. 

I  nov,-  left  the  school,  and  came  to  live  with  my 
mamma,  who  ?onsidered  me  as  a  usurper  that 
had  seized  the  rights  of  a  woman  before  they 
were  due,  and  was  pushing  down  the  precipice 
of  age,  that  I  might  reign  without  a  superior. 
While  I  am  thus  beheld  with  jealousy  and  sus- 


picion, you  will  readily  believe  that  it  is  difficult 
to  please.  Every  word  and  look  is  an  offence. 
I  never  speak,  but  I  pretend  to  some  qualities 
and  excellences,  which  it  is  criminal  to  possess ; 
if  I  am  gay,  she  thinks  it  early  enough  to  co- 
quette ;  if  I  am  grave,  she  hates  a  prude  in  bibs; 
if  I  venture  into  company,  I  am  in  haste  for  a 
husband ;  if  I  retire  to  my  chamber,  such  matron- 
like  ladies  are  lovers  of  contemplation.  I  am  on 
one  pretence  or  other  generally  excluded  from 
her  assemblies,  nor  am  I  ever  suffered  to  visit  at 
the  same  place  with  my  mamma.  Every  one 
wonders  why  she  does  not  bring  Miss  more  into 
the  world,  and  when  she  comes  home  in  vapours, 
I  am  certain  that  she  has  heard  either  of  my 
beauty  or  my  wit,  and  expect  nothing  for  the  en- 
suing week  but  taunts  and  menaces,  contradic- 
tion and  reproaches. 

Thus  I  live  in  a  state  of  continual  persecution, 
only  because  I  was  born  ten  years  too  soon,  and 
cannot  stop  the  course  of  nature  or  of  time,  but 
am  unhappily  a  woman  before  my  mother  can 
willingly  cease  to  be  a  girl.  I  believe  you  would 
contribute  to  the  happiness  of  many  families,  it, 
by  any  arguments  or  persuasions,  you  could 
make  mothers  ashamed  of  rivalling  their  children ; 
if  you  could  show  them,  that  though  they  may  re- 
fuse to  grow  wise,  they  must  inevitably  grow  old ; 
and  that  the  proper  solaces  of  age  are  not  music 
and  compliments,  but  wisdom  and  devotion; 
that  those  who  are  so  unwilling  to  quit  the  world 
will  soon  be  driven  from  it ;  and  that  it  is  there- 
fore their  interest  to  retire  while  there  yet  remain 
a  few  hours  for  nobler  employments. 

I  am,  &c. 


No.  56.]      SATURDAY,  SEPT.  29,  1750. 

Valtat  res  ludicra,  si  me 

Palma  negata  macrum,  donata  redueit  opimum. 

HOR 

Farewell  the  stage  ;  for  humbly  I  disclaim 

Such  fond  pursuits  of  pleasure,  or  of  fame, 

If  I  must  sink  in  shame,  or  swell  with  pride, 

As  the  gay  palm  is  granted  or  denied.  FRANCIS 

NOTHING  is  more  unpleasing  than  to  find  that 
offence  has  been  received  when  none  was  intend 
ed,  and  that  pain  has  been  given  to  those  who 
were  not  guilty  of  any  provocation.  As  the  great 
end  of  society  is  mutual  beneficence,  a  good  man 
is  always  uneasy  when  he  finds  himself  acting  in 
opposition  to  the  purposes  of  life ;  because,  though 
his  conscience  may  easily  acquit  him  of  malice 
prepense,  of  settled  hatred  or  contrivances  of  mis- 
chief, yet  he  seldom  can  be  certain,  that  he  has 
not  failed  by  negligence  or  indolence ;  that  he 
has  not  been  hindered  from  consulting  the  com- 
mon interest  by  too  much  regard  to  his  own  ease, 
or  too  much  indifference  to  the  happiness  of 
others. 

Nor  is  it  necessary,  that,  to  feel  this  uneasiness, 
the  mind  should  be  extended  to  any  great  dif- 
fusion of  generosity,  or  melted  by  uncommon 
warmth  of  benevolence ;  for  that  prudence  which 
the  world  teaches,  and  a  quick  sensibility  of  pri- 
vate interest,  will  direct  us  to  shun  needless  en- 
mities ;  since  there  is  no  man  whose  kindness  we 
may  not  some  time  want,  or  by  whose  malice  we 
may  not  some  time  suffer. 

I  have  therefore  frequently  looked  with  won- 


96 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  56. 


der,  and  now  and  then  with  pity,  at  the  thought- 
lessness with  which  some  alienate  from  them- 
selves the  affections  of  all  whom  chance,  busi- 
ness, or  inclination,  brings  in  their  way.  When 
we  sec  a  man  pursuing  some  darling  interest, 
without  much  regard  to  the  opinion  of  the  world, 
we  justly  consider  him  as  corrupt  and  danger- 
ous, but  are  not  long  in  discovering  his  motives ; 
we  see  him  actuated  by  passions  which  are  hard 
to  be  resisted,  and  deluded  by  appearances  which 
have  dazzled  stronger  eyes.  But  the  greater  part 
of  those  who  set  mankind  at  defiance  by  hourly 
irritation,  and  who  live  but  to  infuse  malignity, 
and  multiply  enemies,  have  no  hopes  to  foster, 
no  designs  to  promote,  nor  any  expectations  of 
attaining  power  by  insolence,  or  of  climbing  to 
greatness  by  trampling  on  others.  They  give  up 
all  the  sweets  of  kindness,  for  the  sake  of  pee- 
vishness, petulance,  or  gloom ;  and  alienate  the 
world  by  neglect  of  the  common  forms  of  civili- 
ty, and  breach  of  the  established  laws  of  conver- 
sation. 

Every  one  must,  in  the  walks  of  life,  have  met 
with  men  of  whom  all  speak  with  censure,  though 
they  are  not  chargeable  with  any  crime,  and 
whom  none  can  be  persuaded  to  love,  though  a 
reason  can  scarcely  be  assigned  why  they  should 
be  hated  ;  and  who,  if  their  good  qualities  and 
actions  sometimes  force  a  commendation,  have 
their  panegyric  always  concluded  with  confes- 
sions of  disgust ;  "  he  is  a  good  man,  but  I  cannot 
like  him."  Surely  such  persons  have  sold  the 
esteem  of  the  world  at  too  low  a  price,  since  they 
have  lost  one  of  the  rewards  of  virtue,  without 
gaining  the  profits  of  wickedness. 

This  ill  economy  of  fame  is  sometimes  the  ef- 
fect of  stupidity :  men  whose  perceptions  are 
languid  and  sluggish,  who  lament  nothing  but 
loss  of  money,  and  feel  nothing  but  a  blow,  are 
often  at  a  difficulty  to  guess  why  they  are  encom- 
passed with  enemies,  though  they  neglect  all 
those  arts  by  which  men  are  endeared  to  one  an- 
other. They  comfort  themselves  that  they  have 
lived  irreproachably ;  that  none  can  charge  them 
with  having  endangered  his  life,  or  diminished 
his  possessions ;  and  therefore  conclude  that  they 
suffer  by  some  invincible  fatality,  or  impute  the 
malice  of  their  neighbours  to  ignorance  or  envy. 
They  wrap  themselves  up  in  their  innocence,  and 
enjoy  the  congratulations  of  their  own  hearts, 
without  knowing  or  suspecting  that  they  are 
every  day  deservedly  incurring  resentments,  by 
withholding  from  those  with  whom  they  con- 
verse, that  regard,  or  appearance  of  regard,  to 
which  every  one  is  entitled  by  the  customs  of  the 
world. 

There  are  many  injuries  which  almost  every 
man  feels,  though  he  does  not  complain,  and 
which,  upon  those  whom  virtue,  elegance,  or  va- 
nity, have  made  delicate  and  tender,  fix  deep  and 
lasting  impressions;  as  there  are  many  arts  of 
graciotisness  and  conciliation,  which  are  to  be 
practised  without  expense,  and  by  which  those 
may  be  made  our  friends,  who  have  never  receiv- 
ed from  us  any  real  benefit  Such  arts,  when 
they  include  neither  guilt  nor  meanness,  it  is  sure- 
ly reasonable  to  learn,  for  who  would  want  that 
love  which  is  so  easily  to  be  gained  ?  And  such 
injuries  are  to  be  avoided ;  for  who  would  be 
hated  without  profit ! 

Some,  indeed,  there  are,  for  whom  the  excuse 
of  ignorance  or  negligence  cannot  be  alleged,  be- 


;ause  it  is  apparent  that  they  are  not  only  care- 
less of  pleasiiig,  but  studious  to  offend  ;  that  they 
contrive  to  make  all  approaches  to  them  difficult 
and  vexatious,  and  imagine  that  they  aggrandize 
themselves  by  wasting  the  time  of  others  in  use 
.ess  attendance,  by  mortifying  them  with  slights, 
and  teasing  them  with  affronts. 

Men  of  this  kind  are  generally  to  be  found 
among  those  that  have  not  mingled  much  in  gene- 
•al  conversation,  but  spent  their  lives  amidst  the 
obsequiousness  of  dependents,  and  the  flattery 
of  parasites ;  and  by  long  consulting  only  their 
own  inclination,  have  forgotten  that  others  have 
:laim  to  the  same  deference. 

Tyranny  thus  avowed  is  indeed  an  exuberance 
of  pride,  by  which  all  mankind  is  so  much  en- 
raged, that  it  is  never  quietly  endured,  except  in 
hose  who  can  reward  the  patience  which  they 
;xact ;  and  insolence  is  generally  surrounded 
only  by  such  whose  baseness  inclines  them  to 
think  nothing  insupportable  that  produces  gain, 
and  who  can  laugh  at  scurrility  and  rudeness 
with  a  luxurious  table  and  an  open  purse. 

But  though  all  wanton  provocations  and  con 
temptuous  insolence  are  to  be  diligently  avoided, 
there  is  no  less  danger  in  timid  compliance  and 
tame  resignation.  It  is  common  for  soft  and  fear 
ful  tempers  to  give  themselves  up  implicitly  to 
the  direction  of  the  bold,  the  turbulent,  and  the 
overbearing ;  of  those  whom  they  do  not  believe 
wiser  or  better  than  themselves ;  to  recede  from 
the  best  designs  where  opposition  must  be  en- 
countered, and  to  fall  off  from  virtue  for  fear  of 
censure. 

Some  firmness  and  resolution  is  necessary  to 
the  discharge  of  duty ;  but  it  is  a  very  unhappy 
state  of  life  in  which  the  necessity  of  such  strug- 
gles frequently  occurs ;  for  no  man  is  defeated 
without  some  resentment,  which  will  be  continu- 
ed with  obstinacy  while  he  believes  himself  in 
the  right,  and  exerted  with  bitterness,  if  even  to 
his  own  conviction  he  is  detected  in  the  wrong. 

Even  though  no  regard  be  had  to  the  external 
consequences  of  contrariety  and  dispute,  it  must 
be  painful  to  a  worthy  mind  to  put  others  in  pain, 
and  there  will  be  danger  lest  the  kindest  nature 
may  be  vitiated  by  too  long  a  custom  of  debate 
and  contest. 

I  am  afraid  that  I  may  be  taxed  with  insen- 
sibility by  many  of  my  correspondents,  who  be- 
lieve their  contributions  unjustly  neglected.  And, 
indeed,  when  I  sit  before  a  pile  of  papers,  of  which 
each  is  the  production  of  laborious  study,  and  tho 
offspring  of  a  fond  parent,  I,  who  know  the  pas- 
sions of  an  author,  cannot  remember  how  long 
they  have  lain  in  my  boxes  unregarded,  without 
imagining  to  myself  the  various  changes  of  sor- 
row, impatience,  and  resentment,  which  the  writ- 
ers must  have  felt  in  this  tedious  interval. 

These  reflections  are  still  more  awakened, 
when,  upon  perusal,  I  find  some  of  thorn  calling 
for  a  place  in  the  next  paper,  a  place  which  they 
have  never  yet  obtained  :  others  writing  in  a  style 
of  superiority  and  haughtiness,  as  secure  of  de- 
ference, and  above  fear  of  criticism ;  others  hum- 
bly offering  their  weak  assistance  with  softness 
and  submission,  which  they  believe  impossible  to 
be  resisted  ;  some  introducing  their  compositions 
with  a  menace  of  the  contempt  which  he  that  re 
fuses  them  will  incur;  others  applying  privately 
to  the  booksellers  for  their  interest  and  solicita- 
tion ;  every  one  by  different  ways  endeavouring 


No.  57.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


97 


to  secure  the  bliss  of  publication.  I  cannot  but 
consider  myself  as  placed  in  a  very  incommodi- 
ous situation,  where  I  am  forced  to  repress  confi- 
dence, which  it  is  pleasing  to  indulge,  to  repay 
civilities  with  appearances  of  neglect,  and  so  fre- 
quently to  offend  those  by  whom  I  never  was  of- 
fended. 

I  know  well  how  rarely  an  author,  fired  with 
the  beauties  of  his  new  composition,  contains  his 
raptures  in  his  own  bosom,  and  how  naturally  he 
imparts  to  his  friends  his  expectation  of  renown  ; 
and  as  1  can  easily  conceive  the  eagerness  with 
which  a  new  paper  is  snatched  up,  by  one  who 
expects  to  find  it  filled  with  his  own  production, 
and  perhaps  has  called  his  companions  to  share 
the  pleasure  of  a  second  perusal,  I  grieve  for  the 
disappointment  which  he  is  to  feel  at  the  fatal  in- 
spection. His  hopes,  however,  do  not  yet  for- 
sake him ;  he  is  certain  of  giving  lustre  the  next 
day.  The  next  day  comes,  and  again  he  pants 
with  expectation,  and  having  dreamed  of  laurels 
and  Parnassus,  casts  his  eyes  upon  the  barren 
page,  with  which  he  is  doomed  never  more  to  be 
delighted. 

For  such  cruelty  what  atonement  can  be  made? 
For  such  calamities  what  alleviation  can  be  found  ? 
I  am  afraid  that  the  mischief  already  done  must 
be  without  reparation,  and  all  that  deserves  my 
care  is  prevention  for  the  future.  Let  therefore 
the  next  friendly  contributor,  whoever  he  be,  ob- 
serve the  cautions  of  Swift,  and  write  secretly  in 
his  own  chamber,  without  communicating  his  de- 
sign to  his  nearest  friend,  for  the  nearest  friend 
will  be  pleased  with  an  opportunity  of  laughing. 
Let  him  carry  it  to  the  post  himself,  and  wait  in 
silence  for  the  event.  If  it  is  published  and  prais- 
ed, he  may  then  declare  himself  the  author;  if  it 
be  suppressed,  he  may  wonder  in  private  without 
much  vexation  ;  and  if  it  be  censured,  he  may 
join  in  the  cry,  and  lament  the  dulness  of  the 
writing  generation. 


No.  57.]      TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  2, 1750. 

ffon  inteUigvnt  homines  qiuim  magnum  vectigal  sitpar- 
simonia.  TCLL. 

The  world  has  not  yet  learned  the  riches  of  frugality. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


I  AM  always  pleased  when  I  see  literature  made 
useful,  and  scholars  descending  from  that  eleva- 
tion, which,  as  it  raises  them  above  common  life, 
must  likewise  hinder  them  from  beholding  the 
ways  of  men  otherwise  than  in  a  cloud  of  bus- 
tle and  confusion.  Having  lived  a  life  of  busi- 
ness, and  remarked  how  seldom  any  occurrences 
emerge  for  which  great  qualities  are  required,  I 
have  learned  the  necessity  of  regarding  little 
things ;  and  though  I  do  not  pretend  to  give  laws 
to  the  legislators  of  mankind,  or  to  limit  the  range 
of  those  powerful  minds  that  carry  light  and  heat 
through  all  the  regions  of  knowledge,  yet  I  have 
long  thought,  that  the  greatest  part  of  those  who 
lose  themselves  in  studies  by  which  I  have  not 
found  that  they  grow  much  wiser,  might,  with 
more  ad  vantage  both  to  the  public  and  themselves 
apply  their  understandings  to  domestic  arts,  and 
store  their  minds  with  axioms  of  humble  pru- 
dence and  private  economy. 
N 


Your  late  paper  on  frugality  was  very  elegant 
and  pleasing,  but  in  my  opinion,  not  sufficiently 
adapted  to  common  readers,  who  pay  little  re- 
gard to  the  music  of  periods,  the  artifice  of  con- 
nexion, or  the  arrangement  of  the  flowers  of  rhe- 
toric ;  but  require  a  few  plain  and  cogent  in  • 
structions,  which  may  sink  into  the  mind  by  their 
own  weight 

Frugality  is  so  necessary  to  the  happiness  of 
the  world,  so  beneficial  in  its  various  forms  to 
every  rank  of  men,  from  the  highest  of  human 
potentates,  to  the  lowest  labourer  or  artificer; 
and  the  miseries  which  the  neglect  of  it  produces 
are  so  numerous  and  so  grievous,  that  it  ought  to 
be  recommended  with  every  variation  of  address, 
and  adapted  to  every  class  of  understanding. 

Whether  those  who  treat  morals  as  a  science 
will  allow  frugality  to  be  numbered  among  the 
virtues,  I  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  inquire. 
For  I,  who  draw  my  opinions  from  a  careful  ob- 
servation of  the  world,  am  satisfied  with  know- 
ing what  is  abundantly  sufficient  for  practice, 
that  if  it  be  not  a  virtue,  it  is,  at  least,  a  quality, 
which  can  seldom  exist  without  some  virtues,  and 
without  which  few  virtues  can  exist.  Frugality 
may  be  termed  the  daughter  of  Prudence,  the 
sister  of  Temperance,  and  the  parent  of  Liberty. 
He  that  is  extravagant  will  quickly  become  poor, 
and  poverty  will  enforce  dependance,  and  invite 
corruption  ;  it  will  almost  always  produce  a  pas- 
sive compliance  with  the  wickedness  of  others ; 
and  there  are  few  who  do  not  learn  by  degrees  to 
practise  those  crimes  which  they  cease  to  cen- 
sure. 

If  there  are  any  who  do  not  dread  poverty  as 
dangerous  to  virtue,  yet  mankind  seem  unani- 
mous enough  in  abhorring  it  as  destructive  to 
happiness  ;  and  all  to  whom  want  is  terrible  upon 
whatever  principle,  ought  to  think  themselves 
obliged  to  learn  the  sage  maxims  of  our  parsimo- 
nious anceetors,  and  attain  the  salutary  arts  of 
contracting  expense ;  for  without  frugality  none 
can  be  rich,  and  with  it  very  few  would  be  poor. 

To  most  other  acts  of  virtue  or  exertions  ot 
wisdom,  a  concurrence  of  many  circumstances 
is  necessary,  some  previous  knowledge  must  be 
attained,  some  uncommon  gifts  of  nature  pos- 
sessed, or  some  opportunity  produced  by  an  ex- 
traordinary combination  ofthings ;  but  the  mere 
power  of  saving  what  is  already  in  our  hands, 
must  be  easy  of  acquisition  to  every  mind ;  and 
as  the  example  of  Bacon  may  show,  that  the 
highest,  intellect  cannot  safely  neglect  it,  a  thou- 
sand instances  will  every  day  prove,  that  the 
meanest  may  practise  it  with  success. 

Riches  cannot  be  within  the  reach  of  great 
numbers,  because  to  be  rich,  is  to  possess  more 
than  is  commonly  placed  in  a  single  hand ;  and, 
if .many  could  obtain  the  sum  which  now  makes 
a  man  wealthy,  the  name  of  wealth  must  then  be 
transferred  to  still  greater  accumulations.  But 
I  am  not  certain  that  it  is  equally  impossible  to 
exempt  the  lower  clasees  of  mankind  from  po- 
verty ;  because,  though  whatever  be  the  wealth 
of  the  community,  some  will  always  have  least, 
and  he  that  has  less  than  any  other  is  compara- 
tively poor  ;  yet  I  do  not  see  any  coactive  neces- 
sity that  many  should  be  without  the  indispensa- 
ble conveniences  of  life ;  but  am  sometimes  in- 
clined to  imagine,  that,  casual  calamities  excepted, 
there  might,  by  universal  prudence,  be  procured 
a  universal  exemption  from  want ;  and  that  he 


98 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  58. 


who  should  happen  to  have  least,  might  notwith- 
standing have  enough. 

But  without  entering  too  far  into  speculations 
which  I  do  not  remember  that  any  political  cal- 
culator has  attempted,  and  in  which  the  most 
perspicacious  reasoner  may  be  easily  bewildered, 
it  is  evident  that  they  to  whom  Providence  has 
allotted  no  other  care  but  of  their  own  fortune  and 
their  own  virtue,  which  make  far  the  greater  part 
of  mankind,  have  snfficient  incitements  to  per- 
sonal frugality,  since,  whatever  might  be  its  gene- 
ral effect  upon  provinces  or  nations,  by  which  it 
is  never  likely  to  be  tried,  we  know  with  certain- 
ty, that  there  is  scarcely  any  individual  entering 
the  world,  who,  by  prudent  parsimony,  may  not 
reasonably  promise  himself  a  cheerful  compe- 
tence in  the  decline  of  life. 

The  prospect  of  penury  in  age  is  so  gloomy 
and  ternfying,  that  every  man  who  looks  before 
him  must  resolve  to  avoid  it;  and  it  must  be 
avoided  generally  by  the  science  of  sparing.  For, 
though  in  every  age  there  are  some,  who  by  bold 
adventures,  or  by  favourable  accidents,  rise  sud- 
denly to  riches,  yet  it  is  dangerous  to  indulge 
hopes  of  such  rare  events  :  and  the  bulk  of  man- 
kind must  owe  their  affluence  to  small  and  gra- 
dual profits,  below  which  their  expense  must  be 
resolutely  reduced. 

You  must  not  therefore  think  me  sinking  be- 
low the  dignity  of  a  practical  philosopher,  when 
I  recommend  to  the  consideration  of  your  read- 
ers, from  the  statesman  to  the  apprentice,  a  posi- 
tion replete  with  mercantile  wisdom,  A  penny 
saved  is  two-pence  got;  which  may,  I  think,  be  ac- 
commodated to  all  conditions,  by  observing  not 
only  that  they  who  pursue  any  lucrative  employ- 
ment will  save  time  when  they  forbear  expense, 
and  that  the  time  may  be  employed  to  the  in- 
crease of  profit ;  but  that  they  who  are  above 
«uch  minute  considerations  will  find,  by  every 
victory  over  appetite  or  passion,  new  strength 
added  to  the  mind,  will  gain  the  power  of  refus- 
ing those  solicitations  by  which  the  young  and 
vivacious  are  hourly  assaulted,  and  in  time  set 
themselves  above  the  reach  of  extravagance  and 
folly. 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  inquired  by  those  who  are 
willing  rather  to  cavil  than  to  learn,  what  is  the 
just  measure  of  frugality  ?  and  when  expense, 
not  absolutely  necessary,  degenerates  into  profu- 
sion ?  To  such  questions  no  general  answer  can 
be  returned ;  since  the  liberty  of  spending,  or 
necessity  of  parsimony,  may  be  varied  without 
end,  by  different  circumstances.  It  may,  howe- 
ver, be  laid  down  as  a  rule  never  to  be  broken, 
that  a  WMIJI'S  voluntary  expense  should  not  exceed 
his  revenue.  A  maxim  so  obvious  and  incontro- 
vertible, that  the  civil  law  ranks  the  prodigal  with 
the  madman,  and  debars  them  equally  from  the 
conduct  of  their  own  affairs.  Another  precept 
arising  from  the  former,  and  indeed  included  in 
it,  is  yet  necessary  to  be  distinctly  impressed 
upon  the  warm,  the  fanciful,  and  the  brave ;  Let 
no  man  anticipate  uncertain  profits.  Let  no  man 
presume  to  spend  upon  hopes,  to  trust  his  own 
abilities  for  means  of  deliverance  from  penury,  to 
give  a  loose  to  his  present  desires,  and  leave  the 
reckoning  to  fortune  or  to  virtue. 

To  these  cautions,  which  I  suppose  are,  at 
least  among  the  graver  part  of  mankind,  undis- 
puted, I  will  add  another,  Let  no  man  squander 
against  his  inclination.  "With  this  precept  it  may 


be,  perhaps,  imagined  easy  to  comply;  yet  il 
those  whom  profusion  has  buried  in  prisons,  or 
driven  into  banishment,  were  examined,  it  would 
be  found  that  very  few  were  ruined  by  their  own 
choice,  or  purchased  pleasure  with  the  loss  of 
their  estates ;  but  that  they  suffered  themselves 
to  be  borne  away  by  the  violence  of  those  with 
whom  they  conversed,  and  yielded  reluctantly  to 
a  thousand  prodigalities,  either  from  a  trivial 
emulation  of  wealth  and  spirit,  or  a  mean  fear  of 
contempt  and  ridicule ;  an  emulation  for  the 
prize  of  folly,  or  the  dread  of  the  laugh  of  fools. 
1  am,  Sir, 

Your  humble  servant, 

SOPHRON.- 


No.  58.]     SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  6,  1750. 


-Improba 


Crescunt  divititt,  tamcn 

Curia  nescia  quid  stmptr  al/cst  rci.  IIOR. 

But,  while  in  heaps,  his  wicked  wealth  ascends, 

He  is  not  of  his  wish  possess'd  ; 
There's  something  wanting  still  to  make  him  bless'd. 

FRANCIS. 

As  the  love  of  money  has  been,  in  all  ages,  one 
of  the  passions  that  have  given  great  disturbance 
to  the  tranquillity  of  the  world,  there  is  no  topic 
more  copiously  treated  by  the  ancient  moralists 
than  the  folly  of  devoting  the  heart  to  the  accu- 
mulation of  riches.  They  who  are  acquainted 
with  these  authors  need  not  be  told  how  riches 
excite  pity,  contempt,  or  reproach,  whenever 
they  are  mentioned ;  with  what  numbers  of  ex- 
amples the  dangers  of  large  possessions  is  illus- 
trated ;  and  how  all  the  powers  of  reason  and 
eloquence  have  been  exhausted  in  endeavours  to 
eradicate  a  desire,  which  seems  to  have  en- 
trenched itself  too  strongly  in  the  mind  to  be 
driven  out,  and  which,  perhaps,  had  not  lost  its 
power,  even  over  those  who  declaimed  against 
it,  but  would  have  broken  out  in  the  poet  or  the 
sage,  if  it  had  been  excited  by  opportunity,  and 
invigorated  by  the  approximation  of  its  proper 
object. 

Their  arguments  have  been,  indeed,  so  unsuc- 
cessful, that  I  know  not  whether  it  can  be  shown, 
that  by  all  the  wit  and  reason  which  this  favour- 
ite cause  has  called  forth,  a  single  convert  was 
ever  made  ;  that  even  one  man  has  refused  to  be 
rich,  when  to  be  rich  was  in  his  power,  from  the 
conviction  of  the  greater  happiness  of  a  narrow 
fortune  ;  or  disburdened  himself  of  wealth  when 
he  had  tried  its  inquietudes,  merely  to  enjoy  the 
peace  and  leisure  and  security  of  a  mean  and  un- 
envied  state. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  many  have  neglected 
opportunities  of  raising  themselves  to  honours 
and  to  wealth,  and  rejected  the  kindest  offers  of 
fortune ;  but  however  their  moderation  may  be 
boasted  by  themselves,  or  admired  by  such  as 
only  view  them  at  a  distance,  it  will  be,  perhaps, 
seldom  found  that  they  value  riches  less,  but  that 
they  dread  labour  or  danger  more  than  others ; 
they  are  unable  to  rouse  themselves  to  action,  to 
strain  the  race  of  competition,  or  to  stand  the 
shock  of  contest;  but  though  they,  therefore, 
decline  the  toil  of  climbing,  they  nevertheless 
wish  themselves  aloft,  and  would  willingly  enio-v 
what  they  dare  not  seize. 


No.  59.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


99 


Others  have  retired  from  high  stations,  and  vo- 
luntarily condemned  themselves  to  privacy  and 
obscurity.  But  even  these  will  not  afford  many 
occasions  of  triumph  to  the  philosopher ;  for  they 
have  commonly  either  quitted  that  only  which  they 
thought  themselves  unable  to  hold,  and  prevented 
disgrace  by  resignation ;  or  they  have  been  in- 
duced to  try  new  measures  by  general  incon- 
stancy, which  always  dreams  of  happiness  in 
novelty,  or  by  a  gloomy  disposition,  which  is  dis- 
gusted in  the  same  degree  with  every  state,  and 
wishes  every  scene  of  life  to  change  as  soon  as 
it  is  beheld.  Such  men  found  high  and  low 
stations  equally  unable  to  satisfy  the  wishes  of  a 
distempered  mind,  and  were  unable  to  shelter 
themselves  in  the  closest  retreat  from  disappoint- 
ment, solicitude,  and  misery. 

Yet  though  these  admonitions  have  been  thus 
neglected  by  those,  who  either  enjoyed  riches,  or 
were  able  to  procure  them,  it  is  not  rashly  to  be 
determined  that  they  are  altogether  without  use  ; 
for  since  far  the  greatest  part  of  mankind  must  be 
confined  to  conditions  comparatively  mean,  and 
placed  in  situations  from  which  they  naturally 
look  up  with  envy  to  the  eminences  before  them, 
those  writers  cannot  be  thought  ill  employed  that 
have  administered  remedies  to  discontent  almost 
universal,  by  showing,  that  what  we  cannot  reach 
may  very  well  be  forborne,  that  the  inequality  of 
distribution,  at  which  we  murmur,  is  for  the  most 
part  less  than  it  seems,  and  that  the  greatness, 
which  we  admire  at  a  distance,  has  much  fewer 
advantages,  and  much  less  splendour,  when  we 
are  suffered  to  approach  it. 

It  is  the  business  of  moralists  to  detect  the 
frauds  of  fortune,  and  to  show  that  she  imposes 
upon  the  careless  eye,  by  a  quick  succession  of 
shadows,  which  will  shrink  to  nothing  in  the 
gripe :  that  she  disguises  life  in  extrinsic  orna- 
ments, which  serve  only  for  show,  and  are  laid 
aside  in  the  hours  of  solitude,  and  of  pleasure; 
and  that  when  greatness  aspires  either  to  felicity 
or  to  wisdom,  it  shakes  off  those  distinctions 
which  dazzle  the  gazer,  and  awe  the  supplicant. 

It  may  be  remarked,  that  they  whose  condition 
has  not  afforded  them  the  light  of  moral  or  reli- 
gious instruction,  and  who  collect  all  their  ideas 
by  their  own  eyes,  and  digest  them  by  their  own 
understandings,  seem  to  consider  those  who  are 
placed  in  ranks  of  remote  superiority,  as  almost 
another  and  higher  species  of  beings.  As  them- 
selves have  known  little  other  misery  than  the 
consequences  of  want,  they  are  with  difficulty  per- 
suaded that  where  there  is  wealth  there  can  be 
sorrow,  or  that  those  who  glitter  in  dignity,  and 
glide  along  in  affluence,  can  be  acquainted  with 
pains  and  cares  like  those  which  lie  heavy  upon 
the  rest  of  mankind. 

This  prejudice  is,  indeed,  confined  to  the  low- 
est meanness,  and  the  darkest  ignorance ;  but  it  is 
so  confined  only  because  others  have  been  shown 
its  folly,  and  its  falsehood,  because  it  has  been 
opposed  in  its  progress  by  history  and  philosophy, 
and  hindered  from  spreading  its  infection  by  pow- 
erful preservatives. 

The  doctrine  of  the  contempt  of  wealth, 
though  it  has  not  been  able  to  extinguish  avarice 
or  ambition,  or  suppress  that  reluctance  with 
which  a  man  passes  his  days  in  a  state  of  inferi- 
ority, must,  at  least,  have  made  the  lower  condi- 
tions less  grating  and  wearisome,  and  has  conse- 
quently contributed  to  the  general  security  of 


life,  by  hindering  that  fraud  and  violence,  rapine 
and  circumvention,  which  must  have  been  pro- 
duced by  an  unbounded  eagerness  of  wealth, 
arising  from  an  unshaken  conviction  that  to  be 
rich  is  to  be  happy. 

Whoever  finds  himself  incited,  by  some  vio  • 
lent  impulse  of  passion,  to  pursue  riches  as  thf 
chief  end  of  being,  must  surely  be  so  much  alarm  • 
ed  by  the  successive  admonitions  of  those  whoso 
experience  and  sagacity  have  recommended  them 
as  the  guides  of  mankind,  as  to  stop  and  consider 
whether  he  is  about  to  engage  in  an  undertaking 
that  will  reward  his  toil,  and  to  examine,  before 
he  rushes  to  wealth,  through  right  and  wrong, 
what  it  will  confer  when  he  has  acquired  it;  and 
his  examination  will  seldom  fail  to  repress  his 
ardour,  and  retard  his  violence. 

Wealth  is  nothing  in  itself,  it  is  not  useful  but 
when  it  departs  from  us ;  its  value  is  found  only 
in  that  which  it  can  purchase,  which,  if  we  sup- 
pose it  put  to  its  best  use  by  those  that  possess 
it,  seems  not  much  to  deserve  the  desire  or  envy 
of  a  wise  man.  It  is  certain  that,  with  regard  to 
corporeal  enjoyment,  money  can  neither  open 
new  avenues  to  pleasure,  nor  block  up  the  pas- 
sages of  anguish. 

Disease  and  infirmity  still  continue  to  torture 
and  enfeeble,  perhaps  exasperated  by  luxury,  or 
promoted  by  softness.  With  respect  to  the  mind, 
it  has  rarely  been  observed,  that  wealth  contri- 
butes much  to  quicken  the  discernment,  enlarge 
the  capacity,  or  elevate  the  imagination;  but  may, 
by  hiring  flattery,  or  laying  diligence  asleep,  con- 
firm error  and  harden  stupidity. 

Wealth  cannot  confer  greatness,  for  nothing 
can  make  that  great,  which  the  decree  of  nature 
has  ordained  to  be  little.  The  bramble  may  be 
placed  in  a  hot-bed,  but  can  never  become  an  oak. 
Even  rovalty  itself  is  not  able  to  give  that  dignity 
which  it  happens  not  to  find,  but  oppresses  feeble 
minds,  though  it  may  elevate  the  strong.  The 
world  has  been  governed  in  the  name  of  kings, 
whose  existence  has  scarcely  been  perceived  by 
any  real  effects  beyond  their  own  palaces. 

When  therefore  the  desire  of  wealth  is  taking 
hold  of  the  heart,  let  us  look  round  and  see  how 
it  operates  upon  those  whose  industry  or  fortune 
has  obtained  it.  When  we  find  them  oppressed 
with  their  own  abundance,  luxurious  without 
pleasure,  idle  without  ease,  impatient  and  queru- 
lous in  themselves,  and  despised  or  hated  by  the 
rest  of  mankind,  we  shall  soon  be  convinced,  that 
if  the  real  wants  of  our  condition  are  satisfied, 
there  remains  little  to  be  sought  with  solicitude, 
or  desired  with  eagerness. 


No.  59.]    TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  9, 1750. 

Eit  aliqnid,fatale  malum  per  verba  levare  : 
Hoc  querulam  Prognen  Halcyonenque  facit. 

Hoc  erat  in  snlo  quare  Ptzantius  antro 
Voce  faligarr.t  Lr.mnia  saxa  sua. 

Strangtilat  inclusus  dolor,  atque  exastuat  intus  : 
Cogitur  et  vires  multiplicare  suas.  OVID 

Complaining  oft  gives  respite  to  our  grief; 
From  hence  the  wretched  Progne  sought  relief; 
Hence  the  Poenntian  chief  his  fate,  deplores, 
And  vents  his  sorrow  to  the  Lemniaii  shores  : 
In  vain  by  secrecy  he  would  assuage 
Our  cares  ;  conceal'd  they  gather  tenfold  rage. 

F.  LEWIS 


100 


THE  RAMBLER. 


0. 


t  is  common  to  distinguish  men  by  the  names 
of  animals  which  they  are  supposed  to  resemble. 
Thus  a  hero  is  frequently  termed  a  lion,  and  a 
statesman  a  fox,  an  extortioner  gains  the  appella- 
tion of  vulture,  and  a  fop  the  title  of  monkey. 
There  is  also  among  the  various  anomalies  of 
character,  which  a  survey  of  the  world  exhibits, 
a  species  of  beings  in  human  form,  which  may 
be  properly  marked  out  as  the  screech-owls  of 
mankind. 

These  screech-owls  seem  to  be  settled  in  an 
opinion  that  the  great  business  of  life  is  to  com- 
plain, and  that  they  were  born  for  no  other  pur- 
pose than  to  disturb  the  happiness  of  others,  to 
lessen  the  little  comforts,  and  shorten  the  short 
pleasures  of  our  condition,  by  painful  remem- 
brances of  the  past,  or  melancholy  prognostics  of 
the  future ;  their  only  care  is  to  crush  the  rising 
hope,  to  damp  the  kindling  transport,  and  allay 
the  golden  hours  of  gayety  with  the  hateful  dross 
of  grief  and  suspicion. 

To  those  whose  weakness  of  spirits,  or  timidity 
of  temper,  subjects  them  to  impressions  from 
others,  and  who  are  apt  to  suffer  by  fascination, 
and  catch  the  contagion  of  misery,  it  is  extremely 
unhappy  to  live  within  the  compass  of  a  screech- 
owl's  voice ;  for  it  will  often  fill  their  ears  in  the 
hour  of  dejection,  terrify  them  with  apprehensions 
which  their  own  thoughts  would  never  have  pro- 
duced, and  sadden,  by  intruded  sorrows,  the  day 
which  might  have  been  passed  in  amusements  or 
in  business ;  it  will  burden  the  heart  with  unne- 
cessary discontents,  and  weaken  for  a  time  that 
love  of  life  which  is  necessary  to  the  vigorous 
prosecution  of  any  undertaking. 

Though  I  have,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  many 
failings  and  weaknesses,  I  have  not  yet,  by  either 
friends  or  enemies,  been  charged  with  supersti- 
tion ;  I  never  count  the  company  which  I  enter, 
and  I  look  at  the  new  moon  indifferently  over 
either  shoulder.  I  have,  like  most  other  philoso- 
phers, often  heard  the  cuckoo  without  money  in 
my  pocket,  and  have  been  sometimes  reproached 
as  fool-hardy  for  not  turning  down  my  eyes  when 
a  raven  flew  over  my  head.  I  never  go  home  ab- 
ruptly because  a  snake  crosses  my  way,  nor  have 
any  particular  dread  of  a  climacterical  year :  yet  I 
confess  that,  with  all  my  scorn  of  old  women,  and 
their  tales,  I  consider  it  as  an  unhappy  day  when 
I  happen  to  be  greeted,  in  the  morning,  by  Sus- 
pirius  the  screech-owl. 

I  have  now  known  Suspirius  fifty-eight  years 
and  four  months,  and  have  never  yet  passed  an 
hour  with  him  in  which  he  has  not  made  some 
attack  upon  my  quiet.  When  we  were  first  ac- 
quainted, his  great  topic  was  the  misery  of  youth 
without  riches ;  and  whenever  we  walked  out 
together  he  solaced  me  with  a  long  enumeration 
of  pleasures,  which,  as  they  were  beyond  the 
reach  of  my  fortune,  were  without  the  verge  of 
my  desires,  and  which  I  should  never  have  con- 
sidered as  the  objects  of  a  wish,  had  not  his  un- 
seasonable representations  placed  them  in  my 
sight 

Another  of  his  topics  is  the  neglect  of  merit, 
with  which  he  never  fails  to  amuse  every  man 
whom  he  sees  not  eminently  fortunate.  If  he 
meets  with  a  young  officer,  he  always  informs 
him  of  gentlemen  whose  personal  courage  is  un- 
questioned, and  whose  military  skill  qualifies 
them  to  command  armies,  that  have,  notwith- 
standing all  their  merit,  grown  old  with  subal- 


tern commissions.  For  a  genius  in  the  c'  i-rch, 
he  is  always  provided  with  a  curacy  for  life.  The 
lawyer  he  informs  of  many  men  of  great  parts 
and  deep  study,  who  have  never  had  an  opportu- 
nity to  speak  in  the  courts :  and  meeting  Serc- 
nus  the  physician, "  Ah,  doctor,"  says  he,  "  what, 
a-foot  still,  when  so  man}-  blockheads  are  rat- 
tling in  their  chariots  ?  I  told  you  seven  years 
ago  that  you  would  never  meet  with  encourage- 
ment, and  I  hope  you  will  now  take  more  notice, 
when  I  tell  you  that  your  Greek,  and  your  dili- 
gence, and  your  honesty,  will  never  enable  you 
to  live  like  yonder  apothecary,  who  prescribes  to 
his  own  shop,  and  laughs  at  the  physician." 

Suspirius  has,  in  his  time,  intercepted  fifteen 
authors  in  their  way  to  the  stage ;  persuaded  nine 
and  thirty  merchants  to  retire  from  a  prosperous 
trade  for  fear  of  bankruptcy,  broke  off  a  hundred 
and  thirteen  matches  by  prognostications  of  un- 
happiness,  and  enabled  the  small  pox  to  kill 
nineteen  ladies,  by  perpetual  alarms  of  the  loss 
of  beauty. 

Whenever  my  evil  stars  bring  us  together,  he 
never  fails  to  represent  to  me  the  folly  of  my  pur- 
suits, and  informs  me  that  we  are  much  older 
than  when  we  begun  our  acquaintance,  that  the 
infirmities  of  decrepitude  are  coming  fast  upon 
me,  that  whatever  I  now  get,  I  shall  enjoy  but  a 
little  time,  that  fame  is  to  a  man  tottering  on  the 
edge  of  the  grave  of  very  little  importance,  and 
that  the  time  is  at  hand  when  I  ought  to  look  for 
no  other  pleasures  than  a  good  dinner  and  an 
easy  chair. 

Thus  he  goes  on  in  his  unharmonious  strain, 
displaying  present  miseries,  and  foreboding  more, 
wKTiKipal-  atel  Savartyopos,  every  syllable  is  loaded 
with  misfortune,  and  death  is  always  brought 
nearer  to  the  view.  Yet,  what  always  raises  my 
resentment  and  indignation,  I  do  not  perceive 
that  his  mournful  meditations  have  much  effect 
upon  himself.  He  talks  and  has  long  talked  of 
calamities,  without  discovering  otherwise  than 
by  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  he  feels  any  of  the 
evils  which  he  bewails  or  threatens,  but  has  the 
same  habit  of  uttering  lamentations,  as  others  of 
telling  stories,  and  falls  into  expressions  of  con- 
dolence for  past,  or  apprehension  of  future  mis- 
chiefs, as  all  men  studious  of  their  ease  have  re- 
course to  those  subjects  upon  which  they  can 
most  fluently  or  copiously  discourse. 

It  is  reported  of  the  Sybarites,  that  they  de- 
stroyed all  their  cocks,  that  they  might  dream 
out  their  morning  dreams  without  disturbance. 
Though  I  would  not  so  far  promote  effeminacy 
as  to  propose  the  Sybarites  for  an  example,  yet 
since  there  is  no  man  so  corrupt  or  foolish,  but 
something  useful  may  be  learned  from  him,  I 
could  wish  that,  in  imitation  of  a  people  not  of- 
ten to  be  copied,  some  regulations  might  be  made 
to  exclude  screech-owls  from  all  company,  as 
the  enemies  of  mankind,  and  confine  them  to 
some  proper  receptacle,  where  they  may  mingle 
sighs  at  leisure,  and  thicken  the  gloom  of  one 
another. 

Thou  prophet  of  evil,  says  Homer's  Agamem- 
non, thou  neverfortellest  me  good,  but  the  joy  of  thy 
heart  is  to  predict  misfortunes.  Whoever  is  i»f  the 
same  temper,  might  there  find  the  means  of  in- 
dulging his  thoughts,  and  improving  his  vein  of 
denunciation,  and  the  flock  of  screech-owls, 
might  hoot  together  without  injury  to  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Yet,  though  I  have  so  little  kindness 


No.  60.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


101 


- 

for  this  dark  generation,  I  am  very  far  from  in- 
tending to  debar  the  soft  and  tender  mind  from 
the  privilege  of  complaining,  when  the  sigh  arises 
from  the  desire  not  of  giving  pain,  but  of  gaining 
ease.  To  hear  complaints  with  patience,  even 
when  complaints  are  vain,  is  one  of  the  duties 
of  friendship ;  and  though  it  must  be  allowed  that 
he  suffers  most  like  a  hero  that  hides  his  grief  in 
silence, 

Spemvultasimulat,premit  altum  corde  dolorem. 
His  outward  smiles  conceal'd  his  inward  smart. 

DRYDEN. 

yet  it  cannot  be  denied,  that  he  who  complains 
acts  like  a  man,  like  a  social  being,  who  looks  for 
help  from  his  fellow-creatures.  Pity  is  to  many 
of  the  unhappy  a  source  of  comfort  in  hopeless 
distress,  as  it  contributes  to  recommend  them  to 
themselves,  by  proving  that  they  have  not  lost 
the  regard  of  others  ;  and  heaven  seems  to  indi- 
cate the  duty  even  of  barren  compassion,  by  in- 
clining us  to  weep  for  evils  which  we  cannot 
remedy. 


No.  60.]  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  13,  1750. 

—  Q«i d  sit  pulchrum  quid  tttrpe,  quid  utile,  quid  non, 
Plcnius  ac  melius  Chrysippo  et  Cranlore  dicit. 

HOR. 

Whose  works  the  beautiful  and  base  contain, 

Of  vice  and  virtue  more  instructive  rules, 

Than  all  the  sober  sages  of  the  schools.  FRANCIS. 

ALL  joy  or  sorrow  for  the  happiness  or  calamities 
of  others  is  produced  by  an  act  of  the  imagina- 
tion, that  realizes  the  event  however  fictitious,  or 
approximates  it  however  remote,  by  placing  us, 
for  a  time,  in  the  condition  of  him  whose  fortune 
we  contemplate ;  so  that  we  feel,  while  the  de- 
ception lasts,  whatever  motions  would  be  excited 
by  the  same  good  or  evil  happening  to  ourselves. 

Our  passions  are  therefore  more  strongly  mov- 
ed, in  proportion  as  we  can  more  readily  adopt 
the  pains  or  pleasure  proposed  to  our  minds,  by 
recognizing  them  as  once  our  own,  or  consider- 
ing them  as  naturally  incident  to  our  state  of  life. 
It  is  not  easy  for  the  most  artful  writer  to  give  us 
an  interest  in  happiness  or  misery,  which  we 
think  ourselves  never  likely  to  feel,  and  with 
whieh  we  have  never  yet  been  made  acquainted. 
Histories  of  the  downfall  of  kingdoms,  and  revo- 
lutions of  empires,  a  re  read  with  great  tranquillity : 
the  imperial  tragedy  pleases  common  auditors  only 
by  its  pomp  of  ornament  and  grandeur  of  ideas  ; 
and  the  men  whose  faculties  have  been  engrossed 
by  business,  and  whose  heart  never  fluttered  but 
at  the  rise  or  fall  of  stocks,  wonders  how  the  at- 
tention can  be  seized,  or  the  affection  agitated, 
by  a  tale  of  love. 

Those  parallel  circumstances  and  kindred  ima- 
ges to  which  we  readily  conform  our  minds,  are, 
above  all  oth?r  writings,  to  be  found  in  narratives 
of  the  lives  of  particular  persons  ;  and  therefore 
no  species  of  writing  seems  more  worthy  of  cul- 
tivation than  biography,  since  none  can  be  more 
delightful  or  more  useful,  none  can  more  cer- 
tainly enchain  the  heart  by  irresistible  interest, 
or  more  widely  diffuse  instruction  to  every  diver- 
shy  of  condition. 

The  general  and  rapid  narratives  of  history, 
»vhich  involve  a  thousand  fortunes  in  the  busi- 


ness of  a  day,  and  complicate  innumerable  inci- 
dents in  one  great  transaction,  afford  few  lessons 
applicable  to  private  life,  which  derives  its  com- 
forts and  its  wretchedness  from  the  right  or  wrong 
management  of  things,  which  nothing  but  their 
frequency  makes  considerable,  Parva  si  nonfnmt 
quotidie,  says  Pliny,  and  which  can  have  no  place 
in  those  relations  which  never  descend  below  the 
consultation  of  senates,  the  motions  of  armies, 
and  the  schemes  of  conspirators. 

I  have  often  thought  that  there  has  rarely  pass- 
ed a  life  of  which  a  judicious  and  faithful  narrative 
would  not  be  useful.  For,  not  only  every  man 
has,  in  the  mighty  mass  of  the  world,  great  num- 
bers in  the  same  condition  with  himself,  to  whom 
his  mistakes  and  miscarriages,  escapes  and  expe- 
dients, would  be  of  immediate  and  apparent  use; 
but  there  is  such  a  uniformity  in  the  state  of  man, 
considered  apart  from  adventitious  and  separable 
decorations  and  disguises,  that  there  is  scarce  any 
possibility  of  good  or  ill,  but  is  common  to  human 
kind.  A  great  part  of  the  time  of  those  who  are 
placed  at  the  greatest  distance  by  fortune,  or  by 
temper,  must  unavoidably  pass  in  the  same  man- 
ner ;  and  though,  when  the  claims  of  nature  are 
satisfied,  caprice,  and  vanity,  and  accident,  begin 
to  produce  discriminations  and  peculiarities,  yet 
the  eye  is  not  very  heedful  or  quick,  which  cannot 
discover  the  same  causes  still  terminating  their 
influence  in  the  same  effects,  though  sometimes 
accelerated,  sometimes  retarded,  or  perplexed  by 
multiplied  combinations.  We  are  all  prompted 
by  the  same  motives,  all  deceived  by  the  same 
fallacies,  all  animated  by  hope,  obstructed  by  dan- 
ger, entangled  by  desire,  and  seduced  by  pleasure. 

It  is  frequently  objected  to  relations  of  particu- 
lar lives,  that  they  are  not  distinguished  by  any 
striking  or  wonderful  vicissitudes.  The  scholar, 
who  passed  his  life  among  his  books,  the  mer 
chant,  who  conducted  only  his  own  affairs,  the 
priest,  whose  sphere  of  action  was  not  extended 
beyond  that  of  his  duty,  are  considered  as  no  pro 
per  objects  of  public  regard,  however  they  might 
have  excelled  in  their  several  stations,  whatever 
might  have  been  their  learning,  integrity,  and  pi- 
ety. But  this  notion  arises  from  false  measures 
of  excellence  and  dignity,  and  must  be  eradicated 
by  considering,  that,  in  the  esteem  of  uncorrupted 
reason,  what  is  of  most  use  is  of  most  value. 

It  is,  indeed,  not  improper  to  take  honest  ad- 
vantages of  prejudice,  and  to  gain  attention  by  a 
celebrated  name  ;  but  the  business  of  the  biogra 
pher  is  often  to  pass  slightly  over  those  perform 
ances  and  incidents,  which  produce  vulgar  great- 
ness, to  lead  the  thoughts  into  domestic  privacies, 
and  display  the  minute  details  of  daily  life,  where 
exterior  appendages  are  cast  aside,  and  men  ex- 
cel each  other  only  by  prudence  and  by  virtue. 
The  account  of  Thuanus  is,  with  great  propriety, 
said  by  its  author  to  have  been  written,  that  it 
might  lay  open  to  posterity  the  private  and  fa- 
miliar character  of  that  man,  cujus  ingenium  et 
candorem  ex  ipsius  Scriptis  sunt  dim  sember  mira- 
turi,  whose  candour  and  genius  will  to  the  end  of 
time  be  by  his  writings  preserved  in  admiration. 

There  are  many  invisible  circumstances  which, 
whether  we  read  as  inquirers  after  natural  or  mo- 
ral knowledge,  whether  we  intend  to  enlarge  our 
science,  or  increase  our  virtue,  are  more  import- 
ant than  public  occurrences.  Thus  Sallust,  the 
great  master  of  nature,  has  not  forgotten  in  his 
account  of  Cataline,  to  remark,  that  his  walk  was 


102 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  61. 


note  quick,  and  again  slow,  as  an  indication  of  a 
inind  revolving  something  with  violent  commo- 
tion. Thus  the  story  of  Melancthon  affords  a 
striking  lecture  on  the  value  of  time,  by  informing 
us,  that  when  he  made  an  appointment,  he  ex- 
pected not  only  the  hour  but  the  minute  to  be 
fixed,  that  the  day  might  not  run  out  in  the  idleness 
of  suspense :  and  all  the  plans  and  enterprises 
of  De  Witt  are  now  of  less  importance  to  the 
world  than  that  part  of  his  personal  character, 
which  represents  him  as  careful  of  his  health,  and 
negligent  of  his  life. 

But  biography  has  often  been  allotted  to  writ- 
ers who  seem  very  little  acquainted  with  the  nature 
of  their  task,  or  very  negligent  about  the  perform- 
ance. They  rarely  afford  any  other  account  than 
might  be  collected  from  public  papers,  but  ima- 
gine themselves  writing  a  life  when  they  exhibit 
a  chronological  series  of  actions  or  preferments  ; 
and  so  little  regard  the  manners  or  behaviour  of 
their  heroes,  that  more  knowledge  may  be  gained 
of  a  man's  real  character,  by  a  short  conversation 
with  one  of  his  servants,  than  from  a  formal  and 
studied  narrative,  begun  with  his  pedigree,  and 
ended  with  his  funeral. 

If  now  and  then  they  condescend  to  inform  the 
world  of  particular  facts,  they  are  not  always  so 
happy  as  to  select  the  most  important.  I  know 
not  well  what  advantage  posterity  can  receive 
from  the  only  circumstance  by  which  Tickell  has 
distinguished  Addison  from  the  rest  of  mankind, 
the  irregularity  of  his  pulse  :  nor  can  I  think  my- 
self overpaid  for  the  time  spent  in  reading  the  life 
of  Malherb,  by  being  enabled  to  relate,  after  the 
learned  biographer,  that  Malherb  had  two  predo- 
minant opinions  ;  •  one,  that  the  looseness  of  a 
single  woman  might  destroy  all  her  boast  of  an- 
cient descent ;  the  other,  that  the  French  beg- 
gars made  use  very  improperly  and  barbarously 
of  the  phrase  noble  Gentleman,  because  either 
word  included  the  sense  of  both. 

There  are,  indeed,  some  natural  reasons  why 
these  narratives  are  often  written  by  such  as  were 
not  likely  to  give  much  instruction  or  delight,  and 
why  most  accounts  of  particular  persons  are  bar- 
ren and  useless.  If  a  life  be  delayed  till  interest 
and  envy  are  at  an  end,  we  may  hope  for  impar- 
tiality, but  must  expect  little  intelligence ;  for  the 
incidents  which  give  excellence  to  biography  are 
of  a  volatile  and  evanescent  kind,  such  as  soon 
escape  the  memory,  and  are  rarely  transmitted 
by  tradition.  We  know  how  few  can  portray 
a  living  acquaintance,  except  by  his  most  promi- 
nent and  observable  particularities,  and  the  grosser 
features  of  his  mind ;  and  it  may  be  easily  ima- 
gined how  much  of  this  little  knowledge  may  be 
lost  in  imparting  it,  and  how  soon  a  succession 
of  copies  will  lose  all  resemblance  of  the  original. 

If  the  biographer  writes  from  personal  know- 
ledge, and  makes  haste  to  gratify  the  public  cu- 
riosity, there  is  danger  least  his  interest,  his  fear, 
his  gratitude,  or  his  tenderness,  overpower  his 
fidelity,  and  tempt  him  to  conceal,  if  not  to  invent. 
There  are  many  who  think  it  an  act  of  piety  to 
hide  the  faults  or  failings  of  their  friends,  even 
when  they  can  no  longer  suffer  by  their  detection ; 
we  therefore  see  whole  ranks  of  characters  adorn- 
ed with  uniform  panegyric,  and  not  to  be  known 
from  one  another,  but  by  extrinsic  and  casual 
circumstances.  "  Let  me  remember,"  says  Hale, 
"  when  I  find  myself  inclined  to  pity  a  criminal, 
that  there  is  likewise  a  pity  due  to  the  country." 


If  we  owe  regard  to  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
there  is  yet  more  respect  to  be  paid  to  knowledge, 
to  virtue,  and  to  truth. 


No.  61.]    TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  16,  1750. 

Falsus  honor  juvat,  ct  mendax  infamia  terret 
Quern,  nisi  mendosum  et  mendacem ? HOR. 

False  praise  can  charm,  unreal  shame  control, — 
Whom,  but  a  vicious  or  a  sickly  soul  ? —        FRANCIS 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

IT  is  extremely  vexatious  to  a  man  of  eager  and 
thirsty  curiosity  to  be  placed  at  a  great  distance 
from  the  fountain  of  intelligence,  and  not  only 
never  to  receive  the  current  of  report  til!  it  has  sa- 
tiated the  greatest  part  of  the  nation,  but  at  last 
to  find  it  mudded  in  its  course,  and  corrupted  with 
taints  or  mixtures  from  every  channel  through 
which  it  flowed. 

One  of  the  chief  pleasures  of  my  life  is  to  hear 
what  passes  in  the  world,  to  know  what  are  the 
schemes  of  the  politic,  the  aims  of  the  busy,  and 
the  hopes  of  the  ambitious ;  what  changes  of  pub- 
lic measures  are  approaching ;  who  is  likely  to 
be  crushed  in  the  collision  of  parties ;  who  is 
climbing  to  the  top  of  power,  and  who  is  tottering 
on  the  precipice  of  disgrace.  But  as  it  is  very 
common  for  us  to  desire  most  what  we  are  least 
qualified  to  obtain,  I  have  suffered  this  appetite 
of  news  to  outgrow  all  the  gratifications  which 
my  present  situation  can  afford  it;  for  being 
placed  in  a  remote  country,  I  am  condemned  al- 
ways to  confound  the  future  with  the  past, 
to  form  prognostications  of  events  no  longer 
doubtful,  and  to  consider  the  expediency  of 
schemes  already  executed  or  defeated.  I  am 
perplexed  with  a  perpetual  deception  in  my  pros- 
pects, like  a  man  pointing  his  telescope  at  a  re- 
mote star,  which  before  the  light  reaches  his  eye 
has  forsaken  the  place  from  which  it  was  emitted. 

The  mortification  of  being  thus  always  behind 
the  active  world  in  my  reflections  and  discove- 
ries, is  exceedingly  aggravated  by  the  petulance 
of  those  whose  health,  or  business,  or  pleasure, 
brings  them  hither  from  London.  For,  without 
considering  the  insuperable  disadvantages  of  my 
condition,  and  the  unavoidable  ignorance  which 
absence  must  produce,  they  often  treat  me  with 
the  utmost  superciliousness  of  contempt,  for  not 
knowing  what  no  human  sagacity  can  discover ; 
and  sometimes  seem  to  consider  me  as  a  wretch 
scarcely  worthy  of  human  converse,  when  I  hap- 
pen to  talk  of  the  fortune  of  a  bankrupt,  or  pro- 
pose the  healths  of  the  dead,  when  I  warn  them 
of  mischiefs  already  incurred,  or  wish  for  mea- 
sures that  have  been  lately  taken.  They  seem 
to  attribute  to  the  superiority  of  their  intellects 
what  they  only  owe  to  the  accident  of  their  con- 
ditions, and  think  themselves  indisputably  entitled 
to  airs  of  insolence  and  authority,  when  they  find 
another  ignorant  of  facts,  which,  because  they 
echoed  in  the  streets  of  London,  they  suppose 
equally  public  in  all  other  places,  and  known 
where  they  could  neither  be  seen,  related,  nor 
conjectured. 

To  this  haughtiness  they  are  indeed  too  much 
encouraged  by  the  respect  which,  they  receive 
amongst  us,  for  no  other  reason  than  that  they 
come  from  London.  For  no  sooner  is  the  ?r- 


No.  61.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


103 


rival  of  one  of  these  disseminators  of  knowledge 
known  in  the  country,  than  we  crowd  about  him 
from  every  quarter,  and  by  innumerable  inquiries 
flatter  him  into  an  opinion  of  his  own  importance. 
He  sees  himself  surrounded  by  multitudes,  who 
propose  their  doubts,  and  refer  their  controver- 
sies, to  him,  as  to  a  being  descended  from  some 
nobler  region,  and  he  grows  on  a  sudden  oracu- 
lous  and  infallible,  solves  all  difficulties,  and  sets 
all  objections  at  defiance. 

There  is,  in  my  opinion,  great  reason  for  sus- 
pecting, that  they  sometimes  take  advantage  of 
this  reverential  modesty,  and  impose  upon  rustic 
understandings,  with  a  false  show  of  universal 
intelligence ;  for  I  do  not  find  that  they  are  will- 
ing to  own  themselves  ignorant  of  any  thing,  or 
that  they  dismiss  any  inquirer  with  a  positive  and 
decisive  answer.  The  court,  ihe  city,  the  park, 
and  exchange,  are  to  those  men  of  unbounded 
observation  equally  familiar,  and  they  are  alike 
ready  to  tell  the  hour  at  which  stocks  will  rise,  or 
the  ministry  be  changed. 

A  short  residence  at  London  entitles  a  man  to 
knowledge,  to  wit,  to  politeness,  and  to  a  despot- 
ic and  dictatorial  power  of  prescribing  to  the  rude 
multitude,  whom  he  condescends  to  honour  with 
a  biennial  visit ;  yet,  I  know  not  well  upon  what 
motives,  I  have  lately  found  myself  inclined  to 
cavil  at  this  prescription,  and  to  doubt  whether  it 
be  not,  on  some  occasions,  proper  to  withhold  our 
veneration,  till  we  are  more  authentically  con- 
vinced of  the  merits  of  the  claimant. 

It  is  well  remembered  here,  that,  about  seven 
years  ago,  one  Frolic,  a  tall  boy,  with  lank  hair, 
remarkable  for  stealing  eggs,  and  sucking  them, 
was  taken  from  the  school  in  this  parish,  and  sent 
up  to  London  to  study  the  law.  As  he  had  given 
amongst  us  no  proofs  of  a  genius  designed  by 
nature  for  extraordinary  performances,  he  was, 
from  the  time  of  his  departure,  totally  forgotten, 
nor  was  there  any  talk  of  his  vices  or  virtues,  his 
good  or  his  ill  fortune,  till  last  summer  a  report 
burst  upon  us,  that  Mr.  Frolic  was  comedown  in 
the  first  post-chaise  which  this  village  had  seen, 
having  travelled  with  such  rapidity  that  one  of  his 
postilions  had  broken  his  leg,  and  another  nar- 
rowly escaped  suffocation  in  a  quicksand  ;  but 
that  Mr.  Frolic  seemed  totally  unconcerned,  for 
such  things  were  never  heeded  at  London. 

Mr.  Frolic  next  day  appeared  among  the  gen- 
tlemen at  their  weekly  meeting  on  the  bowling- 
green,  and  now  were  seen  the  effects  of  a  Lon- 
don education.  His  dress,  his  language,  his 
ideas,  were  all  new,  and  he  did  not  much  endea- 
vour to  conceal  his  contempt  of  every  thing  that 
differed  from  the  opinions,  or  practice  of  the 
modish  world.  He  showed  us  the  deformity  of 
our  skirts  and  sleeves,  informed  us  where  hats 
of  the  proper  size  were  to  be  sold,  and  recom- 
mended to  us  the  reformation  of  a  thousand  ab- 
surdities in  our  clothes,  our  cooker}',  and  our 
conversation.  When  any  of  his  phrases  were 
unintelligible,  he  could  not  suppress  the  joy  of 
confessed  superiority,  but.  frequently  delayed  the 
explanation,  that  he  might  enjoy  his  triumph  over 
our  barbarity. 

When  he  is  pleased  to  entertain  us  with  a  story, 
he  takes  care  to  crowd  into  it  names  of  streets, 
squares,  and  buildings,  with  which  he  knows  we 
are  unacquainted.  The  favourite  topics  of  his 
discourse  are  the  pranks  of  drunkards,  and  the 
tricks  put  upon  country  gentlemen  by  porters  and 


link-boys.  When  he  is  with  ladies,  he  tells  them 
of  the  innumerable  pleasures  to  which  he  can  in- 
troduce them  ;  but  never  fails  to  hint  how  much 
they  will  be  deficient,  at  their  first  arrival,  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  town.  What  it  is  to  know  the 
toicn,  he  has  not  indeed  hitherto  informed  us, 
though  there  is  no  phrase  so  frequent  in  his 
mouth,  nor  any  science  which  he  appears  to  think 
of  so  great  a  value,  or  so  difficult  attainment 

But  my  curiosity  has  been  most  engaged  by 
the  recital  of  his  own  adventures  and  achieve- 
ments. I  have  heard  of  the  union  of  various  cha- 
racters in  single  persons,  but  never  met  with  such 
a  constellation  of  great  qualities  as  this  man's 
narrative  affords.  Whatever  has  distinguished 
the  hero ;  whatever  has  elevated  the  wit ;  what- 
ever has  endeared  the  lover,  are  all  concentrated 
in  Mr.  Frolic,  whose  life  has,  for  seven  years, 
been  a  regular  interchange  of  intrigues,  dangers, 
and  waggeries,  and  who  has  distinguished  him 
self  in  every  character  that  can  be  feared,  envied, 
or  admired. 

I  question  whether  all  the  officers  of  the  royal 
navy  can  bring  together,  from  all  their  journals, 
a  collection  of  so  many  wonderful  escapes  as  this 
man  has  known  upon  the  Thames,  on  which  he 
has  been  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  timed  on 
the  point  of  perishing,  sometimes  by  the  terrors 
of  foolish  women  in  the  same  boat,  sometimes 
by  his  own  acknowledged  imprudence  in  passing 
the  river  in  the  dark,  and  sometimes  by  shooting 
the  bridge  under  which  he  has  rencountered 
mountainous  waves  and  dreadful  cataracts. 

Nor  less  has  been  his  temerity  by  land,  nor 
fewer  his  hazards.  He  has  reeled  with  giddi- 
ness on  the  top  of  the  monument ;  he  has  crossed 
the  street  amidst  the  rush  of  coaches ;  he  has 
been  surrounded  by  robbers  without  number ; 
he  has  headed  parties  at  the  playhouse  ;  he  has 
scaled  the  windows  of  every  toast,  of  whatever 
condition  ;  he  has  been  hunted  for  whole  winters 
by  his  rivals ;  he  has  slept  upon  bulks,  he  has 
cut  chairs,  he  has  bilked  coachmen  ;  he  has  re- 
scued his  friends  from  the  bailiffs  ;  has  knocked 
down  the  constable,  has  bullied  the  justice,  and 
performed  many  other  exploits,  that  have  filled 
the  town  with  wonder  and  with  merriment. 

But  yet  greater  is  the  fame  of  his  understand 
ing  than  his  bravery  ;  for  he  informs  us,  that  he 
at  London,  the  established  arbitrator  of  all 
points  of  honour,  and  the  decisive  judge  of  all 
performances  of  genius  ;  that  no  musical  per- 
former is  in  reputation  till  the  opinion  of  Frolic 
has  ratified  his  pretensions ;  that  the  theatres 
suspend  their  sentence  till  he  begins  the  clap  or 
hiss,  in  which  all  are  proud  to  concur  ;  that  no 
public  entertainment  has  failed  or  succeeded,  but 
because  he  opposed  or  favoured  it ;  that  all  con- 
troversies at  the  gaming-table  are  referred  to  his 
determination  ;  that  he  adjusts  the  ceremonial  at 
every  assembly,  and  prescribes  every  fashion  of 
pleasure  or  of  dress. 

With  every  man  whose  name  occurs  in  the 
papers  of  the  day,  he  is  intimately  acquainted  ; 
and  there  are  very  few  posts,  either  in  <te  state 
or  army,  of  which  he  has  not  more  or  less  influ- 
enced die  disposal.  He  has  been  very  frequently 
consulted  both  upon  war  and  peace ;  but  the  time 
is  not  yet  come  when  the  nation  shall  know  how 
much  it  is  indebted  to  the  genius  of  Frolic. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  all  these  declarations,  I 
cannot  hitherto  persuade  myself  to  see  that  Mr 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  62. 


Frolic  has  more  wit,  or  knowledge,  or  courage, 
than  the  rest  of  mankind,  or  that  any  uncommon 
enlargement  of  his  faculties  has  happened  in  the 
,„„  ,  of  |1IS  absence.  For  when  he  talks  011  sub- 
jeou  known  to  the  rest  of  the  company  he  has 
no  advantage  over  us,  but  by  catches  of  inter- 
ruption, briskness  of  interrogation,  and  pertness 
of  contempt ;  and  therefore  if  he  has  stunned  the 
world  with  his  name,  and  gained  a  place  in  the 
first  ranks  of  humanity,  I  cannot  but  conclude, 
that  either  a  little  understanding  confers  emi- 
nence at  London,  or  that  Mr.  Frolic  thinks  us 
unworthy  of  the  exertion  of  his  powers,  or  that 
his  faculties  are  benumbed  by  rural  stupidity,  as 
the  magnetic  needle  loses  its  animation  in  the 
polar  climes. 

I  would  not,  however,  like  many  hasty  philo- 
sophers, search  after  the  cause  till  I  am  certain 
of  the  effect ;  and  therefore  I  desire  to  be  inform- 
ed whether  you  have  yet  heard  the  great  name 
of  Mr.  Frolic.  If  he  is  celebrated  by  other 
tongues  than  his  own,  I  shall  willingly  propagate 
his  praise ;  but  if  he  has  swelled  amongst  us 
with  empty  boasts,  and  honours  conferred  only 
by  himself,  I  shall  treat  him  with  rustic  sincerity, 
and  drive  him  as  an  impostor  from  this  part  of 
the  kingdom  to  some  region  of  more  credulity. 
I  am,  &c. 

RURICOLA. 


No.  62.]   SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  20,  1750. 

flunc  ego  Triptolemi  cuperem  conscendere  currus, 
Misit  in  ignotam  gui  rude  semen  kumum : 

Nuncfgo  Medea  vellem  franare  dracones, 
Quo*  habuit  fugiens  arce,  Corinthe,  tua ; 

Nunc  egojaciandas  optarem  sumere  pennas, 

Sive  tuas,  Perseu ;  Vadale,  sive  iuas.  OVID. 

Now  would  I  mount  his  car,  whose  bounteous  hand 

First  sowed  with  teeming  seed  the  furrow'd  land  ; 

Now  to  Medea's  dragons  fix  my  reins, 

That  swiftly  bore  her  from  Corinthian  plains  ; 

Now  on  Daedalian  waxen  pinions  stray, 

Or  those  which  wafted  Perseus  on  his  way. 

F.  LEWIS. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR,  .  '  , 

I  AM  a  young  woman  of  a  very  large  fortune 
which,  if  my  parents  would  have  been  persuade( 
to  comply  with  the  rules  and  customs  of  the  po 
lite  part  of  mankind,  might  long  since  have  raiset 
me  to  the  highest  honours  of  the  female  world 
but  so  strangely  have  they  hitherto  contrived  U 
waste  my  life,  that  I  am  now  on  the  borders  o 
twenty,  without  having  ever  danced  but  at  ou 
monthly  assembly,  or  been  toasted  but  among 
few  gentlemen  of  the  neighbourhood,  or  seen  an_ 
company  in  which  it  was  worth  a  wish  to  be  dis 
languished. 

My  father  having  impaired  his  patrimony  i 
soliciting  a  place  at  court,  at  last  grew  wis 
enough  to  cease  his  pursuit ;  and,  to  repair  th 
consequences  of  expensive  attendance  and  negl 
gence  of  his  affairs,  married  a  lady  much  olde 
than  himself,  who  had  lived  in  the  fashionabl 
world  till  she  was  considered  as  an  incumbranc 
upon  parties  of  pleasure,  and  as  I  can  collect  fron 
incidental  informations,  retired  from  gay  assern 
blies  just  time  enough  to  escape  the  mortificatio 
of  universal  neglect 


She  was,  however,  still  rich,  and  not  yet  wrin- 
led  ;  my  father  was  too  distressfully  embarrass- 
d  to  think  much  on  any  thing  but  the  means  oi 
xtrication,  and  though  it  is  not  likely  that  he 
ranted  the  delicacy  which  polite  conversation 
•ill  always  produce  in  understandings  not  rc- 
larkably  defective,  yet  he  was  contented  with  a 
natch,  by  which  he  might  be  set  free  from  incon- 
eniences  that  would  have  destroyed  all  the  plea- 
ures  of  imagination,  and  taken  from  softness  and 
eauty  the  power  of  delighting. 

As  they  were  both  somewhat  disgusted  with 
icir  treatment  in  the  world,  and  married,  though 
without  any  dislike  of  each  other,  yet  principally 
or  the  sake  of  setting  themselves  free  from  de- 
endence  on  caprice  or  fashion,  they  soon  retired 
ito  the  country,  and  devoted  their  lives  to  rural 
usiness  and  diversions. 

They  had  not  much  reason  to  regret  the  change 
if  their  situation ;  for  their  vanity,  which  had  so 
ong  been  tormented  by  neglect  and  disappoint- 
ment, was  here  gratified  with  every  honour  that 
ould  be  paid  them.  Their  long  familiarity  with 
public  life,  made  them  the  oracles  of  all  those 
who  aspired  to  intelligence  or  politeness.  My 
Father  dictated  politics,  my  mother  prescribed  the 
node,  and  it  was  sufficient  to  entitle  any  family 
o  some  consideration,  that  they  were  known  to 
isit  at  Mrs.  Courtly's. 

In  this  state  they  were,  to  speak  in  the  style  of 
tovelists,  made  happy  by  the  birth  of  your  cor- 
respondent. My  parents  had  no  other  child,  I 
was  therefore  not  brow-beaten  by  a  saucy  bro- 
ther, or  lost  in  a  multitude  of  co-heiresses,  whose 
brtunes  being  equal,  would  probably  have  con- 
erred  equal  ment,  and  procured  equal  regard ; 
and  as  my  mother  was  now  old,  my  understand- 
ng  and  my  person  had  fair  play,  my  inquiries 
were  not  checked,  my  advances  towards  import- 
ance were  not  repressed,  and  I  was  soon  suffer- 
ed to  tell  my  own  opinions,  and  early  accustom- 
ed to  hear  my  own  praises. 

By  these  accidental  advantages  I  was  much 
exalted  above  the  young  ladies  with  whom  I  con- 
versed, and  was  treated  by  them  with  groat  defer- 
ence. I  saw  none  who  did  not  seem  to  confess 
my  superiority,  and  to  be  held  in  awe  by  the 
splendour  of  my  appearance  ;  for  the  fondness  of 
my  father  made  him  pleased  to  see  me  dressed, 
and  my  mother  had  no  vanity  nor  expenses  to 
hinder  her  from  concurring  with  his  inclination. 

Thus,  Mr.  Rambler,  I  lived  without  much  de- 
sire after  any  thing  beyond  the  circle  of  our  visits ; 
and  here  I  should  have  quietly  continued  to  por- 
tion out  my  time  among  my  books  and  my  needle, 
and  my  company,  had  not  my  curiosity  been 
every  moment  excited  by  the  conversation  of  my 
parents,  who,  whenever  they  sit  down  to  familiar 
prattle,  and  endeavour  the  entertainment  of  each 
other,  immediately  transport  themselves  to  Lon- 
don, and  relate  some  adventure  in  a  hackney 
coach,  some  frolic  at  a  masquerade,  some  conver- 
sation in  the  Park,  or  some  quarrel  at  an  assem- 
bly, display  the  magnificence  of  a  birth-night, 
relate  the  conquests  of  maids  of  honour,  or  give 
a  history  of  diversions,  shows,  and  entertain- 
ments, which  I  had  never  known  but  from  their 
accounts. 

I  am  so  well  versed  in  the  history  of  the  gay 
world,  that  I  can  relate,  with  great  punctuality, 
the  lives  of  all  the  last  race  of  wits  and  beauties; 
can  enumerate,  with  exact  chronology,  the  whole 


No.  63.J 


THE  RAMBLER, 


105 


succession  of  celebrated  singers,  musicians,  trage- 
dians, comedians,  and  harlequins  ;  can  tell  to  the 
last  twenty  years  all  the  changes  of  fashions ;  and 
am,  indeed,  a  complete  antiquary  with  respect  to 
head-dresses,  dances,  and  operas. 

^  ou  will  easily  imagine,  Mr.  Rambler,  that  I 
could  not  hear  these  narratives,  for  sixteen  years 
together,  without  suffering  some  impressions,  and 
wishing  myself  nearer  to  those  places  where  every 
hour  brings  some  new  pleasure,  and  life  is  diversi- 
fied with  an  inexhausted  succession  of  felicity. 

I  indeed  often  asked  my  mother  why  she  left  a 
place  which  she  recollected  with  so  much  delight, 
and  why  she  did  not  visit  London  once  a  year, 
like  some  other  ladies,  and  initiate  me  in  the 
world  by  showing  me  its  amusements,  its  gran- 
deur, and  its  variety.  But  she  always  told  me 
that  the  days  which  she  had  seen  were  such  as 
will  never  come  again,  that  all  diversion  is  now 
degenerated,  that  the  conversation  of  the  present 
age  is  insipid,  that  their  fashions  are  unbecoming, 
their  customs  absurd,  and  their  morals  corrupt ; 
that,  there  is  no  ray  left  of  the  genius  which  en- 
lightened the  times  that  she  remembers ;  that  no 
one  who  had  seen,  or  heard,  the  ancient  perform- 
ers, would  be  able  to  bear  the  bunglers  of  this 
despicable  age:  and  that  there  is  now  neither 
politeness,  nor  pleasure,  nor  virtue,  in  the  world. 
She  therefore  assures  me  that  she  consults  my 
happiness  by  keeping  me  at  home,  for  I  should 
now  find  nothing  but  vexation  and  disgust,  and 
she  should  be  ashamed  to  see  me  pleased  with 
such  fopperies  and  trifles,  as  take  up  the  thoughts 
of  the  present  set  of  young  people. 

With  this  answer  I  was  kept  quiet  for  several 
years,  and  thought  it  no  great  inconvenience  to 
be  confined  to  the  country,  till  last  summer  a 
young  gentleman  and  his  sister  came  down  to 
pass  a  few  months  with  one  of  our  neighbours. 
They  had  generally  no  great  regard  for  the 
country  ladies,  but  distinguished  me  by  a  parti- 
cular complaisance,  and  as  we  grew  intimate 
gave  me  such  a  detail  of  the  elegance,  the  splen- 
dour, the  mirth,  the  happiness  of  the  town,  that 
I  am  resolved  to  be  no  longer  buried  in  ignorance 
and  obscurity,  but  to  share  with  other  wits  the 
joy  of  being  admired,  and  divide  with  other  beau- 
tics  the  empire  of  the  world. 

I  do  not  find,  Mr.  Rambler,  upon  a  deliberate 
and  impartial  comparison,  that  I  am  excelled  by 
Belinda  in  beauty,  in  wit,  in  judgment,  in  know- 
ledge, or  in  any  thing,  but  a  kind  of  gay,  lively 
familiarity,  by  which  she  mingles  with  strangers 
as  with  persons  long  acquainted,  and  which  ena- 
bles her  to  display  her  powers  without  any  ob- 
struction, hesitation,  or  confusion.  Yet  she  can 
relate  a  thousand  civilities  paid  to  her  in  public, 
can  produce,  from  a  hundred  lovers,  letters  filled 
with  praises,  protestations, ecsiiciee, and  despair; 
has  been  handed  by  dukes  to  her  chair ;  has  been 
the  occasion  of  innumerable  quarrels ;  has  paid 
twenty  visits  in  an  afternoon ;  been  invited  to  six 
balls  in  an  evening,  and  been  forced  to  retire  to 
lodgings  in  the  country  from  the  importunity  of 
courtship,  and  the  fatigue  of  pleasure, 

I  tell  you,  Mr.  Rambler,  I  will  stay  here  no 
longer.  I  have  at  last  prevailed  upon  ray  mother 
to  send  me  to  town,  and  shall  set  out  in  three 
weeks  on  the  grand  expedition.  I  intend  to  live 
in  public,  and  to  crowd  into  the  winter  every  plea- 
sure which  money  can  purchase,  and  every  ho- 
nour which  beauty  can  obtain. 


But  this  tedious  interval  how  shall  I  endure? 
Cannot  you  alleviate  the  misery  of  delay  by  some 
pleasing  description  of  the  entertainments  of  the 
town  ?  I  can  read,  I  can  talk,  I  can  think  of  no- 
thing else ;  and  if  you  will  not  soothe  my  impa- 
tience, heighten  my  ideas,  and  animate  my  hopes, 
you  may  write  for  those  who  have  more  leisure, 
but  are  not  to  expect  any  longer  the  honour  of 
being  read  by  those  eyes  which  are  now  intent 
only  on  conquest  and  destruction. 

RHODOCLIA. 


No.  63.]  TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  23,  1750. 


-Habebat  sespe  ditcentos, 


Sape  decem  servos ;  modo  reges  atque  tetrarchae, 
Omnia  magna  loquens :  modo,  sit  mihi  mensa  tripes,  a 
Concha  satis  puri,  et  toga,  qua  defender e  frigus, 
Quamvie  craesa  queat.  HOR. 

Now  with  two  hundred  slaves  he  crowds  his  train ; 

Now  walks  with  ten.     In  high  and  haughty  strain 

At  morn,  of  kings  and  governors  he  prates  ; 

At  night, — "  A  frugal  table,  O  ye  fates, 

A  little  shell  the  sacred  salt  to  hold, 

And  clothes,  though  coarse,  to  keep  me  from  the  cold 

FRANCU 

IT  has  been  remarked,  perhaps,  by  every  writtl 
who  has  left  behind  him  observations  upon  life, 
that  no  man  is  pleased  with  his  present  state ; 
which  proves  equally  unsatisfactory,  says  Ho- 
race, whether  fallen  upon  by  chance  or  chosen 
with  deliberation ;  we  are  always  disgusted  with 
some  circumstance  or  other  of  our  situation,  and 
imagine  the  condition  of  others  more  abundant 
in  blessings,  or  less  exposed  to  calamities. 

This  universal  discontent  has  been  generally 
mentioned  with  great  severity  of  censure,  as  un 
reasonable  in  itself,  since  of  two,  equally  envious 
of  each  other,  both  cannot  have  the  larger  share 
of  happiness,  and  as  tending  to  darken  life  with 
unnecessary  gloom,  by  withdrawing  our  minds 
from  the  contemplation  and  enjoyment  of  that 
happiness  which  our  state  affords  us,  and  fixing 
our  attention  upon  foreign  objects,  which  we  only 
behold  to  depress  ourselves,  and  increase  our 
misery  by  injurious  comparisons. 

When  this  opinion  of  the  felicity  of  others  pre- 
dominates in  the  heart,  so  as  to  excite  resolutions 
of  obtaining,  at  whatever  price,  the  condition  to 
which  such  transcendent  privileges  are  supposed 
to  be  annexed ;  when  it  bursts  into  action,  and 
produces  fraud,  violence,  and  injustice,  it  is  to  be 
pursued  with  all  the  rigour  of  legal  punishments. 
But  while  operating  only  upon  the  thoughts,  it 
disturbs  none  but  him  who  has  happened  to  ad- 
mit it,  and  however  it  may  interrupt  content, 
makes  no  attack  on  piety  or  virtue,  I  cannot  think 
it  so  far  criminal  or  ridiculous,  but  that  it  maj- 
deserve  some  pity,  and  admit  some  excuse. 

That  all  are  equally  happy,  or  miserable,  I  sup- 
pose none  is  sufficiently  enthusiastica!  to  main- 
tain ;  because  though  we  cannot  judge  of  the  con- 
dition of  others,  yet  every  man  has  found  frequent 
vicissitudes  in  his  own  state,  and  must  therefore 
be  convinced  that  life  is  susceptible  of  more  or 
less  felicity.  What  then  shall  forbid  us  to  endea- 
vour the  alteration  of  that  which  is  capable  of 
being  improved,  and  to  grasp  at  augmentations 
of  good,  when  we  know  it  possible  to  be  increas- 
ed, and  believe  that  any  particular  change  of 
situation  will  increase  it  ? 


IOG 


THE  RAMBLER. 


IJN'o.  03. 


If  he  that  finds  liimself  uneasy  may  reasonably 
make  efforts  to  rid  himself  from  vexation,  all 
mankind  have  a  sufficient  plea  for  some  degree 
of  restlessness,  and  the  fault  seems  to  be  little 
more  than  too  much  temerity  of  conclusion,  in 
favour  of  something  not  yet  experienced,  and  too 
much  readiness  to  believe,  that  the  misery  which 
our  own  passions  and  appetites  produce,  is 
brought  upon  us  .by  accidental  causes  and  ex- 
ternal efficients. 

It  is,  indeed,  frequently  discovered  by  us,  that 
we  complained  too  hastily  of  peculiar  hardships, 
and  imagined  ourselves  distinguished  by  embar- 
rassments, in  which  other  classes  of  men  are 
equally  entangled.  We  often  change  a  lighter 
for  a  greater  evil,  and  wish  ourselves  restored 
again  to  the  state  from  which  we  thought  it  de- 
sirable to  be  delivered.  But  this  knowledge 
though  it  is  easily  gained  by  the  trial,  is  not  al- 
ways attainable  any  other  way ;  and  that  error 
cannot  justly  be  reproached  which  reason  could 
not  obviate,  nor  prudence  avoid. 

To  take  a  view  at  once  distinct  and  compre- 
hensive of  human  life,  with  all  its  intricacies  of 
combination,  and  varieties  of  connexion,  is  be- 
yond the  power  of  mortal  intelligences.  Of  the 
state  with  which  practice  has  not  acquainted  us 
we  snatch  a  glimpse,  we  discern  a  point,  and  re- 
gulate the  rest  by  passion  and  by  fancy.  In  this 
inquiry  every  favourite  prejudice,  every  innate 
desire,  is  busy  to  deceive  us.  We  are  unhappy, 
at  least  less  happy  than  our  nature  seems  to  ad- 
mit; we  necessarily  desire  the  melioration  of  our 
lot ;  what  we  desire  we  very  reasonably  seek, 
and  what  we  seek  we  are  naturally  eager  to  be- 
lieve that  we  have  found.  Our  confidence  is 
often  disappointed,  but  our  reason  is  not  con- 
vinced, and  there  is  no  man  who  does  not  hope 
for  something  which  he  has  not,  though  perhaps 
his  wishes  lie  inactive,  because  he  foresees  the 
difficulty  of  attainment.  As  among  the  numerous 
students  of  Hermetic  philosophy,  not  one  appears 
to  have  desisted  from  the  task  of  transmutation, 
from  conviction  of  its  impossibility,  but  from 
weariness  of  toil,  or  impatience  of  delay,  a  broken 
body,  or  exhausted  fortune. 

Irresolution  and  immutability  are  often  the 
faults  of  men  whose  views  are  wide  and  whose 
imagination  is  vigorous  and  excursive  because 
they  cannot  confine  their  thoughts  within  their 
own  boundaries  of  action,  but  are  continually 
ranging  over  all  the  scenes  of  human  existence, 
and  consequently  are  often  apt  to  conceive  that 
they  fall  upon  new  regions  of  pleasure,  and  start 
new  possibilities  of  happiness.  Thus  they  are 
busied  with  a  perpetual  succession  of  schemes, 
and  pass  their  lives  in  alternate  elation  and  sor- 
row, for  want  of  that  calm  and  immoveable  ac- 
quiescence in  their  condition,  by  which  men  of 
slower  understandings  are  fixed  for  ever  to  a 
certain  point,  or  led  or:  in  the  plain  beaten  track 
which  their  fathers  and  grandsires  have  trodden 
before  them. 

Of  two  conditions  of  life  equally  inviting  to 
the  prospect,  that  will  always  have  the  disadvan- 
tage which  we  have  already  tried ;  because  the 
evils  which  we  have  felt  we  cannot  extenuate ; 
and  though  we  have,  perhaps  from  nature,  the 
power  as  well  of  aggravating  the  calamity  which 
we  fear,  as  of  heightening  the  blessing  we  ex- 
pect, yet  in  those  meditations  which  we  indulge 
•»y  choice,  and  which  are  not  forced  upon  the  mind 


by  necessity,  we  have  always  x.it  ait  of  fixing 
our  regard  upon  the  more  pleasing  images,  and 
suffer  hope  to  dispose  the  lights  by  which  we 
look  upon  futurity. 

The  good  and  ill  of  different  modes  of  life  are 
sometimes  so  equally  opposed,  that  perhaps  no 
man  ever  yet  made  his  choice  between  them  upon 
a  full  conviction  and  adequate  knowledge  ;  and 
therefore  fluctuation  of  will  is  not  more  wonder- 
ful, when  they  are  proposed  to  the  election,  than 
oscillations  of  a  beam  charged  with  equal  weights. 
The  mind  no  sooner  imagines  itself  determined 
by  some  prevalent  advantage,  than  some  conve- 
nience of  equal  weight  is  discovered  on  the  other 
side,  and  the  resolutions  which  are  suggested  by 
the  nicest  examination,  are  often  repented  as  soon 
as  they  are  taken. 

Eumenes,  a  young  man  of  great  abilities,  inhe- 
rited a  large  estate  from  a  father  long  eminent  in 
conspicuous  employments.  His  father  harassed 
with  competitions,  and  perplexed  with  multipli- 
city of  business,  recommended  the  quiet  of  a  pri- 
vate station  with  so  much  force,  that  Eutnenes 
for  some  years  resisted  every  motion  of  ambi- 
tious wishes ;  but  being  once  provoked  by  the 
sight  of  oppression,  which  he  could  not  tedrcss, 
he  began  to  think  it  the  duty  of  an  honest,  man 
to  enable  himself  to  protect  others,  and  gradually 
felt  a  desire  of  greatness,  excited  by  a  thousand 
projects  of  advantage  to  his  country.  His  for- 
tune placed  him  in  the  senate,  his  knowledge 
and  eloquence  advanced  him  at  court,  and  he 
possessed  that  authority  and  influence  which 
he  had  resolved  to  exert  for  the  happiness  of 
mankind. 

He  now  became  acquainted  with  greatness, 
and  was  in  a  short  time  convinced,  that  in  pro- 
portion as  the  power  of  doing  well  is  enlarged, 
the  temptations  to  do  ill  are  multiplied  and  en- 
forced. He  felt  himself  every  moment  in  dan 
ger  of  being  either  seduced  or  driven  from  his 
honest  purposes.  Sometimes  a  friend  was  to  be 
gratified,  and  sometimes  a  rival  to  be  crushed, 
by  means  which  his  conscience  could  not  ap- 
prove. Sometimes  he  was  forced  to  comply 
with  the  prejudices  of  the  public,  and  sometimes 
with  the  schemes  of  the  ministry.  He  was  by 
degrees  wearied  with  perpetual  struggles  to 
unite  policy  and  virtue,  and  went  back  to  retire- 
ment as  the  shelter  of  innocence,  persuaded  that 
he  could  only  hope  to  benefit  mankind,  by  a 
blameless  example  of  private  virtue.  Here  he 
spent  some  years  in  tranquillity  and  beneficence ; 
but  finding  that  corruption  increased  and  false 
opinions  in  government  prevailed,  he  thought 
himself  again  summoned  to  posts  of  public  trust, 
from  which  new  evidence  of  his  own  weakness 
again  determined  him  to  retire. 

Thus  men  may  be  made  inconstant  by  virtue 
and  by  vice,  by  too  much  or  too  little  thought ; 
yet  inconstancy,  however  dignified  by  its  mo- 
tives, is  always  to  be  avoided,  because  life  allows 
us  but  a  smalt  time  for  inquiry  and  experiment, 
and  he  that  steadily  endeavours  at  excellence,  in 
whatever  employment,  will  more  benefit  man- 
kind than  he  that  hesitates  in  choosing  his  part 
till  he  is  called  to  the  performance.  The  travel- 
ler that  resolutely  follows  a  rough  and  winding 
path,  will  sooner  reach  the  end  of  his  journey 
than  he  that  is  always  changing  his  direction, 
and  wastes  the  hours  of  day-light  in  looking  fo? 
smoother  ground  and  shorter  passages. 


No.  G4.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


107 


No.  64.]     SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  27,  1750. 
Idim  velle,  ti  idem  nolle,  ea  demumfirma  amicitia  cat. 

*  SALLUST. 

To  live  in  friendship  is  to  have  the  same  desires  and  the 
same  aversions. 

WHEN  Socrates  was  building  himself  a  house  at 
Athens,  being  asked  by  one  that  observed  the 
littleness  of  the  design,  why  a  man  so  eminent 
would  not  have  an  abode  more  suitable  to  his 
dignity  ?  he  replied,  that  he  should  think  himself 
sufficiently  accommodated  if  he  could  see  that 
narrow  habitation  filled  with  real  friends.  Such 
was  the  opinion  of  this  great  master  of  human 
life,  concerning  the  infrequency  of  such  a  union 
of  minds  as  might  deserve  the  name  of  friendship, 
that  among  the  multitudes  whom  vanity  or  curi- 
osity, civility  or  veneration,  crowded  about  him, 
he  did  not  expect,  that  very  spacious  apartments 
would  be  necessary  to  contain  all  that  should  re- 
gard him  with  sincere  kindness,  or  adhere  to  him 
with  steady  fidelity. 

So  many  qualities  are  indeed  requisite  to  the 
possibility  of  friendship,  and  so  many  accidents 
must  concur  to  its  rise  and  its  continuance,  that 
the  greatest  part  of  mankind  content  themselves 
without  it,  and  supply  its  place  as  they  can,  with 
interest  and  dependance. 

Multitudes  are  unqualified  for  a  constant  and 
warm  reciprocation  of  benevolence,  as  they  are 
incapacitated  for  any  other  elevated  excellence, 
by  perpetual  attention  to  their  interest,  and  unre- 
sisting subjection  to  their  passions.  Long  habits 
may  superinduce  inability  to  deny  any  desire,  or 
repress,  by  superior  motives,  the  importunities 
of  any  immediate  gratification,  and  an  inveterate 
selfishness  will  imagine  all  advantages  diminished 
in  proportion  as  they  are  communicated. 

But  not  only  this  hateful  and  confirmed  cor- 
ruption, but  many  varieties  of  disposition,  not  in- 
consistent with  common  degrees  of  virtue,  may 
exclude  friendship  from  the  heart.  Some  ardent 
enough  in  their  benevolence,  and  defective  nei- 
ther in  officiousness  nor  liberality,  are  mutable 
and  uncertain,  soon  attracted  by  new  objects,  dis- 
gusted without  ofience,  and  alienated  without  en- 
mity. Others  are  soft  and  flexible,  easily  influ- 
enced by  reports  or  whispers,  ready  to  catch 
alarms  from  every  dubious  circumstance,  and  to 
listen  to  every  suspicion  which  envy  and  flattery 
shall  suggest,  to  follow  the  opinion  of  every  con- 
fident adviser,  and  move  by  the  impulse  of  the 
last  breath.  Some  are  impatient  of  contradiction, 
more  willing  to  go  wrong  by  their  own  judgment, 
than  to  be  indebted  for  a  better  or  a  safer  way  to 
the  sagacity  of  another,  inclined  to  consider 
counsel  as  insult,  and  inquiry  as  want  of  confi- 
dence, and  to  confer  their  regard  on  no  other 
terms  than  unreserved  submission  and  implicit 
compliance.  Some  are  dark  and  involved,  equal- 
ly careful  to  conceal  good  and  bad  purposes ; 
and  pleased  with  producing  effects  by  invisible 
means,  and  showing  their  design  only  in  its  exe- 
cution. Others  are  universally  communicative, 
alike  open  to  every  eye,  and  equally  profuse  of 
their  own  secrets  and  those  of  others,  without 
the  necessary  vigilance  of  caution,  or  the  honest 
arts  of  prudent  integrity,  ready  to  accuse  with- 
out malice,  and  to  betray  without  treachery. 
Any  of  these  may  be  useful  to  the  community, 
and  pass  through  the  world  with  the  reputation 


of  good  purposes  and  uncorrupted  morals,  but 
:hey  are  unfit  for  close  and  tender  intimacies. 
He  cannot  properly  be  chosen  for  a  friend,  whose 
dndness  is  exhaled  by  its  own  we.rmth,  or  frozen 
sy  the  first  blast  of  slander  ;  he  cannot  be  a  use- 
iul  counsellor  who  will  hear  no  opinion  but  his 
own  ;  he  will  not  much  invite  confidence  whose 
principal  maxim  is  to  suspect;  nor  can  the  can- 
dour and  frankness  of  that  man  be  much  esteem- 
id,  who  spreads  his  arms  to  human  kind,  and 
makes  every  man  without  distinction,  a  denizen 
of  his  bosom. 

That  friendship  may  be  at  once  fond  and  last- 
ing, there  must  not  only  be  equal  virtue  on  each 
part,  but  virtue  of  the  same  kind ;  not  only  the 
same  end  must  be  proposed,  but  the  same  means 
must  be  approved  by  both.  We  are  often,  by 
superficial  accomplishments  and  accidental  en- 
dearments, induced  to  love  those  whom  we  can- 
not esteem ;  we  are  sometimes,  by  great  abilities, 
and  incontestable  evidences  of  virtue,  compelled 
to  esteem  those  whom  we  cannot  love.  But 
friendship,  compounded  of  esteem  and  love,  de- 
rives from  one  its  tenderness,  and  its  permanence 
from  the  other;  and  therefore  requires  not  only 
that  its  candidates  should  gain  the  judgment,  but 
that  they  should  attract  the  affections  ;  that  they 
should  not  only  be  firm  in  the  day  of  distress,  but 
gay  in  the  hour  of  jollity  ;  not  only  useful  in  exi- 
gences, but  pleasing  in  familiar  life  ;  their  pre- 
sence should  give  cheerfulness  as  well  as  cou- 
rage, and  dispel  alike  the  gloom  of  fear  and  oi 
melancholy. 

To  this  mutual  complacency  is  generally  re- 
quisite a  uniformity  of  opinions,  at  least  of  those 
active  and  conspicuous  principles  which  discri- 
minate parties  in  government,  and  sects  in  reli- 
gion, and  which  every  day  operate  more  or  less 
on  the  common  business  of  life.  For  though 
great  tenderness  has,  perhaps,  been  sometimes 
known  to  continue  between  men  eminent  in  con- 
trary factions  ;  yet  such  friends  are  to  be  shown 
rather  as  prodigies  than  examples,  and  it  is  no 
more  proper  to  regulate  our  conduct  by  such  in- 
stances, than  to  leap  a  precipice,  because  some 
have  fallen  from  it  and  escaped  with  life. 

It  cannot  but  be  extremely  difficult  to  preserve 
private  kindness  in  the  midst  of  public  opposi- 
tion, in  which  will  necessarily  be  involved  a 
thousand  incidents  extending  then-  influence  to 
conversation  and  privacy.  Men  engaged,  by 
moral  or  religious  motives,  in  contrary  parties, 
will  generally  look  with  different  eyes  upon 
every  man,  and  decide  almost  every  question 
upon  different  principles.  When  such  occasions 
of  dispute  happen,  to  comply  is  to  betray  our 
cause,  and  to  maintain  friendship  by  ceasing  to 
deserve  it ;  to  be  silent  is  to  lose  the  happiness 
and  dignity  of  independence,  to  live  in  perpetual 
constraint,  and  to  desert,  if  not  to  betray  :  and 
who  shall  determine  which  of  two  friends  shall 
yield,  where  neither  believes  himself  mistaken, 
and  both  confess  the  importance  of  the  question  ? 
What  then  remains  but  contradiction  and  de- 
bate ?  And  from  those  what  can  be  expected,  but 
acrimony,  and  vehemence,  the  insolence  of  tri- 
umph, the  vexation  of  defeat,  and,  in  time,  a 
weariness  of  contest,  and  an  extinction  of  bene- 
volence ?  Exchange  of  endearments  and  in- 
tercourse of  civility  may  continue,  indeed,  as 
boughs  may  for  a  while  be  verdant,  when  the 
root  is  wounded  •  but  the  poison  of  discord  is 


103 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  65. 


infused,  and  though  the  countenance  may  pre- 
serve its  smile,  the  heart  is  hardening  and  con- 
tracting. 

That  man  will  not  be  long  agreeable,  whom 
we  see  only  in  times  of  seriousness  and  severity  ; 
and,  therefore,  to  maintain  the  softness  and  se- 
renity of  benevolence,  it  is  necessary  that  friends 
partake  each  other's  pleasures  as  well  as  cares, 
and  be  led  to  the  same  diversions  by  similitude 
of  taste.  This  is,  however,  not  to  be  considered 
as  equally  indispensable  with  conformity  of  prin- 
ciples, because  any  man  may  honestly,  according 
to  the  precepts  of  Horace,  resign  the  gratifica- 
tions of  taste  to  the  humour  of  another,  and 
friendship  may  well  deserve  the  sacrifice  of  plea- 
sure, though  not  of  conscience. 

It  was  once  confessed  to  me  by  a  painter, 
that  no  professor  of  his  art  ever  loved  another. 
This  declaration  is  so  far  justified  by  the  know- 
ledge of  life,  as  to  damp  the  hopes  of  warm  and 
constant  friendship  between  men  whom  their 
studies  have  made  competitors,  and  whom  every 
favourer  and  every  censurer  are  hourly  inciting 
against  each  other.  The  utmost  expectation 
that  experience  can  warrant,  is,  that  they  should 
forbear  open  hostilities  and  secret  machinations 
and,  when  the  whole  fraternity  is  attacked,  be 
able  to  unite  against  a  common  foe.  Some, 
however,  though  few,  may  perhaps  be  found,  in 
whom  emulation  has  not  been  able  to  overpower 
generosity,  who  are  distinguished  from  lower 
beings  by  nobler  motives  than  the  love  of  fame, 
and  can  preserve  the  sacred  flame  of  friendship 
from  the  gusts  of  pride,  and  the  rubbish  of  in- 
terest. 

Friendship  is  seldom  lasting  but  between 
equals,  or  where  the  superiority  on  one  side  is 
reduced  by  some  equivalent  advantage  on  the 
other.  Benefits  which  cannot  be  repaid,  and 
obligations  which  cannot  be  discharged,  are  not 
commonly  found  to  increase  affection ;  they  ex- 
cite gratitude,  indeed,  and  heighten  veneration  ; 
but  commonly  take  away  that  easy  freedom  and 
familiarity  of  intercourse,  without  which,  though 
there  may  be  fidelity,  and  zeal,  and  admiration, 
there  cannot  be  friendship.  Thus  imperfect  are 
all  earthly  blessings  ;  the  great  effect  of  friend- 
ship is  beneficence,  yet  by  the  first  act  of  un- 
common kindness  it  is  endangered,  like  plants 
that  bear  their  fruit  and  die.  Yet  this  consider- 
ation ought  not  to  restrain  bounty,  or  repress 
compassion ;  for  duty  is  to  be  preferred  before 
convenience,  and  he  that  loses  part  of  the  plea- 
sures of  friendship  by  his  generosity,  gains  in  its 
place  the  gratulation  of  his  conscience. 


No.  65.]      TUESDAY,  OCT.  30, 1750. 


-Garrit  aniles 


Ex  re  fabelltu.- 


The  cheerful  sage,  when  solemn  dictates  fail, 
Conceals  the  moral  counsel  in  a  tale. 

OBIDAH,  the  son  of  Abensina,  left  the  caravan- 
sary early  in  the  morning,  and  pursued  his  jour- 
ney through  the  plains  of  Indostan.  He  was 
fresh  and  vigorous  with  rest ;  he  was  animated 
with  hope  ;  he  was  incited  by  desire ;  he  walked 
swiftly  forward  over  the  valleys,  and  saw  the 
hills  gradually  rising  before  him.  As  he  passed 
along,  liis  <  urs  were  delighted  with  the  morning 
-•'ii'j  of  the  bi,<t  of  paradise,  he  \\us  fanned  hv 


the  last  flutters  of  the  sinking  breeze,  and  sprink- 
led with  dew  by  groves  of  spices ;  he  sometimes 
contemplated  the  towering  height  of  the  oak, 
monarch  of  the  hills  ;  and  sometimes  caught  the 
gentle  fragrance  of  the  primrose,  eldest  daughter 
of  the  spring ;  all  his  senses  were  gratified,  and 
all  care  was  banished  from  his  heart. 

Thus  he  went  on  till  the  sun  approached  his 
meridian,  and  the  increasing  heat  preyed  upon 
his  strength ;  he  then  looked  round  about  him 
for  some  more  commodious  path.  He  saw,  on 
his  right  hand,  a  grove  that  seemed  to  wave  in 
shades  as  a  sign  of  invitation  ;  he  entered  it,  and 
found  the  coolness  and  verdure  irresistibly  plea- 
sant. He  did  not,  however,  forget  whither  he 
was  travelling,  but  found  a  narrow  way  bordered 
with  flowers,  which  appeared  to  have  the  same 
direction  with  the  main  road,  and  was  pleased 
that,  by  this  happy  experiment,  he  had  found 
means  to  unite  pleasure  with  business,  and  to 
gain  the  rewards  of  diligence,  without  suffering 
its  fatigues.  He,  therefore,  still  continued  to 
walk  for  a  time,  without  the  least  remission  of 
his  ardour,  except  that  he  was  sometimes  tempted 
to  stop  by  the  music  of  the  birds  whom  the  heat 
had  assembled  in  the  shade ;  and  sometimes 
amused  himself  with  plucking  the  flowers  that 
covered  the  banks  on  either  side,  or  the  fruits 
that  hung  upon  the  branches.  At  last  the  green 
path  began  to  decline  from  its  first  tendency,  and 
to  wind  among  hills  and  thickets,  cooled  with 
fountains  and  murmuring  with  water-falls.  Here 
Obidah  paused  for  a  time,  and  began  to  consider 
whether  it  were  longer  safe  to  forsake  the  known 
and  common  track  ;  but  remembering  that  the 
heat  was  now  in  its  greatest  violence,  and  that 
the  plain  was  dusty  and  uneven,  he  resolved  to 
pursue  the  new  path  which  he  supposed  only  to 
make  a  few  meanders,  in  compliance  with  the 
varieties  of  the  ground,  and  to  end  at  last  in  the 
common  road. 

Having  thus  calmed  his  solicitude,  he  renewed 
his  pace,  though  he  suspected  that  he  was  not 
gaining  ground.  This  uneasiness  of  his  mind 
inclined  him  to  lay  hold  on  every  new  object,  and 
give  way  to  every  sensation  that  might  soothe 
or  divert  him.  He  listened  to  every  echo,  he 
mounted  every  hill  for  a  fresh  prospect,  he  turned 
aside  to  every  cascade,  and  pleased  hiinself  with 
tracing  the  course  of  a  gentle  river  that  rolled 
among  the  trees,  and  watered  a  'arge  region  with 
innumerable  circumvolutions.  In  these  amuse- 
ments the  hours  passed  away  uncounted,  his 
deviations  had  perplexed  his  memory,  and  he 
knew  not  towards  what  point  to  travel.  He 
stood  pensive  and  confused,  afraid  to  go  forward 
lest  he  should  go  wrong,  yet  conscious  that  the 
time  of  loitering  was  now  past.  While  he  was 
thus  tortured  with  uncertainty,  the  sky  was  over- 
spread with  clouds,  the  day  vanished  from  before 
him,  and  a  sudden  tempest  gathered  round  his 
head.  He  was  now  roused  by  his  danger  to  a 
quick  and  painful  remembrance  of  his  folly ;  he 
now  saw  how  happiness  is  lost  when  ease  is 
consulted  ;  he  lamented  the  unmanly  impatience 
that  prompted  him  to  seek  shelter  in  the  grove, 
and  despised  the  petty  curiosity  that  led  him  on 
from  trifle  to  trifle.  While  he  was  thus  reflect- 
ing, the  air  grew  blacker,  and  a  clap  of  thunder 
broke  his  meditation. 

He  now  resolved  to  do  what  remained  yet  in 
his  power,  to  tread  back  the  pround  which  he 


No.  66.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


109 


had  passed,  and  try  to  find  some  isuue  where  the 
wood  might  open  into  the  plain.  He  prostrated 
himself  on  the  ground,  and  commended  his  life 
to  the  Lord  of  nature.  He  rose  with  confidence 
and  tranquillity,  and  pressed  on  with  his  sabre  in 
his  hand,  for  the  beasts  of  the  desert  were  in  mo- 
tion, and  on  every  hand  were  heard  the  mingled 
howls  of  rage  and  fear,  and  ravage  and  expira- 
tion ;  all  the  horrors  of  darkness  and  solitude  sur- 
rounded him  :  the  winds  roared  in  the  woods, 
and  the  torrents  tumbled  from  the  hills, 


%ci/jiappoi.  irora/jioi,  Kar  Special  peovres, 
ydyKciav  c\iji6d\\c.TOv  oSptfiov  vSiap, 
T<j>v&f  TC  rrj\6<re  SOVTTOV  cv  ovptaiv  CK\VC  TTOI////V. 

W'ork'd  into  sudden  rage  by  wintry  showers, 
Down  the  steep  hill  the  roaring  torrent  pours! 
The  mountaia  shepherd  hears  the  distant  noise. 

Thus  forloni  and  distressed,  he  wandered 
through  the  wild,  without  knowing  whither  he 
was  going,  or  whether  he  was  every  moment 
drawing  nearer  to  safety  or  to  destruction.  At 
length  not  fear  but  labour  began  to  overcome  him  ; 
his  breath  grew  short,  and  his  knees  trembled, 
and  he  was  on  the  point  of  lying  down  in  resig- 
nation to  his  fate,  when  he  beheld  through  the 
brambles  the  glimmer  of  a  taper.  He  advanced 
towards  the  light,  and  finding  that  it  proceeded 
from  the  cottage  of  a  hermit,  he  called  humbly  at 
the  door,  and  obtained  admission.  The  old  man 
set  before  him  such  provisions  as  he  had  collect- 
ed for  himself,  on  which  Obidah  fed  with  eager- 
ness and  gratitude. 

When  the  repast  was  over,  "  Tell  me,"  said  the 
hermit,  "  by  what  chance  thou  hast  been  brought 
hither  ;  I  have  been  now  twenty  years  an  inhabit- 
ant of  the  wilderness,  in  which  I  never  saw  a  man 
before.1'  Obidah  then  related  the  occurrences 
of  his  jouro<=y,  wiuiout  any  concealment  or  pal- 
liation. 

"  Son,"  said  the  hermit,  "  let  the  errors  and  fol- 
lies, the  dangers  and  escape  of  this  day,  sink  deep 
into  thy  heart.  Remember,  my  son,  that  human 
life  is  the  journey  of  a  day.  We  rise  in  the  morn- 
ing of  youth  full  of  vigour  and  full  of  expectation  ; 
we  set  forward  with  spirit  and  hope,  with  gayety 
ind  with  diligence,  and  travel  on  a  while  in  the 
Itraight  road  of  piety  towards  the  mansions  of 
rest.  In  a  short  time  we  remit  our  fervour,  and 
endeavour  to  find  some  mitigation  of  our  duty, 
and  some  more  easy  means  of  obtaining  the  same 
end.  We  then  relax  our  vigour,  and  resolve  no 
longer  to  be  terrified  wilh  crimes  at  a  distance, 
but  rely  upon  our  own  constancy,  and  venture 
to  approach  what  we  resolve  never  to  touch.  We 
thus  enter  the  bowers  of  ease,  and  repose  in  the 
shades  of  security.  Here  the  heart  softens,  and 
vigilance  subsides  ;  we  are  then  willing  to  inquire 
whether  another  advance  cannot  be  made,  and 
whether  we  may  not,  at  least,  turn  our  eyes  upon 
the  gardens  of  pleasure.  We  approach  them 
with  scruple  and  hesitation;  we  enter  them,  but 
enter  timorous  and  trembling,  and  always  hope 
to  pass  through  them  without  losing  the  road  of 
virtue,  which  we,  for  awhile,  keep  in  our  sight, 
and  to  which  we  propose  to  return.  But  temp- 
tation succeeds  temptation,  and  one  compliance 
prepares  us  for  another;  we  in  time  lose  the  hap- 
piness of  innocence,  and  solace  our  disquiet  with 
sensual  gratifications.  By  degrees  we  let  fall 
fhr  remembrance  of  our  original  intention,  and 


quit  the  only  adequate  obje^.  e  rational  desire 
We  entangle  ourselves  in  business,  immerge  our- 
selves in  luxury,  and  rove  through  tha  labyrinths 
of  inconstancy,  till  the  darkness  of  old  age  begins 
to  invade  us,  and  disease  and  anxiety  obstruct 
our  way.  We  then  look  back  upon  our  lives 
with  horror,  with  sorrow,  with  repentance  ;  and 
wish,  but  too  often  vainly  wish,  that  we  had  not 
forsaken  the  ways  of  virtue.  Happy  are  they, 
my  son,  who  shall  learn  from  thy  example  not 
to  despair,  but  shall  remember  that  though  the 
day  is  past,  and  their  strength  is  wasted,  there 
yet  remains  one  effort  to  be  made  ;  that  reform- 
ation is  never  hopeless,  nor  sincere  endeavoura 
ever  unassisted  ;  that  the  wanderer  may  at  length 
return  after  all  his  errors,  and  that  he  who  im- 
plores strength  and  courage  from  above  shalt 
find  danger  and  difficulty  give  way  before  him. 
Go  now,  my  son,  to  thy  repose,  commit  thyself 
to  the  care  of  Omnipotence,  and  when  the  morn- 
ing calls  again  to  toil,  begin  anew  thy  journey 
and  thy  life." 


No.  66.]  SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  3,  1750. 

• Fauci  dignoscerepossunt 

Vcra  boiiti,  atque  illis  multum  diverse.,  remote 
Erroris  nebula.  juv 

How  few 

Know  their  own  good ;  or,  knowing  it,  pursue '/ 
How  void  of  reason  are  our  hopes  and  fears  ? 

URVDEN. 

THE  folly  of  human  wishes  and  pursuits  has  al- 
ways been  a  standing  subject  of  mirth  and  de- 
clamation, and  has  been  ridiculed  and  lamented 
from  age  to  age  ;  till  perhaps  the  fruitless  repe- 
tition of  complaints  and  censures  may  be  justly 
numbered  among  the  subjects  of  censure  and 
complaint. 

Some  of  these  instructers  of  mankind  have  not 
contented  themselves  with  checking  the  over- 
flows of  passion,  and  lopping  the  exuberance  of 
desire,  but  have  attempted  to  destroy  the  root  as 
well  as  the  branches  ;  and  not  only  to  confine 
the  mind  within  bounds,  but  to  smooth  it  for  ever 
by  a  dead  calm.  They  have  employed  their  rea 
son  and  eloquence  to  persuade  us,  that  nothing 
is  worth  the  wish  of  a  wise  man,  have  repre- 
sented all  earthly  good  and  evil  as  indifferent, 
and  counted  among  vulgar  errors  the  dread  of 
pain,  and  the  love  of  life. 

It  is  almost  always  the  unhappiness  of  a  victo- 
rious disputant,  to  destroy  his  own  authority  by 
claiming  too  many  consequences,  or  diffusing 
his  proposition  to  an  indefensible  extent.  When 
we  have  heated  our  zeal  in  a  cause,  and  elated 
our  confidence  with  success,  we  are  naturally  in- 
clined to  pursue  the  same  train  of  reasoning  to 
establish  some  collateral  truth,  to  remove  some 
adjacent  difficulty,  and  to  take  in  the  whole  com- 
prehension of  our  system.  As  a  prince,  in  the 
ardour  of  acquisition,  is  willing  to  secure  his  first 
conquest  by  the  addition  of  another,  add?  for- 
tress to  fortress,  and  city  to  city,  till  despair  and 
opportunity  tuin  his  enemies  upon  him,  and  he 
loses  in  a  moment  the  glory  of  a  reign. 

The  philosophers  having  found  an  easy  victory 
over  those  desires  which  we  produce  in  ourselves, 
and  which  terminate  in  some  imaginary  slate  of 
happiness  unknown  and  unattainable,  proceeded 


no 


THE  RAMBLER. 


to  make  further  inroads  upon  the  heart,  and  at- 
tacked at  last  our  senses  and  our  instincts.  They 
continued  to  war  upon  nature  with  arms,  by 
which  only  folly  could  be  conquered ;  they  there- 
fore lost  the  trophies  of  their  former  combats, 
and  were  considered  no  longer  with  reverence 
or  regard. 

Yet  it  cannot  be  with  justice  denied,  that  these 
men  have  been  very  useful  monitors,  and  have 
left  many  proofs  of  strong  reason,  deep  pene- 
tration, and  accurate  attention  to  the  affairs  of 
life,  which  it  is  now  our  business  to  separate  from 
the  foam  of  a  boiling  imagination,  and  to  apply 
judiciously  to  our  own  use.  They  have  shown  that 
most  of  the  conditions  of  life,  which  raise  the  envy 
of  the  timorous,  and  rouse  the  ambition  of  the 
daring,  are  empty  shows  of  felicity,  which  when 
they  become  familiar,  lose  their  power  of  delight- 
ing ;  and  that  the  most  prosperous  and  exalted 
have  very  few  advantages  over  a  meaner  and  more 
obscure  fortune,  when  their  dangers  and  solici- 
tudes are  balanced  against  their  equipage,  their 
banquets,  and  their  palaces. 

It  is  natural  for  every  man  uninstructed  to 
murmur  at  his  condition,  because,  in  the  general 
infelicity  of  life,  he  feels  his  own  miseries,  with- 
out knowing  that  they  are  common  to  all  the  rest 
of  the  species ;  and,  therefore,  though  he  will  not 
be  less  sensible  of  pain  by  being  told  that  others 
are  equally  tormented,  he  will  at  least  be  freed 
from  the  temptation  of  seeking,  by  perpetual 
changes,  that  ease  which  is  no  where  to  be  found ; 
and,  though  his  disease  still  continues,  he  escapes 
the  hazard  of  exasperating  it  by  remedies. 

The  gratifications  which  affluence  of  wealth, 
extent  of  power,  and  eminence  of  reputation  con- 
fer, must  be  always,  by  their  own  nature,  confined 
to  a  very  small  number;  and  the  life  of  the  greater 
part  of  mankind  must  be  lost  in  empty  wishes 
and  painful  comparisons,  were  not  the  balm  of 
philosophy  shed  upon  us,  and  our  discontent  at 
the  appearances  of  an  unequal  distribution  sooth- 
ed and  appeased. 

It  seemed,  perhaps,  below  the  dignity  of  the 
great  masters  of  moral  learning,  to  descend  to 
familiar  life,  and  caution  mankind  against  that 
petty  ambition,  which  is  known  among  us  by 
the  name  of  Vanity ;  which  yet  had  been  an  un- 
dertaking not  unworthy  of  the  longest  beard,  and 
most  solemn  austerity.  For  though  the  passions 
of  little  minds,  acting  in  low  stations,  do  not  fill 
the  world  with  bloodshed  and  devastations,  or 
mark,  by  great  events,  the  periods  of  time,  yet 
they  torture  the  breast  on  which  they  seize,  in 
fest  those  that  are  placed  within  the  reach  of 
their  influence,  destroy  private  quiet  and  private 
virtue,  and  undermine  insensibly  the  happiness 
of  the  world. 

The  desire  of  excellence  is  laudable,  but  is 
very  frequently  ill  directed.  We  fall,  by  chance, 
into  some  class  of  mankind,  and  without  consult- 
ing nature  or  wisdom,  resolve  to  gain  their  regard 
by  those  qualities  which  they  happen  to  esteem. 
I  once  knew  a  man  remarkably  dim-sighted,  who, 
by  conversing  much  with  country  gentlemen, 
found  himself  irresistibly  determined  to  sylvan 
honours.  His  great  ambition  was  to  shoot  fly- 
ing, and  he  therefore  spent  whole  days  in  the 
woods  pursuing  game ;  which,  before  he  was 
near  enough  to  see  them,  his  approach  frighted 
iway. 

When  it  happens  that  the  desire  tends  to  ob- 


jects which  produce  no  competition,  it  may  be 
overlooked  with  some  indulgence,  because,  how- 
ever fruitless  or  absurd,  it  cannot  have  ill  effects 
upon  the  morals.  But  most  of  our  enjoyments 
owe  their  value  to  the  peculiarity  of  possession, 
and  when  they  are  rated  at  too  high  a  value,  give 
occasion  to  stratagems  of  malignity,  and  incite 
opposition,  hatred,  and  defamation.  The  con- 
test of  two  rural  beauties  for  preference  and  dis- 
tinction, is  often  sufficiently  keen  and  rancorous 
to  fill  their  breasts  with  all  those  passions,  which 
are  generally  thought  the  curse  only  of  senates, 
of  armies,  and  of  courts,  and  the  rival  dancers 
of  an  obscure  assembly  have  their  partisans  and 
abettors,  often  not  less  exasperated  against  each 
other  than  those  who  are  promoting  the  interests 
of  rival  monarchs. 

It  is  common  to  consider  those  whom  we  find 
infected  with  an  unreasonable  regard  for  trifling 
accomplishments,  as  chargeable  with  all  the  con- 
sequences of  their  folly,  and  as  the  authors  of 
their  own  unhappiness ;  but  perhaps,  those 
whom  we  thus  scorn  or  detest,  have  more  claim 
to  tenderness  than  has  been  yet  allowed  them. 
Before  we  permit  our  severity  to  break  loose 
upon  any  fault  or  error,  we  ought  surely  to  con- 
sider how  much  we  have  countenanced  or  pro- 
moted it.  We  see  multitudes  busy  in  the  pursuit 
of  riches,  at  the  expense  of  wisdom  and  of  vir- 
tue ;  but  we  see  the  rest  of  mankind  approving 
their  conduct,  and  inciting  their  eagerness,  by 
paying  that  regard  and  deference  to  wealth, 
which  wisdom  and  virtue  only  can  deserve.  We 
see  women  universally  jealous  of  the  reputation 
of  their  beauty,  and  frequently  look  with  con- 
tempt on  the  care  with  which  they  study  their 
complexions,  endeavour  to  preserve,  or  to  supply 
the  bloom  of  youth,  regulate  every  ornament, 
twist  their  hair  into  curls,  and  shade  their  faces 
from  the  weather.  We  recommend  the  care  ot 
their  nobler  part,  and  tell  them  how  little  addi- 
tion is  made  by  all  their  arts  to  the  graces  of  the 
mind.  But  when  was  it  known  that  female 
goodness  or  knowledge  was  able  to  attract  that 
officiousness,  or  inspire  that  ardour,  which  beauty 
produces  whenever  it  appears  ?  And  with  what 
hope  can  we  endeavour  to  persuade  the  ladies 
that  the  time  spent  at  the  toilet  is  lost  in  vanity 
when  they  have  every  moment  some  new  con 
viction,  that  their  interest  is  more  effectually  pro  • 
moted  by  a  riband  well  disposed,  than  by  the 
brightest  act  of  heroic  virtue  ? 

In  every  instance  of  vanity  it  will  be  found 
that  the  blame  ought  to  be  shared  among  more 
than  it  generally  reaches ;  all  who  exalt  trifles  by 
immoderate  praise,  or  instigate  needless  emula 
lation  by  invidious  incitements,  are  to  be  consi 
sidered  as  perverters  of  reason,  and  corrupters  o: 
the  world  ;  and  since  every  man  is  obliged  tc 
promote  happiness  and  virtue,  he  should  be  care- 
ful not  to  mislead  unwary  minds,  by  appearing 
to  set  too  high  a  value  upon  things  by  which  no 
real  excellencs  is  conferred. 


No.67.]  TUESDAY,  NOVEMBER  6,  1750. 

Ai  o  fXir/^tf  $6aKovai  tyvydfas  oij  Xoyoj, 
KaXoif  fi\irrov<riv  opftaai,  ^/XXoixrt  Si.        EURIP 

Exiles,  the  proverb  says,  subsist  on  hope 
Delusive  hope  still  points  to  <li.-t.mt  goorl, 
To  good  that  mocks  approach. 


No.  67.] 


THE  RAMBLEI 


111 


THERE  is  no  temper  so  generally  indulged  as 
hope ;  other  passions  operate  by  starts  on  parti- 
cular occasions,  or  in  certain  parts  of  life  ;  but 
hope  begins  with  the  first  power  of  comparing 
our  actual  with  our  possible  state,  and  attends  us 
through  every  stage  and  period,  always  urging 
us  forward  to  new  acquisitions,  and  holding  out 
some  distant  blessing  to  our  view,  promising  us 
either  relief  from  pain,  or  increase  of  happiness. 

Hope  is  necessary  in  every  condition.  The 
miseries  of  poverty,  of  sickness,  of  captivity, 
would,  without  this  comfort,  be  insupportable ; 
nor  does  it  appear  that  the  happiest  lot  of  terres- 
trial existence  can  set  us  above  the  want  of  this 
general  blessing  ;  or  that  life,  when  the  gifts  of 
nature  and  of  fortune  are  accumulated  upon  it, 
would  not  still  be  wretched,  were  it  not  elevated 
and  delighted  by  the  expectation  of  some  new 
possession,  of  some  enjoyment  yet  behind,  by 
which  the  wish  shall  be  at  last  satisfied,  and  the 
heart  filled  up  to  its  utmost  extent 

Hope  is,  indeed,  very  fallacious,  and  promises 
what  it  seldom  gives  ;  but  its  promises  are  more 
valuable  than  the  gifts  of  fortune,  and  it  seldom 
frustrates  us  without  assuring  us  of  recompensing 
the  delay  by  a  greater  bounty. 

I  was  musing  on  this  strange  inclination  which 
every  man  feels  to  deceive  himself,  and  consider- 
ing the  advantages  and  dangers  proceeding  from 
this  gay  prospect  of  futurity,  when,  falling  asleep, 
on  a  sudden  I  found  myself  placed  in  a  garden, 
of  which  my  sight  could  descry  no  limits.  Every 
scene  about  me  was  gay  and  gladsome,  light 
with  sunshine,  and  fragrant  with  perfumes  ;  the 
ground  was  painted  with  all  the  variety  of  spring, 
and  all  the  choir  of  nature  was  singing  in  the 
groves.  When  I  had  recovered  from  the  first 
raptures,  with  which  the  confusion  of  pleasure 
had  for  a  time  entranced  me,  I  began  to  take  a 
particular  and  deliberate  view  of  this  delightful 
region.  I  then  perceived  that  I  had  yet  higher 
gratifications  to  expect,  and  that  at  a  small  dis- 
tance from  me,  there  were  brighter  flowers,  clearer 
fountains,  and  more  lofty  groves,  where  tjie  birds, 
which  I  yet  heard  but  faintly,  were  exerting  all 
the  power  of  melody.  The  trees  about  me  were 
beautiful  with  verdure,  and  fragrant  with  blos- 
soms ;  but  I  was  tempted  to  leave  them  by  the 
sight  of  ripe  fruits,  which  seemed  to  hang  only  to 
be  plucked.  I  therefore  walked  hastily  forwards, 
but  found,  as  I  proceeded,  that  the  colours  of  the 
field  faded  at  my  approach,  the  fruit  fell  before  I 
reached  it,  the  birds  flew,  still  singing  before  me, 
and  though  I  pressed  onward  with  great  celerity, 
I  was  still  in  sight  of  pleasures  of  which  I  could 
not  yet  gain  the  possession,  and  which  seemed  to 
mock  my  diligence,  and  to  retire  as  I  advanced. 

Though  I  was  confounded  with  so  many  al- 
ternations of  joy  and  grief,  I  yet  persisted  to 
go  forward,  in  hopes  that  these  fugitive  delights 
would  in  time  be  overtaken.  At  length  I  saw 
an  -enumerable  multitude  of  every  age  and  sex, 
*-.£>  seemed  all  to  partake  of  some  general  felici- 
ty ;  for  every  cheek  was  flushed  with  confidence, 
and  every  eye  sparkled  with  eagerness  :  yet  each 
appeared  to  have  some  particular  and  secret 
pleasure,  and  very  few  were  willing  to  communi- 
cate their  intentions,  or  extend  their  concern  be- 
yond themselves.  Most  of  them  seemed,  by  the 
rapidity  of  their  motion,  too  busy  to  gratify  the 
curiosity  of  a  stranger,  and  therefore  I  was  con- 
ent  for  a  while  to  gaze  upon  them,  without  in- 


terrupting them  with  troublesome  inquiries.  At 
last  I  observed  one  man  worn  with  time,  and 
unable  to  struggle  in  the  crowd :  and  therefore, 
supposing  him  more  at  leisure,  I  began  to  accost 
him :  but  he  turned  from  me  with  anger,  and  told 
me  he  must  not  be  disturbed,  for  the  great  hour 
of  projection  was  now  come  when  Mercury  should 
lose  his  wings,  and  slavery  should  no  longer  dig 
the  mine  for  gold. 

I  left  him,  and  attempted  another,  whose  soft- 
ness of  mien,  and  easy  movement,  gave  me  rea- 
son to  hope  for  a  more  agreeable  reception  ;  but 
he  told  me  with  a  low  bow,  that  nothing  would 
make  him  more  happy  than  an  opportunity  ot 
serving  me,  which  he  could  not  now  want,  for  a 
place  which  he  had  been  twenty  years  soliciting 
would  be  soon  vacant  From  him  I  had  recourse 
to  the  next,  who  was  departing  in  haste  to  take 
possession  of  the  estate  of  an  uncle,  who  by  the 
course  of  nature  could  not  live  long.  He  that 
followed  was  preparing  to  dive  for  treasure  in  a 
new-invented  bell ;  and  another  was  on  the  point 
of  discovering  the  longitude. 

Being  thus  rejected  wheresoever  I  applied  my- 
self for  information,.!  began  to  imagine  it  best  to 
desist  from  inquiry,  and  try  what  my  own  obser- 
vation would  discover :  but  seeing  a  young  man, 
gay  and  thoughtless,  I  resolved  upon  one  more 
experiment,  and  was  informed  that  I  was  in  the 
garden  of  Hope,  the  daughter  of  Desire,  and  that 
all  those  whom  I  saw  thus  tumultuously  bustling 
round  me  were  incited  by  the  promises  of  Hope, 
and  hastening  to  seize  the  gifts  which  she  held 
in  her  hand. 

I  turned  my  sight  upward,  and  saw  a  goddess 
in  the  bloom  of  youth  sitting  on  a  throne  ;  around 
her  lay  all  the  gifts  of  fortune,  and  all  the  bless- 
ings of  life  were  spread  abroad  to  view ;  she  had 
a  perpetual  gayety  of  aspect,  and  every  one  ima- 
gined that  her  smile,  which  was  impartial  and 
general,  was  directed  to  himself,  and  triumphed 
in  his  own  superiority  to  others,  who  had  conceiv- 
ed the  same  confidence  from  the  same  mistake. 

I  then  mounted  an  eminence,  from  which  I  had 
a  more  extensive  view  of  the  whole  place,  and 
could  with  less  perplexity  consider  the  different 
conduct  of  the  crowds  that  filled  it.  From  this 
station  I  observed,  that  the  entrance  into  the 
garden  of  Hope  was  by  two  gates,  one  of  which 
was  kept  by  Reason,  and  the  other  by  Fancy. 
Reason  was  surly  and  scrupulous,  and  seldom 
turned  the  key  without  many  interrogatories,  and 
long  hesitation ;  but  Fancy  was  a  kind  and  gentle 
portress,  she  held  her  gate  wide  open,  and  wel- 
comed all  equally  to  the  district  under  her  super- 
intendency :  so  that  the  passage  was  crowded  by 
all  those  who  either  feared  the  examination  of 
Reason,  or  had  been  rejected  by  her. 

From  the  gate  of  Reason  there  was  a  way  to 
the  throne  of  Hope,  by  a  craggy,  slippery,  and 
winding  path,  called  the  Strait  of  Difficulty,  which 
those  who  entered  with  the  permission  of  the 
guard  endeavoured  to  climb.  But  though  they 
surveyed  the  way  very  cheerfully  before  they 
begq.n  to  rise,  and  marked  out  the  several  stages 
of  their  progress,  they  commonly  found  unexpect- 
ed obstacles,  and  were  obliged  frequently  to  stop 
on  the  sudden,  where  they  imagined  the  waj 
plain  and  even.  A  thousand  intricacies  embar- 
rassed them,  a  thousand  slips  threw  them  back, 
and  a  thousand  pitfalls  impeded  their  advance. 
So  formidable  were  the  dangers,  and  so  frequent 


112 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  C8 


the  miscarriages,  that  many  returned  from  the 
first  attempt,  and  many  fainted  in  the  midst  of 
the  way,  and  only  a  very  small  number  were  led 
up  to  the  summit  of  Hope,  by  the  hand  of  Forti- 
tude. Of  these  few  the  greater  part,  when  they 
Had  obtained  the  gift  which  Hope  had  promised 
them,  regretted  the  labour  which  it  cost,  and  felt 
in  their  success  the  regret  of  disappointment ;  the 
rest  retired  with  their  prize,  and  were  led  by  Wis- 
dom to  the  bowers  of  Content 

Turning  then  towards  the  gate  of  Fancy,  I 
could  find  no  way  to  the  seat  of  Hope ;  but  though 
she  sat  full  in  view,  and  held  out  her  gifts  with 
an  air  of  invitation,  which  filled  every  heart  with 
rapture,  the  mountain  was,  on  that  side  inacessi- 
bly  steep,  but  so  channelled  and  shaded,  that 
none  perceived  the  impossibility  of  ascending  it, 
but  each  imagined  himself  to  have  discovered  a 
way  to  which  the  rest  were  strangers.  Many 
expedients  were  indeed  tried  by  this  industrious 
tribe,  of  whom  some  were  making  themselves 
wings,  which  others  were  contriving  to  actuate 
by  the  perpetual  motion.  But  with  all  their  la- 
bour and  all  their  artifices,  they  never  rose  above 
the  ground,  or  quickly  fell  .back,  nor  ev.er  ap- 
proached the  throne  of  Hope,  but  continued  still 
to  gaze  at  a  distance,  and  laughed  at  the  slow 
progress  of  those  whom  they  saw  toiling  in  tho 
Strait  of  Difficulty. 

Part  of  the  favourites  of  Fancy,  when  they  had 
entered  the  garden,  without  making,  like  the 
rest,  an  attempt  to  climb  the  mountain,  turned 
immediately  to  the  vale  of  Idleness,  a  calm  and 
undisturbed  retirement,  from  whence  they  could 
always  have  Hope  in  prospect,  and  to  which  they 
pleased  themselves  with  believing  that  she  in- 
tended speedily  to  descend.  These  were  indeed 
scorned  by  all  the  rest ;  but  they  seemed  very 
little  affected  by  contempt,  advice,  or  reproof, 
but  were  resolved  to  expect  at  ease  the  favour  of 
the  goddess. 

Among  this  gay  race  I  was  wandering,  and 
found  them  ready  to  answer  all  my  questions, 
and  willing  to  communicate  their  mirth;  but 
turning  round,  I  saw  two  dreadful  monsters  en- 
tering the  vale,  one  of  whom  I  knew  to  be  Age, 
and  the  other  Want.  Sport  and  revelling  were 
now  at  an  end,  and  a  universal  shriek  of  affright 
and  distress  burst  out  and  awaked  me. 


No.  68.]    SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  10,  1750. 

t'ivendum  recte,  cum  propter  plurima,  turn  hit 
Prtscipue  causis,  ut  linguas  mancipiorum 
Contemnas;  nam  lingua  malipanpetaima  servi. 

JUV. 

Let  us  live  well :  were  it  alone  for  this 

The  baneful  tongues  of  servants  to  despise : 

Slander,  that  worst  of  poisons,  ever  finds 

An  easy  entrance  to  ignoble  minds.  HERVEY. 

THE  younger  Pliny  has  very  justly  observed,  that 
of  actions  that  deserve  our  attention,  the  most 
splendid  are  not  always  the  greatest  Fame,  and 
wonder,  and  applause,  are  not  excited  but  by 
external  and  adventitious  circumstances,  often 
distinct  and  separate  from  virtue  and  heroism. 
Eminence  of  station,  greatness  of  effect,  and  all 
the  favours  of  fortune,  must  concur  to  place  ex- 
cellence in  public  view;  but  fortitude,  diligence 
and  patience,  divested  of  their  show,  glide  unob- 


served through  the  crowd  of  life,  and  suffer  and 
act,  though  with  the  same  vigour  and  constancy, 
yet  without  pity  and  without  praise. 

This  remark  may  be  extended  to  all  parts  of 
life.  Nothing  is  to  be  estimated  by  its  effect 
upon  common  eyes  and  common  ears.  A  thou- 
sand miseries  make  silent  and  invisible  inroads 
on  mankind,  and  the  heart  feels  innumerable 
throbs,  which  never  break  into  complaint.  Per- 
haps, likewise,  our  pleasures  are  for  the  most  part 
equally  secret,  and  most  are  borne  up  by  some 
private  satisfaction,  some  internal  consciousness, 
some  latent  hope,  some  peculiar  prospect,  which 
they  never  communicate,  but  reserve  for  solitary 
hours,  and  clandestine  meditation. 

The  main  of  life  is,  indeed,  composed  of  small 
incidents  and  petty  occurrences ;  of  wishes  for 
objects  not  remote,  and  grief  for  disappointments 
of  no  fatal  consequence ;  of  insect  vexations  which 
sting  us  and  fly  away,  impertinences  which  buzz 
a  while  about  us,  and  are  heard  no  more ;  of  me- 
teorous  pleasures  which  dance  before  us  and  are 
dissipated  ;  of  compliments  which  glide  oft'  the 
soul  like  other  music,  and  are  forgotten  by  him 
that  gave  and  him  that  received  them. 

Such  is  the  general  heap  out  of  which  every 
man  is  to  cull  his  own  condition :  for  as  the  chy- 
mists  tell  us,  that  all  bodies  arc  resolvable  into  the 
same  elements,  and  that  the  boundless  variety 
of  things  arises  from  the  different  proportions  ot 
very  few  ingredients ;  so  a  few  pains  and  a  few 
pleasures  are  all  the  materials  of  human  life,  and 
of  these  the  proportions  are  partly  allotted  by 
Providence,  and  partly  left  to  the  arrangement 
of  reason  and  of  choice. 

As  these  are  well  or  ill  disposed,  man  is  for  the 
most  part  happy  or  miserable.  For  very  few  are 
involved  in  great  events,  or  have  their  thread  ot 
life  entwisted  with  the  chain  of  causes  on  which 
armies  or  nations  are  suspended ;  and  even  those 
who  seem  wholly  busied  in  public  affairs,  and 
elevated  above  low  cares,  or  trivial  pleasures, 
pass  the  chief  part  of  their  time  in  familiar  and 
domestic  scenes ;  from  these  they  came  into  pub- 
lic life,  to  these  they  are  every  hour  recalled  by 
passions  not  to  be  suppressed ;  in  these  they  have 
the  reward  of  their  toils,  and  to  these  at  last  they 
retire. 

The  great  end  of  prudence  is  to  give  cheerful- 
ness to  those  hours  which  splendour  cannot  gild, 
and  acclamation  cannot  exhilarate  ;  those  soft  in- 
tervals of  unbended  amusement,  in  which  a  man 
shrinks  to  his  natural  dimensions,  and  throws 
aside  the  ornaments  or  disguises,  which  he  feels 
in  privacy  to  be  useless  incumbrances,  and  to 
lose  all  effect  when  they  become  familiar.  To 
be  happy  at  home  is  the  ultimate  result  of  all  am- 
bition, the  end  to  which  every  enterprise  and  la- 
bour tends,  and  of  which  every  desire  prompts 
the  prosecution. 

It  is,  indeed,  at  home  that  every  man  must  be 
known  by  those  who  would  make  a  just  estimate 
either  of  his  virtue  or  felicity ;  for  smiles  and  em- 
broidery are  alike  occasional,  and  the  mind  is 
often  dressed  for  show  in  painted  honour  and  fic- 
titious benevolence. 

Every  man  must  have  found  some  whose  lives, 
in  every  house  but  their  own,  were  a  continual 
series  of  hypocrisy,  and  who  concealed  under 
lair  appearances  bad  qualities,  which,  whenever 
they  thought  themselves  out  of  the  reach  of  cen- 
sure, broke  out  from  their  restraint,  like  winds 


No.  69.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


113 


imprisoned  in  their  caverns,  and  whom  every  one 
had  reason  to  love,  but  they  whose  love  a  wise 
man  is  chiefly  solicitous  to  procure.  And  there 
are  others  who,  without  any  show  of  general 
goodness,  and  without  the  attractions  by  which 
popularity  is  conciliated,  are  received  among 
their  own  families  as  bestowers  of  happiness, 
and  reverenced  as  instructors,  guardians,  and  be- 
nefactors. 

The  most  authentic  witnesses  of  any  man's  cha- 
racter are  those  who  know  him  in  his  own  fami- 
ly, and  see  him  without  any  restraint  or  rule  of 
conduct,  but  such  as  he  voluntarily  prescribes  to 
himself.  If  a  man  carries  virtue  with  him  into 
his  private  apartments,  and  takes  no  advantage 
of  unlimited  power,  or  probable  secrecy  ;  if  we 
trace  him  through  the  round  of  his  time,  and  find 
that  his  character,  with  those  allowances  which 
mortal  frailty  must  always  want,  is  uniform  and 
regular,  we  have  all  the  evidence  of  his  sincerity 
that  one  man  can  have  with  regard  to  another : 
and,  indeed,  as  hypocrisy  cannot  be  its  own  re- 
ward, we  may,  without  hesitation,  determine  that 
his  heart  is  pure. 

The  highest  panegyric,  therefore,  that  private 
virtue  can  receive,  is  the  praise  of  servants.  For, 
however  vanity  or  insolence  may  look  down  with 
contempt  on  the  suffrage  of  men  undignified  by 
wealth,  and  unenlightened  by  education,  it  very 
seldom  happens  that  they  commend  or  blame 
without  justice.  Vice  and  virtue  are  easily  dis- 
tinguished. Oppression,  according  to  Harring- 
ton's aphorism,  will  be  felt  by  those  who  cannot 
see  it ;  and,  perhaps,  it  falls  out  very  often  that, 
in  moral  questions,  the  philosophers  in  the  gown, 
and  in  the  livery,  differ  not  so  much  in  their  sen- 
timents, as  in  their  language,  and  have  equal 
power  of  discerning  right,  though  they  cannot 
point  it  out  to  others  with  equal  address. 

There  are  very  few  faults  to  be  committed  in 
solitude,  or  without  some  agents,  partners,  con- 
federates, or  witnesses  ;  and,  therefore,  the  serv- 
ant must  commonly  know  the  secrets  of  a  mas- 
ter, who  has  any  secrets  to  intrust ;  and  failings, 
merely  personal,  are  so  frequently  exposed  by 
that  security  which  pride  and  folly  generally  pro- 
duce, and  so  inquisitively  watched  by  that  desire 
of  reducing  the  inequalities  of  condition,  which 
the  lower  orders  of  the  world  will  always  feel, 
that  the  testimony  of  a  menial  domestic  can  sel- 
dom be  considered  as  defective  for  want  of  know- 
ledge. And  though  its  impartiality  may  be  some- 
times suspected,  it  is  at  least  as  credible  as  that 
of  equals,  where  rivalry  instigates  censure,  or 
friendship  dictates  palliations. 

The  danger  of  betraying  our  weakness  to  our 
servants,  and  the  impossibility  of  concealing  it 
from  them,  maybe  justly  considered  as  one  mo- 
tive to  a  regular  and  irreproachable  life.  For  no 
condition  is  more  hateful  or  despicable,  than  his 
who  has  put  himself  in  the  power  of  his  servant ; 
in  the  power  of  him  whom,  perhaps,  he  has  first 
corrupted  by  making  him  subservient  to  his 
vices,  and  whose  fidelity  he  therefore  cannot  en- 
force by  any  precepts  of  honesty  or  reason.  It 
is  seldom  known  that  authority  thus  acquired,  is 
possessed  without  insolence,  or  that  the  master 
is  not  forced  to  confess,  by  his  tameness  or  for- 
bearance, that  he  has  enslaved  himself  by  some 
foolish  confidence.  And  his  crime  is  equally 
punished,  whatever  part  he  takes  of  the  choice  to 
which  he  is  reduced ;  and  he  is  from  that  fatal 


hour,  in  which  he  sacrificed  his  dignity  to  his 
passions,  in  perpetual  dread  of  insolence  or  de- 
famation ;  of  a  controller  at  home,  or  an  accuser 
abroad.  He  is  condemned  to  purchase,  by  con- 
tinual bribes,  that  secrecy  which  bribes  never  se-- 
cured,  and  which,  after  a  long  course  of  submis- 
sion, promises,  and  anxieties,  he  will  find  violated 
in  a  fit  of  rage,  or  in  a  frolic  of  drunkenness. 

To  dread  no  eye,  and  to  suspect  no  tongue,  is 
the  great  prerogative  of  innocence  ;  an  exemp- 
tion granted  only  to  invariable  virtue.  But  guilt 
has  always  its  horrors  and  solicitudes :  and,  to 
make  it  yet  more  shameful  and  detestable,  it  is 
doomed  often  to  stand  in  awe  of  those,  to  whom 
nothing  could  give  influence  or  weight,  but  their 
power  of  betraying. 


No.  69.]  TUESDAY,  NOVEMBER  13, 1750. 

Flct  quoqite,  ut  in  specula  rugas  adtpexit  aniles, 
Tyndaris ;  et  scrum,  cur  sit  bis  rapta,  requirit 
Tempus  edax  return,  tuque  invidiosa  retustas 
Omnia  destruitis :  vitiataque  dentibus  avi 
Paullatim  lenta  consumitis  omnia  morte.  ovio 

The  dreaded  wrinkles  when  poor  Helen  spied, 
Ah !  why  this  second  rape  ? — with  tears  she  cried 
Time,  thou  devourer,  and  thou  envious  age, 
Who  all  destroy  with  keen  corroding  rage, 
Beneath  your  jaws,  whate'er  have  pleased  or  please 
Must  sink,  consumed  by  swift  or  slow  degrees. 

ELPHINSTON. 

AN  old  Greek  epigrammatist,  intending  to  show 
the  miseries  that  attend  the  last  stage  of  man, 
imprecates  on  them,  who  are  so  foolish  as  to 
wish  for  long  life,  the  calamity  of  continuing  to 
grow  old  from  century  to  century.  He  thought 
that  no  adventitious  or  foreign  pain  was  requi- 
site ;  that  decrepitude  itself  was  an  epitome  of 
whatever  is  dreadful ;  and  nothing  could  be  add- 
ed to  the  curse  of  age,  but  that  it  should  be  ex- 
tended beyond  its  natural  limits. 

The  most  indifferent  or  negligent  spectator 
can  indeed  Scarcely  retire  without  heaviness  of 
heart,  from  a  •view  of  the  last  scenes  of  the  tra- 
gedy of  life,  in  which  he  finds  those  who,  in  the 
'ormer  parts  of  the  drama,  were  distinguished  by 
opposition  of  conduct,  contrariety  of  designs,  and 
dissimilitude  of  personal  qualities,  all  involved  in 
one  common  distress,  and  all  struggling  with 
affliction  which  they  cannot  hope  to  overcome. 

The  other  miseries,  which  waylay  our  passage 
through  the  world,  wisdom  may  escape,  and  for- 
titude may  conquer  ;  by  caution  and  circumspec- 
tion tve  may  steal  along  with  very  little  to  obstruct 
or  incommode  us  ;  by  spirit  and  vigour  we  may 
force  a  Way,  and  reward  the  vexation  of  contest 
by  the  pleasures  of  victory.  But  a  time  must 
come  when  our  policy  and  bravery  shall  be 
equally  useless ;  when  we  shall  all  sink  into 
helplessness  and  sadness,  without  any  power  of 
receiving  solace  from  the  pleasures  that  have  for- 
merly delighted  us,  or  any  prospect  of  emerging 
nto  a  second  possession  of  the  blessings  that  we 
tiave  lost. 

The  industry  of  man  has,  indeed,  not  been 
wanting  in  endeavours  to  procure  comforts  for 
these  hours  of  dejection  and  melancholy,  and  to 
gild  the  dreadful  gloom  with  artificial  light.  The 
most  usual  support  of  old  age  is  wealth.  He 
whose  possessions  are  large,  and  whose  chests 
are  full,  imagines  himself  always  fortified  against 


14 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  70. 


invasions  on  his  authority.  If  he  has  lost  all 
other  means  of  government,  if  his  strength  and 
his  reason  fail  him,  he  can  at  last  alter  Ins  will  ; 
and  therefore,  all  that  have  hopes  must  likewise 
Have  fears,  and  he  may  still  continue  to  give  laws 
to  such  as  have  not  ceased  to  regard  their  own 
interest 

This  is  indeed  too  frequently  the  citadel  of  the 
dotard,  the  last  fortress  to  which  age  retires,  and 
in  which  he  makes  the  stand  against  the  upstart 
race  that  seizes  his  domains,  disputes  his  com- 
mands, and  cancels  his  prescriptions.  But  here, 
though  there  maybe  saiety,  there  is  no  pleasure ; 
and  what  remains  is  but  a  proof  that  more  was 
once  possessed. 

Nothing  seems  to  have  been  more  universally 
dreaded  by  the  ancients  than  orbity,  or  want  of 
children ;  and,  indeed,  to  a  man  who  has  sur- 
vived all  the  companions  of  his  youth,  all  who 
have  participated  his  pleasures  and  his  cares, 
have  been  engaged  in  the  same  events,  and  filled 
their  minds  with  the  same  conceptions,  this  full- 
peopled  world  is  a  dismal  solitude.  He  stands 
forlorn  and  silent,  neglected  or  insulted,  in  the 
midst  of  multitudes,  animated  with  hopes  which 
he  cannot  share,  and  employed  in  business  which 
he  is  no  longer  able  to  forward  or  retard  ;  nor 
can  he  find  any  to  whom  his  life  or  his  death  are 
of  importance,  unless  he  has  secured  some  do- 
mestic gratifications,  some  tender  employments, 
and  endeared  himself  to  some  whose  interest 
and  gratitude  may  unite  them  to  him. 

So  different  are  the  colours  of  life  as  we  look 
forward  to  the  future,  or  backward  to  the  past ; 
and  so  different  the  opinions  and  sentiments  which 
this  contrariety  of  appearance  naturally  produces, 
that  the  conversation  of  the  old  and  young  ends 
generally  with  contempt  or  pity  on  either  side. 
To  a  young  man  entering  the  world  with  ful- 
ness of  hope,  and  ardour  of  pursuit,  nothing  is  so 
unpleasing  as  the  cold  caution,  the  faint  expecta- 
tions, the  scrupulous  diffidence,  which  experi- 
ence and  disappointments  certainly  infuse  ;  and 
the  old  man  wonders  in  his  turn  that  the  world 
never  can  grow  wiser,  that  neither  precepts,  nor 
testimonies,  can  cure  boys  of  their  credulity  and 
sufficiency ;  and  that  not  one  can  be  convinced 
that  snares  are  laid  for  him,  till  he  finds  himself 
entangled. 

Thus  one  generation  is  always  the  scorn  and 
wonder  of  the  other,  and  the  notions  of  the  old 
and  young  are  like  liquors  of  different  gravity 
and  texture  which  never  can  unite.  The  spirits 
of  youth  sublimed  by  health,  and  volatilized  by 
passion,  soon  leave  behind  them  the  phlegmatic 
sediment  of  weariness  and  deliberation,  and  burst 
out  in  temerity  and  enterprise.  The  tenderness, 
therefore,  which  nature  infuses,  and  which  long 
habits  of  beneficence  confirm,  is  necessary  to  re- 
concile such  opposition ;  and  an  old  man  must 
be  a  father  to  bear  with  patience  those  follies  and 
absurdities  which  he  will  perpetually  imagine 
himself  to  find  in  the  schemes  and  expectations, 
the  pleasures  and  the  sorrows,  of  those  who  have 
not  yet  been  hardened  by  time,  and  chilled  by 
frustration. 

Yet,  it  may  be  doubted,  whether  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  children  ripening  into  strength,  be  not 
overbalanced  by  the  pain  of  seeing  some  fall  in 
the  blossom,  and  others  blasted  in  their  growth : 
some  shaken  down  with  storms,  some  tainted 
with  cankers,  and  some  shrivelled  in  the  shade : 


and  whether  he  that  extends  his  care  beyond 
himself,  does  not  multiply  his  anxieties  more  than 
his  pleasures,  and  weary  himself  to  no  purpose, 
by  superintending  what  he  cannot  regulate. 

But  though  age  be  to  every  order  of  human 
beings  sufficiently  terrible,  it  is  particularly  to  be 
dreaded  by  fine  ladies,  who  have  had  no  other 
end  or  ambition  than  to  fill  up  the  day  and  the 
night  with  dress,  diversions,  and  flattery ;  and 
who,  having  made  no  acquaintance  with  know- 
ledge, or  with  business,  have  constantly  caught 
all  their  ideas  from  the  current  prattle  of  the 
hour,  and  been  indebted  for  all  their  happiness  to 
compliments  and  treats.  With  these  ladies  age 
begins  early,  and  very  often  lasts  long ;  it  begins 
when  their  beauty  fades,  when  their  mirth  loses 
its  sprightliness,  and  their  motion  its  ease.  From 
that  time,  all  which  gave  them  joy  vanishes  from 
about  them ;  they  hear  the  praises  bestowed  on 
others,  which  used  to  swell  their  bosoms  with 
exultation.  They  visit  the  seats  of  felicity,  and 
endeavour  to  continue  the  habit  of  being  delight- 
ed. But  pleasure  is  only  received  when  we  be- 
lieve that  we  give  it  in  return.  Neglect  and  pe- 
tulance inform  them  that  their  power  and  their 
value  are  past ;  and  what  then  remains  but  a 
tedious  and  comfortless  uniformity  of  time,  with- 
out any  motion  of  the  heart,  or  exercise  of  tho 
reason. 

Yet,  however  age  may  discourage  us  by  its 
appearance  from  considering  it  in  prospect,  we 
shall  all  by  degrees  certainly  be  old  ;  and  there- 
fore we  ought  to  inquire  what  provision  can  be 
made  against  that  time  of  distress  ?  what  happi- 
ness can  be  stored  up  against  the  winter  of  life? 
and  how  we  may  pass  our  latter  years  with  se 
renity  and  cheerfulness  ? 

If  it  has  been  found  by  the  experience  of  man 
kind,  that  not  even  the  best  seasons  of  life  are 
able  to  supply  sufficient  gratifications,  without 
anticipating  uncertain  felicities,  it  cannot  surely 
be  supposed  that  old  age,  worn  with  labours,  ha- 
rassed with  anxieties,  and  tortured  with  diseases, 
should  have  any  gladness  of  its  own,  or  feel  any 
satisfaction  from  the  contemplation  of  the  pre- 
sent. All  the  comfort  that  can  now  be  expected 
must  be  recalled  from  the  past,  or  borrowed  from 
the  future ;  the  past  is  very  soon  exhausted,  all 
the  events  or  actions  of  which  the  memory  can 
afford  pleasure  are  quickly  recollected ;  and  the 
future  lies  beyond  the  grave,  where  it  can  be 
reached  only  by  virtue  and  devotion. 

Piety  is  the  only  proper  and  adequate  relief  of 
decaying  man.  He  that  grows  old  without  reli- 
gious hopes,  as  he  declines  into  imbecility,  and 
feels  pains  and  sorrows  incessantly  crowdinc 
upon  him,  falls  into  a  gulf  of  bottomless  misery, 
in  which  every  reflection  must  plunge  him  deep- 
er, and  where  he  finds  only  new  gradations  of 
anguish  and  precipices  of  horror. 


No.  70.]      SATURDAY,  Nov.  17,  1750. 

Argentea  proles, 

-ditro  detenor,  fulvo  pretiorior  are.  ono 

Succeeding  times  a  silver  age  behold, 
Excelling  brass,  but  more  excell'd  by  gold 

DRYDEN 

HESIOD,  in  his  celebrated  distribution  of  mankind 
divides  them  into  three  orders  of  intellect.  "The 


No.  70.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


115 


first  place,"  says  he,  "  belongs  to  him  that  can 
by  his  own  powers  discern  what  is  right  and  fit, 
and  penetrate  to  the  remoter  motives  of  action. 
The  second  is  claimed  by  him  that  is  willing  to 
hear  mstruction,  and  can  perceive  right  and 
wrong  when  they  are  shown  him  by  another;  but 
he  that  has  neither  acuteness  nor  docility,  who 
can  neither  find  the  way  by  himself,  nor  will  be 
led  by  others,  is  a  wretch  without  use  or  value." 

If  we  survey  the  moral  world,  it  will  be  found 
that  the  same  division  maybe  made  of  men,  with 
regard  to  their  virtue.  There  are  some  whose 
principles  are  so  firmly  fixed,  whose  conviction 
is  so  constantly  present  to  their  minds,  and  who 
have  raised  in  themselves  such  ardent  wishes  for 
the  approbation  of  God,  and  the  happiness  with 
which  he  has  promised  to  reward  obedience  and 
perseverance,  that  they  rise  above  all  other  cares 
and  considerations,  and  uniformly  examine  every 
action  and  desire,  by  comparing  it  with  the  Di- 
vine commands.  There  are  others  in  a  kind  of 
equipoise  between  good  and  ill ;  who  are  moved 
on  the  one  part  by  riches  or  pleasures,  by  the 
gratifications  of  passion  and  the  delights  of  sense; 
and,  on  the  other,  by  laws  of  which  they  own  the 
obligation,  and  rewards  of  which  they  believe  the 
reality,  and  whom  a  very  small  addition  of  weight 
turns  either  way.  The  third  class  consists  of  ber 
ings  immersed  in  pleasures,  or  abandoned  to  pas- 
sion, without  any  desire  of  higher  good,  or  any 
effort  to  extend  their  thoughts  beyond  immediate 
and  gross  satisfactions. 

The  second  class  is  so  much  the  most  numer 
rous,  that  it  may  be  considered  as  comprising 
the  whole  body  of  mankind.  Those  of  the  last 
are  not  very  many,  and  those  of  the  first  are  very 
few ;  and  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  fall  much 
under  the  consideration  of  the  moralist,  whose 
precepts  are  intended  chiefly  for  those  who  are 
endeavouring  to  go  forward  up  the  steeps  of  vir- 
tue, not  for  those  who  have  already  reached  the 
summit,  or  those  who  are  resolved  to  stay  for 
ever  in  their  present  situation. 

To  a  man  not  versed  in  the  living  world,  but 
accustomed  to  judge  only  by  "speculative  reason, 
it  is  scarcely  credible  that  any  one  should  be  in 
this  state  of  indifference,  or  stand  undetermined 
and  unengaged,  ready  to  follow  the  first  call  to 
either  side.  It  seems  certain,  that  either  a  man 
must  believe  that  virtue  will  make  him  happy, 
and  resolve  therefore  to  be  virtuous,  or  think 
that  he  may  be  happy  without  virtue,  and  there- 
fore cast  off  all  care  but  for  his  present  interest. 
It  seems  impossible  that  conviction  should  be  on 
one  side,  and  practice  on  the  other;  and  that  he 
who  has  seen  the  right  way  should  voluntarily 
shut  his  eyes,  that  he  may  quit  it  with  more  tran- 
quillity. Yet  all  these  absurdities  are  every  hour 
to  be  found;  the  wisest  and  best  men  deviate 
from  known  and  acknowledged  duties,  by  inad- 
vertency or  surprise;  and  most  are  good  no 
longer  than  while  temptation  is  away,  than  while 
their  passions  are  without  excitements,  and  their 
opinions  are  free  from  the  counteraction  of  any 
other  motive. 

Among  the  sentiments  which  almost  every 
man  changes  as  he  advances  into  years,  is  the 
expectation  of  uniformity  of  character.  He  that 
without  acquaintance  with  the  power  of  desire, 
the  cogency  of  distress,  the  complications  of  af- 
fairs, or  the  force  of  partial  influence,  has  filled 
his  mind  with  the  excellence  of  virtue,  and,  hav- 


ing never  tried  his  resolution  in  any  encounters 
with  hope  or  fear,  believes  it  able  to  stand  firm 
whatever  shall  oppose  it,  will  be  always  clamor- 
ous against  the  smallest  failure,  ready  to  exact 
the  utmost  punctualities  of  right,  and  to  consider 
every  man  that  fails  in  any  part  of  his  duty,  as 
without  conscience  and  withouj  merit ;  unwor- 
thy of  trust  or  love,  of  pity  or  regard ;  as  an  ene- 
my whom  all  should  join  to  drive  out  of  society, 
as  a  pest  which  all  should  avoid,  or  as  a  weed 
which  all  should  trample. 

It  is  not  but  by  experience,  that  we  are  taught 
the  possibility* of  retaining  some  virtues,  and  re- 
jecting others,  or  of  being  good  or  bad  to  a  par 
ticular  degree.  For  it  is  very  easy  to  the  soli 
tary  reaeoner,  to  prove,  that  the  same  arguments 
by  which  the  mind  is  fortified  against  one  crime 
are  of  equal  force  against  all,  and  the  conse- 
quence very  naturally  follows,  that  he  whom 
they  fail  to  move  on  any  occasion,  has  either 
never  considered  them,  or  has  by  some  fallacy 
taught  himself  to  evade  their  validity ;  and  that, 
therefore,  when  a  man  is  known  to  be  guilty  ot 
one  crime,  no  farther  evidence  is  needful  of  his 
depravity  and  corruption. 

Yet,  such  is  the  state  of  all  mortal  virtue,  that 
it  is  always  uncertain  and  variable,  sometimes 
extending  to  the  whole  compass  of  duty,  and 
sometimes  shrinking  into  a  narrow  space,  and 
fortifying  only  a  few  avenues  of  the  heart,  while 
all  the  rest  is  left  open  to  the  incursions  of  appe- 
tite, or  given  up  to  the  dominion  of  wickedness. 
Nothing  therefore  is  more  unjust  than  to  judge 
of  man  by  too  short  an  acquaintance,  and  too 
slight  inspection ;  for  it  often  happens  that,  in  the 
loose,  and  thoughtless,  and  dissipated,  there  is  a 
secret  radical  worth  which  may  shoot  out  by 
proper  cultivation;  that  the  spark  of  heaven, 
though  dimmed  and  obstructed,  is  not  yet  ex- 
tinguished, but  may,  by  the  breath  of  counsel 
and  exhortation,  be  kindled  into  flame. 

To  imagine  that  every  one  who  is  not  com- 
pletely good  is  irrecoverably  abandoned,  is  to 
suppose  that  all  are  capable  of  the  same  degrees 
of  excellence ;  it  is  indeed  to  exact  from  all  that 
perfection  which  none  ever  can  attain.  And 
since  the  purest  virtue  is  consistent  with  some 
vice,  and  the  virtue  of  the  greatest  number  with 
almost  an  equal  proportion  of  contrary  qualities, 
let  none  too  hastily  conclude,  that  all  goodness 
is  lost,  though  it  may  for  a  time  be  clouded  and 
overwhelmed ;  for  most  minds  are  the  slaves  of 
external  circumstances,  and  conform  to  any  hand 
that  undertakes  to  mould  them,  roll  down  any 
torrent  of  custom  in  which  they  happen  to  be 
caught,  or  bend  to  any  importunity  that  bears 
hard  against  them. 

It  may  be  particularly  observed  of  women,  that 
they  are  for  the  most,  part  good  or  bad,  as  they 
fall  among  those  who  practise  vice  or  virtue ;  and 
that  neither  education  nor  reason  gives  them 
much  security  against  the  influence  of  example. 
Whether  it  be  that  they  have  less  courage  to 
stand  againsf  opposition,  or  that  their  desire  of 
admiration  makes  them  sacrifice  their  principles 
to  the  poor  pleasure  of  worthless  praise,  it  is 
certain,  whatever  be  the  cause,  that  female  good- 
ness seldom  keeps  its  ground  against  laughter, 
flattery,  or  fashion. 

For  this  reason,  everyone  should  consider  him- 
self as  entrusted,  not  only  with  his  own  conduct, 
but  with  that  of  others ;  and  as  accountable,  not 


110 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  71. 


only  for  the  duties  which  he  neglects,  or  the  crime 
that  lu-  commit*,  but  for  that  negligence  and  ir- 
regularity which  he  may  encourage  or  inculcate. 
Every  man,  in  whatever  station,  has,  or  endea- 
vours to  have,  his  followers,  admirers,  and  imi- 
tators, and  has  therefore  the  influence  of  Ins  ex- 
ample to  watch  with  care ;  he  ought  to  avoid  not 
only  crimes,  hut  the  appearance  of  crimes ;  and 
not  only  to  practise  virtue,  but  to  applaud,  coun- 
tenance, and  support  it.  For  it  is  possible  that 
for  want  of  attention,  we  may  teach  others  faults 
from  which  ourselves.are  free,  or,  by  a  cowardly 
desertion  of  a  cause  which  we  ourselves  approve, 
may  pervert  those  who  fix  their  eyes  upon  us, 
and,  having  no  rule  of  their  own  to  guide  their 
course,  are  easily  misled  by  the  aberrations  of 
that  example  which  they  choose  for  their  di- 
rections. 


No.  71.]      TUESDAY,  Nov.  20,  1750. 

fivere  guodprapere.  pauper,  V>tc  injttiZi?  annis 
Da  veniam,properat  vivero  nemo  satis.        MART. 

True,  Sir,  to  live  I  haste,  your  pardon  give, 
For  tell  me,  who  makes  haste  enough  to  live  1 

F.  LEWIS. 

MANY  words  and  sentences  are  so  frequently 
heard  in  the  mouths  of  men,  that  a  superficial 
observer  is  inclined  to  believe,  that  they  must 
contain  some  primary  principle,  some  great  rule 
of  action,  which  it  is  proper  always  to  have  pre- 
sent to  the  attention,  and  by  which  the  use  of 
every  hour  is  to  be  adjusted.  Yet,  if  we  con- 
sider the  conduct  of  those  sententious  philoso- 
phers, it  will  often  be  found  that  they  repeat  these 
aphorisms,  merely  because  they  have  somewhere 
heard  them,  because  they  have  nothing  else  to 
say,  or  because  they  think  veneration  gained  by 
such  appearances  of  wisdom,  but  that  no  ideas 
are  annexed  to  the  words,  and  that,  according  to 
the  old  blunder  of  the  followers  of  Aristotle,  their 
souls  are  mere  pipes  or  organs,  which  transmit 
sounds,  but  do  not  understand  them. 

Of  this  kind  is  the  well-known  and  well  attesU 
ed  position,  that  life  is  short,  which  may  he  heard 
among  mankind  by  an  attentive  auditor,  many 
times  a  day,  but  which  never  yet  within  my  reach 
of  observation  left  any  impression  upon  the  mind ; 
and  perhaps,  if  my  readers  will  turn  their  thoughts 
back  upon  their  old  friends,  they  will  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  call  a  single  man  to  remembrance,  who 
appeared  to  know  that  life  was  short  till  he  was 
about  to  lose  it. 

It  is  observable  that  Horace,  in  his  account  of 
the  characters  of  men,  as  they  are  diversified  by 
the  various  influence  of  time,  remarks,  that  the 
old  man  is  dilator,  spe  langus,  given  to  procrasti- 
nation, and  inclined  to  extend  his  hopes  to  a  great 
distance.  So.  far  are  we  generally  from  thinking 
what  we  often  say  of  the  shortness  of  life,  that  at 
the  time  when  it  is  necessarily  shortest,  we  form 
projects  which  we  delay  to  execute,  indulge  such 
expectations  as  nothing  but  a  long  train  of  events 
can  gratify,  and  suffer  those  passions  to  gain  upon 
us,  which  are  only  excusable  in  the  prime  of  life. 
These  reflections  were  lately  excited  in  my 
mind,  by  an  evening's  conversation  with  my  friend 
Prospero,  who,  at  the  age  of  fifty-five,  has  bought 
an  estate,  and  is  now  contriving  to  dispose  and 


cultivate  it  with  uncommon  elegance.  His  great 
pleasure  is  to  walk  among  stately  trees,  and  lie 
musing  in  the  heat  of  noon  under  their  shade ;  he 
is  therefore  maturely  considering  how  he  shall 
dispose  his  walks  and  his  grovss,  and  has  at  last 
determined  to  send  for  the  best  plans  from  Italy, 
and  forbear  planting  till  the  next  season. 

Thus  is  life  trifled  away  in  preparations  to  do 
what  never  can  be  done,  if  it  be  left  unattempted 
till  all  the  requisites  which  imagination  can  sug- 
gest are  gathered  together.  Where  our  design 
terminates  only  in  our  own  satisfaction,  the  mis- 
take is  of  no  great  importance  ;  for  the  pleasure 
of  expecting  enjoyment  is  often  greater  than  that 
of  obtaining  it,  and  the  completion  of  almost  every 
wish  is  found  a  disappointment ;  but  when  many 
others  are  interested  in  an  undertaking,  when 
any  design  is  formed,  in  which  the  improvement 
or  security  of  mankind  is  involved,  nothing  is 
more  unworthy  either  of  wisdom  or  benevolence, 
than  to  delay  it  from  time  to  time,  or  to  forget 
how  much  every  day  that  passes  over  us,  takes 
away  from  our  power,  and  how  soon  an  idle  pur- 
pose to  do  an  action  sinks  into  a  mournful  wish 
that  it  had  once  been  done. 

We  are  frequently  importuned,  by  the  baccha 
nalian  writers,  to  lay  hold  on  the  present  hour,  to 
catch  the  pleasures  within  our  reach,  and  remem- 
ber that  futurity  is  not  at  our  command. 

T4  p&Sov  aKjid^ti  /3ai»>'  X"J"      ''" 

Zr/Twv  Ivpijacis  ou  p6$o>',  u/./ui  /3arov. 

Soon  fades  the  rose ;  once  past  the  fragrant  hour, 
The  loiterer  finds  a  bramble  tor  a  flower. 

But  surely  these  exhortations,  may  with  equal 
propriety,  be  applied  to  better  purposes ;  it  may 
be  at  least  inculcated  that  pleasures  are  more 
safely  postponed  than  virtues,  and  that  greater 
loss  is  suffered  by  missing  an  opportunity  of 
doing  good,  than  an  hour  of  giddy  frolic  and 
noisy  meiriment. 

When  Baxter  had  lost  a  thousand  pounds, 
which  he  had  laid  up  for  the  erection  of  a  school, 
he  used  frequently  to  mention  the  misfortune  as 
an  incitement  to  be  charitable  while  God  gives 
the  power  of  bestowing,  and  considered  himself 
as  culpable  in  some  degree  for  having  left  a  good 
action  in  the  hands  of  chance,  and  suffered  his 
benevolence  to  be  defeated  for  want,  of  quickness 
and  diligence. 

It  is  lamented  by  Hearne,  the  learned  antiqua- 
ry of  Oxford,  that  this  general  forgetfulness  of 
the  fragility  of  life,  has  remarkably  infected  the 
students  of  monuments  and  records ;  as  their  em 
ployment  consists  in  first  collecting,  and  aftei 
wards  in  arranging  or  abstracting,  what  libraries 
afford  them,  they  ought  to  amass  no  more  than 
they  can  digest ;  but  when  they  have  undertaken 
a  work,  they  go  on  searching  and  transcribing, 
call  for  new  supplies,  when  they  are  already 
overburdened,  and  at  last  leave  their  work  un- 
finished. It  is,  says  he,  the  business  of  a  good  an- 
tiquary, as  of  a  good  man,  to  have  mortality  always 
before  him. 

Thus,  not  only  in  the  slumber  of  sloth,  but  in 
the  dissipation  of  ilWirected  industry,  is  the 
shortness  of  life  generally  forgotten.  As  some 
men  lose  their  hours  in  laziness,  because  they 
suppose,  that  there  is  time  enough  for  the  repa- 
ration of  neglect;  others  busy  themselves  in  pro- 
viding that  no  length  o.f  life  may  want  employ- 


No.  72.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


117 


ment ;  and  it  often  happens,  that  sluggishness 
and  activity  are  equally  surprised  by  the  last 
summons,  and  perish  not  more  differently  from 
each  other,  than  the  fowl  that  received  the  shot 
in  her  flight,  from  her  that  is  killed  upon  the  bush. 

Among  the  many  improvements  made  by  the 
last  centuries  in  human  knowledge,  may  be  num- 
bered the  exact  calculations  of  the  value  of  life ; 
but  whatever  may  be  their  use  in  traffic,  they 
seem  very  little  to  have  advanced  morality.  They 
have  hitherto  been  rather  applied  to  the  acquisi- 
tion of  money,  than  of  wisdom ;  the  computer  re- 
fers none  of  his  calculations  to  his  own  tenure, 
but  persists,  in  contempt  of  probability,  to  fore- 
tell old  age  to  himself,  and  believes  that  he  is 
marked  out  to  reach  the  utmost  verge  of  human 
existence,  and  see  thousands  and  ten  thousands 
fall  into  the  grave. 

So  deeply  is  this  fallacy  rooted  in  the  heart, 
and  so  strongly  guarded  by  hope  and  fear  against 
the  approach  of  reason,  that  neither  science  nor 
experience  can  shake  it,  and  we  act  as  if  life 
were  without  end,  though  we  see  and  confess  its 
uncertainty  and  shortness. 

Divines  have,  with  great  strength  and  ardour, 
shown  the  absurdity  of  delaying  reformation  and 
repentance ;  a  degree  of  folly,  indeed,  which  sets 
eternity  to  hazard.  It  is  the  same  weakness,  in 
proportion  to  the  importance  of  the  neglect,  to 
transfer  any  care,  which  now  claims  our  atten- 
tion, to  a  future  time ;  we  subject  ourselves  to 
needles*  dangers  from  accidents  which  early  dili- 
gence would  have  obviated,  or  perplex  our  minds 
by  vain  precautions,  and  make  provision  for  the 
execution  of  designs,  of  which  the  opportunity 
once  missed  never  will  return. 

As  he  that  lives  longest  lives  but  a  little  while, 
every  man  may  be  certain  that  he  has  no  time  to 
waste.  The  duties  of  life_are  commensurate  to  its 
duration,  and  every  day  brings  its  task,  which  if 
neglected  is  doubled  on  the  morrow.  But  he 
that  has  already  trifled  away  those  months  and 
years,  in  which  he  should  have  laboured,  must 
remember  that  he  has  now  only  a  part  of  that  of 
which  the  whole  is  little ;  and  that  since  the  few 
moments  remaining  are  to  be  considered  as  the 
last  trust  of  Heaven,  not  one  is  to  be  lost. 


No.  72.]      SATURDAY,  Nov.  24,  1750. 

Omnis  Aristippum  decuit  color,  el  stalus,  et  res, 
Tentantetn majora,  fere  presentibv?  ttqiium.        H°R- 

Yet  Aristippus  every  dress  became, 

In  every  various  change  of  life  the  same ; 

And  though  he  aim'd  at  things  of  higher  kind, 

Yet  to  the  present  held  an  equal  mind.  FRANCIS, 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


THOSE  who  exalt  themselves  into  the  chair  of 
instruction,  without  inquiring  whether  any  will 
submit  to  their  authority,  have  not  sufficiently 
considered  how  much  of  human  life  passes  in  little 
incidents,  cursory  conversation,  slight  business, 
and  casual  amusements ;  and  therefore  they  have 
endeavoured  only  to  inculcate  the  more  awful 
virtues,  without  condescending  to  regard  those 
petty  qualities,  which  grow  important  only  by 
their  frequency,  and  which,  though  they  produce 
no  single  acts  of  heroism,  nor  astonish  us  by 
great  events,  yet  are  every  moment  exerting  their 


influence  upon  us,  and  make  the  draught  of  life 
sweet  or  bitter  by  imperceptible  instillations. 
They  operate  unseen  and  unregarded,  as  change 
of  air  makes  us  sick  or  healthy,  though  we  breathe 
it  without  attention,  and  only  know  the  particles 
that  impregnate  it  by  their  salutary  or  malignant 
effects. 

You  have  shown  yourself  not  ignorant  of  the 
value  of  those  subaltern  endowments,  yet  have 
hitherto  neglected  to  recommend  good-humour 
to  the  world,  though  a  little  reflection  will  show 
you  that  it  is  the  balm  of  being,  the  quality  to 
which  all  that  adorns  or  elevates  mankind  must 
owe  its  power  of  pleasing.  Without  good-hu- 
mour, learning  and  bravery  can  only  confer  that 
superiority  which  swells  the  heart  of  the  lion  in 
the  desert,  where  he  roars  without  reply,  and  ra- 
vages without  resistance*  Without  good-hu- 
mour, virtue  may  awe  by  its  dignity,  and  amaze 
by  its  brightness ;  but  must  always  be  viewed  at 
a  distance,  and  will  scarcely  gain  a  friend  or  at- 
tract an  imitator. 

Good-humour  may  be  defined  a  habit  of  being 
pleased ;  a  constant  and  perennial  softness  of 
manner,  easiness  of  approach,  and  suavity  of  dis- 
position ;  like  that  which  every  man  perceives  in 
himself,  when  the  first  transports  of  new  felicity 
have  subsided,  and  his  thoughts  are  only  kept 
in  motion  by  a  slow  succession  of  soft  impulses. 
Good-humour  is  a  state  between  gayety  and  un- 
concern, the  act  or  emanation  of  a  mind  at  leisure 
to  regard  the  gratification  of  another. 

It  is  imagined  by  many,  that  whenever  they 
aspire  to  please,  they  are  required  to  be  merry, 
and  to  show  the  gladness  of  their  souls  by  flights 
of  pleasantry,  and  bursts  of  laughter.  But 
though  these  men  may  be  for  a  time  heard  with 
applause  and  admiration,  they  seldom  delight  us 
long.  We  enjoy  them  a  little,  and  then  retire 
to  easiness  and  good-humour,  as  the  eye  gazes 
awhile  on  eminence  glittering  with  the  sun,  but 
soon  turns  aching  away  to  verdure  and  to  flowers. 

Gayety  is  to  good-humour  as  animal  perfumes 
to  vegetable  fragrance ;  the  one  overpowers 
weak  spirits,  and  the  other  recreates  and  revives 
them.  Gayety  seldom  fails  to  give  some  pain ; 
the  hearers  either  strain  their  faculties  to  accom^ 
pany  its  towerings,  or  are  left  behind  in  envy  and 
despair.  Good-humour  boasts  no  faculties  which 
every  one  does  not  believe  in  his  own  power,  and 
pleases  principally  by  not  offending. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  most  certain  way  to 
give  any  man  pleasure,  is  to  persuade  him  that 
you  receive  pleasure  from  him,  to  encourage  him 
to  freedom  and  confidence,  and  to  avoid  any  such 
appearance  of  superiority  as  may  overbear  and 
depress  him.  We  see  many  that  by  this  art  only, 
spend  their  days  in  the  midst  of  caresses,  invita- 
tions, and  civilities ;  and  without  any  extraordi- 
nary qualities  or  attainments,  are  the  universal 
favourites  of  both  sexes,  and  certainly  find  a  friend 
in  every  place,  The  darlings  of  the  world  will, 
indeed,  be  generally  found  such  as  excite  neither 
jealousy  nor  fear,  and  are  not  considered  as  can- 
didates for  any  eminent  degree  of  reputation,  but 
content  themselves  with  common  accomplish- 
ments, and  endeavour  rather  to  solicit  kindness 
than  to  raise  esteem  ;  therefore,  in  assemblies 
and  places  of  resort,  it  seldom  fails  to  happen, 
that  though  at  the  entrance  of  some  particular 
person,  every  face  brightens  with  gladness,  and 
every  hand  is  extended  in  salutation,  yet  if  you 


118 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  73. 


pursue  him  beyond  the  first  exchange  of  civilities, 
you  will  lind  him  of  very  small  importance,  and 
only  welcome  to  the  company,  as  one  by  whom 
all  conceive  themselves  admired,  and  with  whom 
any  one  is  at  liberty  to  amuse  himself  when  he 
can  find  no  other  auditor  or  companion ;  as  one 
with  whom  all  are  at  ease,  who  will  hear  a  jest 
without  criticism,  and  a  narrative  without  con- 
tradiction, who  laughs  with  every  wit,  and  yields 
to  every  disputer. 

There  are  many  whose  vanity  always  inclines 
them  to  associate  with  those  from  whom  they 
have  no  reason  to  fear  mortification ;  and  there 
are  times  in  which  the  wise  and  the  knowing  are 
willing  to  receive  praise  without  the  labour  of  de- 
serving it,  in  which  the  most  elevated  mind  is 
willing  to  descend,  and  the  most  active  to  be  at 
rest  All  therefore  are  at  some  hour  or  another 
fond  of  companions  whom  they  can  entertain 
upon  easy  terms,  and  who  will  relieve  them  from 
solitude,  without  condemning  them  to  vigilance 
and  caution.  We  are  most  inclined  to  love 
when  we  have  nothing  to  fear,  and  he  th.at  en- 
courages us  to  please  ourselves,  will  not  be  long 
without  preference  in  our  affection  to  those  whose 
learning  holds  us  at  the  distance  of  pupils,  or 
whose  wit  calls  all  attention  from  us,  and  leaves 
us  without  importance  and  without  regard. 

It  is  remarked  by  Prince  Henry,  when  he  sees 
Fal  staff"  lying  on  the  ground,  that  he  could  have 
better  spared  a  better  man.  He  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  vices  and  follies  of  him  whom 
he  lamented  ;  but  while  his  conviction  compelled 
him  to  do  justice  to  superior  qualities,  his  tender- 
ness still  broke  out  at  the  remembrance  of  Fal- 
staffj  of  the  cheerful  companion,  the  loud  buffoon, 
with  whom  he  had  passed  his  time  in  all  the 
luxury  of  idleness,  who  had  gladded  him  with 
un  envied  merriment,  and  whom  he  could  at  once 
enjoy  and  despise. 

You  may  perhaps  think  this  account  of  those 
who  are  distinguished  for  their  good  humour, 
not  very  consistent  with  the  praises  which  I  have 
bestowed  upon  it.  But  surely  nothing  can  more 
evidently  show  the  value  of  this  quality,  than  that 
it  recommends  those  who  are  destitute  of  all 
other  excellences,  and  procures  regard  to  the  tri- 
fling, friendship  to  the  worthless,  and  affection 
to  the  dull. 

Good  humour  is  indeed  generally  degraded  by 
the  characters  in  which  it  is  found ;  for,  being 
considered  as  a  cheap  and  vulgar  quality,  we  find 
it  often  neglected  by  those  that,  having  excel- 
lences of  higher  reputation  and  brighter  splen- 
dour, perhaps  imagine  that  they  hav  e  sqme  right  to 
gratify  themselves  at  the  expense  of  others,  and 
are  to  demand  compliance  rather  than  to  practice 
it.  It  is  by  some  unfortunate  mistake  that  al- 
most all  those  who  have  any  claim  to  esteem  or 
love,  press  their  pretensions"  with  too  little  con- 
sideration of  others.  This  mistake,  my  own  in- 
terest, as  well  as  my  zeal  for  general  happiness, 
makes  me  desirous  to  rectify ;  for  I  have  a  friend, 
who,  because  he  knows  his  own  fidelity  and  use- 
fulness, is  never  willing  to  sink  into  a  companion: 
I  have  a  wife,  whose  beauty  first  subdued  me, 
and  whose  wit  confirmed  her  conquest,  but  whose 
beauty  now  serves  no  other  purpose  than  to  enti- 
tle her  to  tyranny,  and  whose  wit  is  only  used  to 
•ustify  perverseness. 

Surely  nothing  can  be  more  unreasonable  than 
to  lose  the  will  to  please,  when  we  are  conscious 


of  the  power,  or  show  more  ciuelty  than  to  choose 
any  kind  of  influence  before  that  of  kindness. 
He  that  regards  the  welfare  of  others,  should 
make  his  virtue  approachabie,  that  it  may  be 
loved  and  copied ;  and  he  that  considers  the 
want  which  every  man  feels,  or  will  feel,  of  ex- 
ternal assistance,  must  rather  wish  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  those  that  love  him,  than  by  those 
that  admire  his  excellences,  or  solicit  his  favours ; 
for  admiration  ceases  with  novelty,  and  interest 
gains  its  end  and  retires.  A  man  whose  great 
qualities  want  the  ornament  of  superficial  attrac- 
tions, is  like  a  naked  mountain  with  mines  of 
gold,  which  will  be  frequented  only  till  the  trea- 
sure is  exhausted. 

I  am,  &c. 

PHILOMIDES. 


No.  73.]      TUESDAY,  Nov.  27,  1750. 

Slulte,  quid  O  frustra  votis  puerilibue  optca\ 
Qu<z  non  uila  tulit,  fertve,  ftretve  diet.        OVID. 

Why  thinks  the  fool,  with  childish  hope,  to  see 
What  neither  is,  nor  was,  nor  e'er  shall  be 1 

ELPHINSTON. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

IF  you  feel  any  of  that  compassion  which  you 
recommend  to  others,  you  will  not  disregard  a 
case  which  I  have  reason  from  observation  to  be- 
lieve very  common,  and  which  I  know  by  expe- 
rience to  be  very  miserable.  And  though  the 
querulous  are  seldom  received  with  great  ardour 
of  kindness,  I  hope  to  escape  the  mortification  of 
finding  that  my  lamentations  spread  the  conta- 
gion of  impatience,  and  produce  anger  rather 
than  tenderness.  I  write  not  merely  to  vent  the 
swelling  of  my  heart,  but  to  inquire  by  what 
means  I  may  recover  my  tranquillity :  and  shall 
endeavour  at  brevity  in  my  narrative,  having 
long  known  that  complaint  quickly  tires,  howe- 
ver elegant  or  however  just. 

I  was  born  in  a  remote  county,  of  a  family  that 
boasts  alliances  with  the  greatest  names  in  En- 
glish history,  and  extends  its  claims  of  affinity  to 
theTudors  and  Plantagenets.  My  ancestors  by 
little  and  little  wasted  their  patrimony,  till  my 
father  had  not  enough  left  for  the  support  of  a 
family,  without  descending  to  the  cultivation  of 
his  own  grounds,  being  condemned  to  pay  three 
sisters  the  fortunes  allotted  them  by  my  grandfa- 
ther, who  is  suspected  to  have  made  his  will 
when  he  was  incapable  of  adjusting  properly  the 
claims  of  his  children,  and  who,  perhaps,  with- 
out design,  enriched  his  daughters  by  beggaring 
his  son.  My  aunts  being,  at  the  death  of  their  fa- 
ther, neither  young  nor  beautiful,  nor  very  emi- 
nent for  softness  of  behaviour,  were  suffered  to 
live  unsolicited,  and  by  accumulating  the  interest 
of  their  portions,  grew  every  day  richer  and 
prouder.  My  father  pleased  himself  with  fore- 
seeing that  the  possessions  of  those  ladies  must 
revert  at  last  to  the  hereditary  estate,  and,  that 
his  family  might  lose  none  of  its  dignity,  resolved 
to  keep  me  untainted  with  a  lucrative  employ- 
ment :  whenever  therefore  I  discovered  any  in- 
clination to  the  improvement  of  my  condition,  my 
mother  never  failed  to  put  me  in  mind  of  my 
birth,  and  charged  me  to  do  nothing  with  which 


No.  73.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


119 


I  might  be  reproached  when  I  should  come  to 
my  aunt's  estate. 

In  all  the  perplexities  or  vexations  which  want 
of  money  brought  upon  us,  it  was  our  constant 
practice  to  have  recourse  to  futurity.  If  any 
of  our  neighbours  surpassed  us  in  appearance, 
we  went  home  and  contrived  an  equipage,  with 
which  the  death  of  my  aunts  was  to  supply  us. 
If  any  purseproud  upstart  was  deficient  in  re- 
spect, vengeance  was  referred  to  the  time  in 
which  our  estate  was  to  be  repaired.  We  register- 
ed every  act  of  civility  and  rudeness,  inquired  the 
number  of  dishes  at  every  feast,  and  minuted  the 
furniture  of  every  house,  that  we  might,  when  the 
hourof  affluence  should  come,  be  able  to  eclipse  all 
their  splendour,  and  surpass  all  their  magnificence. 

Upon  plans  of  elegance,  and  schemes  of  plea- 
sure, the  day  rose  and  set,  and  the  year  went 
round  unregarded,  while  we  were  busied  in  lay- 
ing out  plantations  on  ground  not  yet  our  own, 
and  deliberating  whether  the  manor-house  should 
he  rebuilt  or  repaired.  This  was  the  amusement 
of  our  leisure,  and  the  solace  of  our  exigences  ; 
we  met  together  only  to  contrive  how  our  ap- 
proaching fortune  should  be  enjoyed ;  for  in  this 
our  conversation  always  ended,  on  whatever  sub- 
ject it  began.  We  had  none  of  the  collateral  in- 
terests, which  diversify  the  life  of  others  with 
joys  and  hopes,  but  had  turned  our  whole  atten- 
tion on  one  event,  which  we  could  neither  hasten 
nor  retard,  and  had  no  other  object  of  curiosity 
than  the  health  or  sickness  of  my  aunts,  of  which 
we  were  careful  to  procure  very  exact  and  early 
intelligence. 

This  visionary  opulence  for  a  while  soothed 
our  imagination,  but  afterwards  fired  our  wishes, 
and  exasperated  our  necessities,  and  my  father 
could  not  always  restrain  himself  from  exclaim- 
ing, that  no  creature  had  so  many  lives  as  a  cat 
and  an  old  maid.  At  last  upon  the  recovery  of 
his  sister  from  an  ague,  which  she  was  supposed 
to  have  caught  by  sparing  fire,  he  began  to  lose 
his  stomach,  and  four  months  afterwards  sunk 
into  the  grave. 

My  mother,  who  loved  her  husband,  survived 
him  but  a  little  while,  and  left  me  the  sole  heir  of 
their  lands,  their  schemes,  and  their  wishes.  As 
I  had  not  enlarged  my  conceptions  either  by 
books  or  conversation,  I  differed  only  from  my 
father  by  the  freshness  of  my  cheeks,  and  the 
vigour  of  my  step  :  and,  like  him,  gave  way  to 
no  thoughts  but  of  enjoying  the  wealth  which 
my  aunts  were  hoarding. 

At  length  the  eldest  fell  ill.  I  paid  the  civili- 
ties and  compliments  which  sickness  requires 
with  the  utmost  punctuality.  I  dreamed  every 
night  of  escutcheons  and  white  gloves,  and  in- 
quired every  morning  at  an  early  hour,  whether 
there  were  any  news  of  my  dear  aunt  At  last 
a  messenger  was  sent  to  inform  me  that  I  must 
come  to  her  without  the  delay  of  a  moment  I 
went  and  heard  her  last  advice,  but  opening  her 
will,  found  that  she  had  left  her  fortune  to  her 
second  sister. 

I  hung  my  head  ;  the  youngest  sister  threat- 
ened to  be  married,  and  every  thing  was  disap- 
pointment and  discontent.  I  was  in  danger  of 
losing  irreparably  one  third  of  my  hopes,  and 
was  condemned  still  to  wait  for  the  rest.  Of  part 
of  my  terror  I  was  soon  eased  ;  for  the  youth, 
whom  his  relations  would  have  compelled  to 
marry  the  old  lady,  after  innumerable  stipula- 


tions, articles,  and  settlements,  ran  away  with 
the  daughter  of  his  father's  groom ;  and  my  aunt, 
upon  this  conviction  of  the  perfidy  of  man,  resolv- 
ed never  to  listen  more  to  amorous  addresses. 

Ten  years  longer  I  dragged  the  shackles  of  ex- 
pectation, without  ever  suffering  a  day  to  pass  in 
which  I  did  not  compute  how  much  my  chance 
was  improved  of  being  rich  to-morrow.  At  last 
the  second  lady  died,  after  a  short  illness,  which 
yet  was  long  enough  to  afford  her  time  for  the 
disposal  of  her  estate,  which  she  gave  to  me  after 
the  death  of  her  sister. 

I  was  now  relieved  from  part  of  my  misery ;  a 
large  fortune,  though  not  in  my  power,  was  cer- 
tain and  unalienable;  nor  was  there  now  any 
danger  that  I  might  at  last  be  frustrated  of  my 
hopes  by  fret  of  dotage,  the  flatteries  of  a  cham- 
ber-maid, the  whispers  of  a  tale-bearer,  or  the  of- 
ficiousness  of  a  nurse.  But  my  wealth  was  yet 
in  reversion,  my  aunt  was  to  be  buried  before  I 
could  emerge  to  grandeur  and  pleasure ;  and 
there  was  yet,  according  to  rny  father's  observa- 
tion, nine  lives  between  me  and  happiness. 

I  however  lived  on,  without  any  clamours  of 
discontent,  and  comforted  myself  with  consider- 
ing that  all  are  mortal,  and  they  who  are  conti- 
nually decaying,  must  at  last  be  destroyed. 

But  let  no  man  from  this  time  suffer  his  felicity 
to  depend  on  the  death  of  his  aunt  The  good 
gentlewoman  was  very  regular  in  her  hours,  and 
simple  in  her  diet ;  and  in  walking  or  sitting  still, 
waking  or  sleeping,  had  always  in  view  the  pre- 
servation of  her  health.  She  was  subject  to  no 
disorder  but  hypochondriac  dejection ;  by  which, 
without  intention,  she  increased  my  miseries,  for 
whenever  the  weather  was  cloudy,  she  would 
take  her  bed  and  send  me  notice  that  her  time 
was  come.  I  went  with  all  the  haste  of  eager- 
ness, and  sometimes  received  passionate  injunc- 
tions to  be  kind  to  her  maid,  and  directions  how 
the  last  offices  should  be  performed ;  but  if  be- 
fore my  arrival  the  sun  happened  to  break  out,  or 
the  wind  to  change,  I  met  her  at  the  door,  or 
found  her  in  the  garden,  bustling  and  vigilant, 
with  all  the  tokens  of  long  life. 

Sometimes,  however,  she  fell  into  distempers, 
and  was  thrice  given  over  by  the  doctor,  yet  she 
found  means  of  slipping  through  the  gripe  of 
death,  and  after  having  tortured  me  three  months 
at  each  time  with  violent  alternations  of  hope 
and  fear,  came  out  of  her  chamber  without  any 
other  hurt  than  the  loss  of  flesh,  which  in  a  few 
weeks  she  recovered  by  broths  and  jellies. 

As  most  have  sagacity  sufficient  to  guess  at 
the  desires  of  an  heir,  it  was  the  constant  prac- 
tice of  those  who  were  hoping  at  second  hand, 
and  endeavoured  to  secure  my  favour  against  the 
time  when  I  should  be  rich,  to  pay  their  court,  by 
informing  me  that  my  aunt  began  to  droop,  that 
she  had  lately  a  bad  night,  that  she  coughed  fee- 
bly, and  that  she  could  never  climb  May  hill ;  or, 
at  least,  that  the  autumn  would  carry  her  ofE 
Thus  was  I  flattered  in  the  winter  with  the  pierc- 
ing winds  of  March,  and  in  summer  with  the  fogs 
of  September.  But  she  lived  through  spring  and 
fall,  and  set  heat  and  cold  at  defiance,  till,  after 
near  half  a  century,  I  buried  her  on  the  four- 
teenth of  last  June,  aged  ninety-three  years,  61  e 
months,  and  six  days. 

For  two  months  after  her  death  I  was  rich, 
and  was  pleased  with  that  obsequiousness  and 
reverence  which  wealth  instantaneously  pro 


120 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  74 


cures.  But  this  joy  is  now  past,  and  I  have  re- 
turned again  to  my  old  habit  of  wishing.  Being 
accustomed  to  give  the  future  full  power  over  my 
mind,  and  to  start  away  from  the  scene  before 
me  to  some  expected  enjoyment,  I  deliver  up  my- 
self to  the  tyranny  of  every  desire  which  fancy 
suggests,  and  long  for  a  thousand  things  which 
[  am  unable  to  procure.  Money  has  much  less 
power  than  is  ascribed  to  it  by  those  that  want 
it.  I  had  formed  schemes  which  I  cannot  exe- 
cute, I  had  supposed  events  which  do  not  come 
to  pass,  and  the  rest  of  my  life  must  pass  in  crav- 
ing solicitude,  unless  you  can  find  some  remedy 
for  a  mind  corrupted  with  an  inveterate  disease 
of  wishing,  and  unable  to  think  on  any  thing  but 
wants,  which  reason  tells  me  will  never  be  sup- 
plied. 

I  am,  &c. 

CUPIDUS. 


No.  74.]   SATURDAY,  DEC.  1, 1750. 

Rizatur  de  lana  sape  caprina.  HOE. 

For  nought  tormented,  she  for  nought  torments. 

ELPHINSTON. 

MEN  seldom  give  pleasure  when  they  are  not 
pleased  themselves  ;  it  is  necessary,  therefore,  to 
cultivate  an  habitual  alacrity  and  cheerfulness, 
that  in  whatever  state  we  may  be  placed  by  Pro- 
vidence, whether  we  are  appointed  to  confer  or 
receive  benefits,  to  implore  or  to  afford  protec- 
tion, we  may  secure  the  love  of  those  with  whom 
we  transact.  For  though  it  is  generally  imagin- 
ed, that  he  who  grants  favours,  may  spare  any 
attention  to  his  behaviour,  and  that  usefulness 
will  always  procure  friends  ;  yet  it  has  been 
found,  that  there  is  an  art  of  granting  requests, 
an  art  very  difficult  of  attainment ;  that  officious- 
ness  and  liberality  may  be  so  adulterated,  as  to 
lose  the  greater  part  of  their  effect ;  that  compli- 
ance may  provoke,  relief  may  harass,  and  libera- 
.  lity  distress. 

No  disease  of  the  mind  can  more  fatally  disa- 
ble it  from  benevolence,  the  chief  duty  of  social 
beings,  than  ill  humour  or  peevishness  ;  for 
though  it  breaks  not  out  in  paroxysms  of  outrage, 
nor  bursts  into  clamour,  turbulence,  and  blood- 
shed, it  wears  out  happiness  by  slow  corrosion, 
and  small  injuries  incessantly  repeated.  It  may 
be  considered  as  the  canker  of  life,  that  destroys 
its  vigour,  and  checks  its  improvement,  that 
creeps  on  with  hourly  depredations,  and  taints 
and  vitiates  what  it  cannot  consume. 

Peevishness,  when  it  has  been  so  far  indulged, 
as  to  outrun  the  motions  of  the  will,  and  discover 
itself  without  premeditation,  is  a  species  of  de- 
pravity in  the  highest  degree  disgusting  and  of- 
fensive, because  no  rectitude  of  intention,  nor 
toftness  of  address,  can  ensure  a  moment's  ex- 
tmption  from  affront  and  indignity.  While  we 
are  courting  the  favour  of  a  peevish  man,  and  ex- 
rrting  ourselves  in  the  most  diligent  civility,  an 
imlucky  syllable  displeases,  an  unheeded  circum- 
stance raffles  and  exasperates  ;  and  in  the  mo- 
ment when  we  congratulate  ourselves  upon  hav- 
)ig  gained  a  friend,  our  endeavours  are  frustrated 
ft  once  ;  and  all  our  assiduity  forgotten  in  the 
casual  tumult  of  some  trifling  irritation. 

This  troublesom<f  impatience  is  sometimes  no- 


thing more  than  the  symptoms  of  some  deeper 
malady.  He  that  is  angry  without  daring  to 
confess  his  resentment,  or  sorrowful  without  the 
liberty  of  telling  his  grief,  is  too  frequently  in- 
clined to  give  vent  to  the  fermentations  of  his 
mind  at  the  first  passages  that  are  opened,  and 
to  let  his  passions  boil  over  upon  those  whom 
accident  throws  in  his  way.  A  painful  and  te- 
dious course  of  sickness  frequently  produces  such 
an  alarming  apprehension  of  the  least  increase 
of  uneasiness,  as  keeps  the  soul  perpetually  on 
the  watch,  such  a  restless  and  incessant  solici- 
tude, as  no  care  or  tenderness  can  appease,  and 
can  only  be  pacified  by  the  cure  of  the  distemper, 
and  the  removal  of  that  pain  by  which  it  is  ex- 
cited. 

Nearly  approaching  to  this  weakness,  is  :.he 
captiousness  of  old  age.  When  the  strength  is 
crushed,  the  senses  are  dulled,  and  the  common 
pleasures  of  life  become  insipid  by  repetition,  we 
are  willing  to  impute  our  uneasiness  to  causes 
not  wholly  out  of  our  power,  and  please  ourselves 
with  fancying  that  we  suffer  by  neglect,  unkind- 
ness,  or  any  evil  which  admits  a  remedy,  rather 
than  by  the  decays  of  nature,  which  cannot  be 
prevented  or  repaired.  We  therefore  revenge 
our  pains  upon  those  on  whom  we  resolve  to 
charge  them  ;  and  too  often  drive  mankind  away 
at  the  time  we  have  the  greatest  need  of  tender- 
ness and  assistance. 

But  though  peevishness  may  sometimes  claim 
our  compassion,  as  the  consequence  or  concomi- 
tant of  misery,  it  is  very  often  found,  where  no- 
thing can  justify  or  excuse  its  admission.  It  is 
frequently  one  of  the  attendants  on  the  prosper 
ous,  and  is  employed  by  insolence  in  exacting 
homage,  or  by  tyranny  in  harassing  subjection. 
It  is  the  offspring  of  idleness  or  pride  ;  of  idle- 
ness anxious  for  trifles ;  or  pride  unwilling  to  en- 
dure the  least  obstruction  of  her  wishes.  Those 
who  have  long  lived,  in  solitude,  indeed  naturally 
contract  thisunsocial  quality,  because,  havinglong 
had  only  themselves  to  please,  they  do  not  readil) 
depart  from  their  own  inclinations ;  their  singu 
larities  therefore  are  only  blameable,  when  they 
have  imprudently  or  morosely  withdrawn  them- 
selves from  the  world  ;  but  there  are  others,  who 
have,  without  any  necessity,  nursed  up  this  habit 
in  their  minds,  by  making  implicit  submissive- 
ness  the  condition  of  their  favour,  and  suffering 
none  to  approach  them,  but  those  who  nevei 
speak  but  to  applaud,  or  move  but  to  obey. 

He  that  gives  himself  up  to  his  own  fancy,  and 
converses  with  none  but  such  as  he  hires  to  lull 
him  on  the  down  of  absolute  authority,  to  sooth? 
him  with  obsequiousness,  and  regale  him  with 
flattery,  soon  grows  too  slothful  for  the  labour  o) 
contest,  too  tender  for  the  asperity  of  contradic- 
tion, and  too  delicate  for  the  coarseness  of  truth, 
a  little  opposition  oftends,  a  little  restraint  en- 
rages, and  a  little  difficulty  perplexes  him ;  having 
been  accustomed  to  see  every  thing  give  way  to 
his  humour,  he  soon  forgets  his  own  littleness, 
and  expects  to  find  the  world  roiling  at  his  heck, 
and  all  mankind  employed  to  acommodale  and 
delight  him. 

Tetrica  had  a  large  fortune  bequeathed  to  hex 
by  an  aunt,  which  made  her  very  parly  inde- 
pendent, and  placed  her  in  a  state  of  superiority 
to  all  about  her.  Having  no  superfluity  ol  un 
derstanding,  she  was  soon  intoxicated  by  the 
flatteries  of  her  maid,  who  informed  her  that 


No.  75.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


121 


ladies,  such  as  she,  had  nothing  to  do  but  take 
pleasure  their  own  way ;  that  she  wanted  nothing 
from  others,  and  had  therefore  no  reason  to  value 
their  opinion  ;  that  money  was  every  thins ;  and 
that  they  who  thought  themselves  ill-treated, 
should  look  for  better  usage  among  their  equals. 
Warm  with  these  generous  sentiments,  Te- 
trica  came  forth  into  the  world,  in  which  she  en- 
deavoured to  force  respect  by  haughtiness  of  mien 
and  vehemence  of  language ;  but  having  neither 
birth,  beauty,  nor  wit,  in  any  uncommon  degree, 
she  suffered  such  mortifications  from  those  who 
thought  themselves  at  liberty  to  return  her  insults, 
as  reduced  her  turbulence  to  cooler  malignity, 
and  taught  her  to  practise  her  arts  of  vexation 
only  where  she  might  hope  to  tyrannize  without 
resistance.  She  continued  from  her  twentieth  to 
her  fifty-fifth  year  to  torment  all  her  inferiors  with 
so  much  diligence,  that  she  has  formed  a  princi- 
ple of  disapprobation,  and  finds  in  every  place 
something  to  grate  her  mind,  and  disturb  her 
quiet 

If  she  takes  the  air,  she  is  offended  with  the 
heat  or  cold,  the  glare  of  the  sun,  or  the  gloom  of 
the  clouds  ;  if  she  makes  a  visit,  the  room  in 
which  she  is  to  be  received,  is  too  light,  or  too 
dark,  or  furnished  with  something  which  she  can- 
not see  without  aversion.  Her  tea  is  never  of 
the  right  sort ;  the  figures  on  the  China  give  her 
disgust  Where  there  are  children,  she  hates 
the  gabble  of  brats ;  where  there  are  none,  she 
cannot  bear  a  place  without  some  cheerfulness 
and  rattle.  If  many  servants  are  kept  in  a  house, 
she  never  fails  to  tell  how  Lord  Lavish  was  ru- 
ined by  a  numerous  retinue ;  if  few,  she  relates 
the  story  of  a  miser  that  made  his  company  wait 
on  themselves.  She  quarrelled  with  one  family, 
because  she  had  an  unpleasant  view  from  their 
windows ;  with  another,  because  the  squirrel 
leaped  within  two  yards  of  her ;  and  with  a  third, 
because  she  could  not  bear  the  noise  of  the  parrot. 
Of  milliners  and  mantua-makers  she  is  the 
proverbial  torment  She  compels  them  to  alter 
their  work,  then  to  unmake  it,  and  contrive  it 
after  another  fashion ;  then  changes  her  mind, 
and  likes  it  better  as  it  was  at  first ;  then  will 
have  a  small  improvement.  Thus  she  proceeds 
till  no  profit  can  recompense  the  vexation ;  they 
at  last  leave  the  clothes  at  her  house  and  refuse 
to  serve  her.  Her  maid,  the  only  being  that  can 
endure  her  tyranny,  professes  to  take  her  own 
course,  and  hear  her  mistress  talk.  Such  is  the 
consequence  of  peevishness ;  it  can  be  borne  only 
when  it  is  despised. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  too  close  an  atten- 
tion to  minute  exactness,  or  a  too  rigorous  habit 
of  examining  every  thing  by  the  standard  of  per- 
fection, vitiates  the  temper,  rather  than  improves 
the  understanding,  and  teaches  the  mind  to  dis- 
cern faults  with  unhappy  penetration.  It  is  inci- 
dent likewise  to  men  of  vigorous  imagination  to 
please  themselves  too  much  with  futurities,  and 
to  fret  because  those  expectations  are  disappoint- 
ed, which  should  never  have  been  formed.  Know- 
ledge and  genius  are  often  enemies  to  quiet,  by 
suggesting  ideas  of  excellence,  which  men  and 
the  performances  of  men  cannot  attain.  But  let 
no  man  rashly  determine,  that  his  unwillingness 
to  be  pleased  is  a  proof  of  understanding,  unless 
his  superiority  appears  from  less  doubtful  evi- 
dence; for  though  peevishness  may  sometimes 
justly  boast  its  descent  from  learning  or  from  wit 


it  is  much  oftener  of  base  extraction,  the  child  of 
vanity,  and  nursling  of  ignorance. 


No.  75.]       TUESDAY,  DEC.  4,  1750. 

tHligitur  nemo,  nisi  cui  Fortima  secunda  ett, 
Qaff,  simid  intonuit,  proximo  quaquefugat. 


When  smiling  Fortune  spreads  her  golden  ray, 
All  crowd  around  to  flatter  and  obey: 
But  when  she  thunders  from  an  angry  sky, 
Our  friends,  our  flatterers,  our  lovers  fly. 

MISS  A.  w  * 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


THE  diligence  with  which  you  endeavour  to  culti- 
vate the  knowledge  of  nature,  manners,  and  life, 
will  perhaps  incline  you  to  pay  some  regard  to 
the  observations  of  one  who  has  been  taught  to 
know  mankind  by  unwelcome  information,  and 
whose  opinions  are  the  result,  not  of  solitary  con 
jectures,  but  of  practice  and  experience. 

I  was  bom  to  a  large  fortune,  and  bred  to  the 
knowledge  of  those  arts  which  are  supposed  to 
accomplish  the  mind,  and  adorn  the  person  of  a 
woman.  To  these  attainments,  which  custom 
and  education  almost  forced  upon  me,  I  added 
some  voluntary  acquisitions  by  the  use  of  books, 
and  the  conversation  of  that  species  of  men  whom 
the  ladies  generally  mention  with  terror  and  aver- 
sion under  the  name  of  scholars,  but  whom  I 
have  found  a  harmless  and  inoffensive  order  of 
beings  not  so  much  wiser  than  ourselves,  but  that 
they  may  receive  as  well  as  communicate  know- 
ledge, and  more  inclined  to  degrade  their  own 
character  by  cowardly  submission,  than  to  over- 
bear or  oppress  us  with  their  learning  or  their  wit 

From  these  men,  however,  if  they  are  by  kind 
treatment  ertcouraged  to  talk,  something  may  be 
gained,  which,  embellished  with  elegancy,  and 
softened  by  modesty,  will  always  add  dignity  and 
value  to  female  conversation ;  and  from  my  ac- 
quaintance with  the  bookish  part  of  the  world,  I 
derived  many  principles  of  judgment  and  max- 
ims of  prudence,  by  which  I  was  enabled  to  draw 
upon  myself  the  general  regard  in  every  place  of 
concourse  or  pleasure.  My  opinion  was  the 
great  rule  of  approbation,  my  remarks  were  re 
nembered  by  those  who  desired  the  second  de- 
gree of  fame,  my  mien  was  studied,  my  dress 
•was  imitated,  my  letters  were  handed  from  one 
"amily  to  another,  and  read  by  those  who  copied 
them  as  sent  to  themselves  ;  my  visits  were  soli- 
cited as  honours,  and  multitudes  boasted  of  an 
mtimdcy  with  Melissa,  who  had  only  seen  me  by 
accident,  and  whose  familiarity  had  never  pro- 
ceeded beyond  the  exchange  of  a  compliment,  01 
return  of  a  courtesy. 

I  shall  make  no  scruple  of  confessing  that  I 
was  pleased  with  this  universal  veneration,  be 
cause  I  always  considered  it  as  paid  to  my  in 
xinsic  qualities  and  inseparable  merit,  and  verj 
;asily  persuaded  myself  that  fortune  had  no  pai< 
n  my  superiority.  When  I  looked  upon  mj 
glass,  1  saw  youth  and  beauty,  with  health  thai 
might  give  me  reason  to  hope  their  continuance ; 
when  I  examined  my  mind,  I  found  some  strength 
of  judgment,  and  fertility  of  fancy :  and  was  told 


'  Anna  Williams. 


122 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  75. 


that  every  action  was  grace,  and  that  every  ac- 
cent was  persuasion. 

In  this  manner  my  life  passed  like  a  continual 
triumph  amidst  acclamations,  and  envy,  and 
courtship,  and  caresses :  to  please  Melissa  was 
the  general  ambition,  and  every  stratagem  of  art- 
ful flattery  was  practised  upon  me.  To  be  flat- 
tered is  grateful,  even  when  we  know  that  our 
praises  are  not  believed  by  those  who  pronounce 
them;  for  they  prove,  at  least,  our  power,  and 
show  that  our  favour  is  valued,  since  it  is  pur- 
chased by  the  meanness  of  falsehood.  But,  per- 
haps, the  \latterer  is  not  often  detected;  for  an 
honest  mind  is  not  apt  to  suspect,  and  no  one  ex- 
erts the  power  of  discernment  with  much  vigour 
when  self-love  favours  the  deceit. 

The  number  of  adorers,  and  the  perpetual  dis- 
traction of  my  thoughts  by  new  schemes  of  plea- 
sure, prevented  me  from  listening  to  any  of  those 
who  crowd  in  multitudes  to  give  girls  advice, 
and  kept  me  unmarried  and  unengaged  to  my 
twenty-seventh  year,  when,  as  I  was  towering 
in  all  the  pride  of  uncontested  excellency,  with  a 
face  yet  little  impaired,  and  a  mind  hourly  im- 
proving, the  failure  of  a  fund,  in  which  my  money 
was  placed,  reduced  me  to  a  frugal  competency, 
which  allowed  little  beyond  neatness  and  inde- 
pendence. 

I  bore  the  diminution  of  my  riches  without  any 
outrages  of  sorrow,  or  pusillanimity  of  dejection. 
Indeed,  I  did  not  know  how  much  I  had  lost,  for, 
having  always  heard  and  thought  more  of  my  wit 
and  beauty,  than  of  my  fortune,  it  did  not  sud- 
denly enter  my  imagination,  that  Melissa  could 
sink  beneath  her  established  rank,  while  her 
form  and  her  mind  continued  the  same ;  that  she 
could  cease  to  raise  admiration  but  by  ceasing  to 
deserve  it,  or  feel  any  stroke  but  from  the  hand 
of  time. 

It  was  in  my  power  to  have  concealed  the  loss, 
and  to  have  married,  by  continuing  the  same  ap- 
pearance, with  all  the  credit  of  my  original  for- 
tune ;  but  I  was  not  so  far  sunk  in  my  own  es- 
teem, as  to  submit  to  the  baseness  of  fraud,  or 
to  desire  any  other  recommendation  than  sense 
and  virtue.  I  therefore  dismissed  my  equipage, 
sold  those  ornaments  which  were  become  unsuit- 
able to  my  new  condition,  and  appeared  among 
those  with  whom  I  used  to  converse  with  less 
glitter,  but  with  equal  spirit. 

I  found  myself  received  at  every  visit  with  sor- 
row beyond  what  is  naturally  felt  for  calamities 
in  which  we  have  no  part,  and  was  entertained 
with  condolence  and  consolation  so  frequently 
repeated,  that  my  friends  plainly  consulted  rather 
their  own  gratification  than  my  relief.  Some 
from  that  time  refused  my  acquaintance,  and  for- 
bore, without  any  provocation,  to  repay  my  visits  ; 
some  visited  me,  but  after  a  longer  interval  than 
usual,  and  every  return  was  still  with  more  delay ; 
nor  did  any  of  my  female  acquaintances  fail  to 
introduce  the  mention  of  my  misfortunes,  to  com- 
pare my  present  and  former  condition,  to  tell  me 
now  much  it  must  trouble  me  to  want  the  splen- 
dour which  I  became  so  well,  to  look  at  plea- 
sures which  I  had  formerly  enjoyed,  and  to  sink 
o  a  level  with  those  by  whom  I  had  been  con- 
sidered as  moving  in  a  higher  sphere,  and  who 
had  hitherto  approached  me  with  reverence  and 
submission,  which  I  was  now  no  longer  to  ex- 
pect. 

Observations  like  Ihese  are  commonly  nothing 


better  than  covert  insults,  which  serve  to  give 
vent  to  the  flatulence  of  pride,  but  they  are  now 
and  then  imprudently  uttered  by  honesty  and 
benevolence,  and  inflict  pain  where  kindness  is 
intended;  I  will,  therefore,  so  far  maintain  my 
antiquated  claim  to  politeness,  as  to  venture  the 
establishment  of  this  rule,  that  no  one  ought  to 
remind  another  of  misfortunes  of  which  the  suf- 
ferer does  not  complain,  and  which  there  are  no 
means  proposed  of  alleviating.  You  have  no 
right  to  excite  thoughts  which  necessarily  give 
pain  whenever  they  return,  and  which  perhaps 
might  not  have  revived  but  by  absurd  and  un- 
seasonable compassion. 

My  endless  train  of  lovers  immediately  with- 
drew, without  raising  any  emotions.  The  great- 
er part  had  indeed  always  professed  to  court,  as 
it  is  termed,  upon  the  square,  had  inquired  my 
fortune,  and  offered  settlements;  these  had  un- 
doubtedly a  right  to  retire  without  censure,  since 
they  had  openly  treated  for  money,  as  necessary 
to  their  happiness,  and  who  can  tell  how  little 
they  wanted  any  other  portion?  I  have  always 
thought  the  clamours  of  women  unreasonable, 
who  imagine  themselves  injured  because  the  men, 
who  followed  them  upon  the  supposition  of  a 
greater  fortune,  reject  them  when  they  are  dis- 
covered to  have  less.  I  have  never  known  any 
lady,  who  did  not  think  wealth  a  title  to  some 
stipulations  in  her  favour:  and  surely  what  is 
claimed  by  the  possession  of  money  is  justly  for- 
feited by  its  loss.  She  that  has  once  demanded 
a  settlement  has  allowed  the  importance  of  for- 
tune ;  and  when  she  cannot  show  pecuniary 
merit,  why  should  she  think  her  cheapener  oblig- 
ed to  purchase  ? 

My  lovers  were  not  all  contented  with  silent 
desertion.  Some  of  them  revenged  the  neglect 
which  they  had  formerly  endured  by  wanton  and 
superfluous  insults,  and  endeavoured  to  mortify 
me,  by  paying,  in  my  presence,  those  civilities  to 
other  ladies,  which  were  once  devoted  only  to 
me.  But,  as  it  had  been  my  rule  to  treat  men 
according  to  the  rank  of  their  intellect,  I  had 
never  suffered  any  one  to  waste  his  life  in  sus- 
pense, who  could  have  employed  it  to  better  pur- 
poses, and  had  therefore  no  enemies  but  cox- 
combs, whose  resentment  and  respect  were  equal- 
ly below  my  consideration. 

The  only  pain  which  I  have  felt  from  degra- 
dation, is  the  loss  of  that  influence  which  I  had 
always  exerted  on  the  side  of  virtue,  in  the  de- 
fence of  innocence,  and  the  assertion  of  truth. 
I  now  find  my  opinions  slighted,  my  sentiments 
criticised,  and  my  arguments  opposed  by  those 
that  used  to  listen  to  me  without  reply,  and  strug- 
gle to  be  first  in  expressing  their  conviction. 

The  female  disputants  have  wholly  thrown  ofi 
my  authority ;  and  if  I  endeavour  to  enforce  my 
reasons  by  an  appeal  to  the  scholars  that  happen 
to  be  present,  the  wretches  are  certain  to  pay 
their  court  by  sacrificing  me  and  my  system  to  a 
finer  gown  ;  and  I  am  every  hour  insulted  with 
contradiction  by  cowards,  who  could  never  find 
till  lately  that  Melissa  was  liable  to  error. 

There  are  two  persons  only  whom  I  cannot 
charge  with  having  changed  their  conduct  with 
my  change  of  fortune.  One  is  an  old  curate 
that  has  passed  his  life  in  the  duties  of  his  pro- 
fession, with  great  reputation  for  his  knowledge 
and  piety ;  the  other  is  a  lieutenant  of  dragoons. 
The  parson  made  no  difficulty  in  the  height  of 


No.  76.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


123 


my  elevation  to  check  me  when  I  was  pert,  and 
instruct  me  when  I  blundered  ;  and  if  there  is  any 
alteration,  he  is  now  more  timorous  lest  his  free- 
dom should  be  thought  rudeness.  The  soldier 
never  paid  me  any  particular  addresses,  but  very 
rigidly  observed  all  the  rules  of  politeness,  which 
he  is  now  so  far  from  relaxing,  that  whenever 
he  serves  the  tea,  he  obstinately  carries  me  the 
first  dish,  in  defiance  of  the  frowns  and  whispers 
of  the  table. 

This,  Mr.  Rambler,  is  to  see  the  icorld.  It  is 
impossible  for  those  that  have  only  known  afflu- 
ence and  prosperity,  to  judge  rightly  of  themselves 
or  others.  The  rich  and  the  powerful  live  in  a 
perpetual  masquerade,  in  which  all  about  them 
wear  borrowed  characters ;  and  we  only  discover 
in  what  estimation  we  are  held,  when  we  can  no 
longer  gives  hopes  or  fears. 

I  am,  &c. 

MELISSA. 


No.  76.]       SATURDAY,  DEC.  8,  1750. 

Silvia  ubi  passim 

Palantes  error  certo  de  tramitr,  pellit, 

nie  sinistrorsum,  hie  deztrorsum  abit ;  unus  utrique 

Error,  sed  variis  illuditpartibus.  HOR. 

While  mazy  error  draws  mankind  astray 

From  truth's  sure  path,  each  takes  his  devious  way  ? 

One  to  the  right,  one  to  the  left  recedes, 

Alike  deluded  as  each  fancy  leads. 

ELPHINSTON. 

IT  is  easy  for  every  man,  whatever  be  his  cha- 
racter with  others,  to  find  reasons  for  esteeming 
himself,  and  therefore  censure,  contempt,  or  con- 
viction of  crimes,  seldom  deprive  him  of  his  own 
favour.  Those,  indeed,  who  can  see  only  exter- 
nal facts,  may  look  upon  him  with  abhorrence ; 
but  when  he  calls  himself  to  his  own  tribunal,  he 
finds  every  fault,  if  not  absolutely  effaced,  yet  so 
much  palliated  by  the  goodness  of  his  intention, 
and  the  cogency  of  the  motive,  that  very  little 
guilt  or  turpitude  remains ;  and  when  he  takes  a 
survey  of  the  whole  complication  of  his  charac- 
ter, he  discovers  so  many  latent  excellences,  so 
many  virtues  that  want  but  an  opportunity  to  ex- 
ert themselves  in  act,  and  so  many  kind  wishes 
for  universal  happiness,  that  he  looks  on  himself 
as  suffering  unjustly  under  the  infamy  of  single 
failings,  while  the  general  temper  of  his  mind  is 
unknown  or  unregarded. 

It  is  natural  to  mean  well,  when  only  abstract- 
ed ideas  of  virtue  are  proposed  to  the  mind,  and 
no  particular  passion  turns  us  aside  from  recti- 
tude; and  so  willing  is  every  man  to  flatter  him- 
eelf,  that  the  difference  between  approving  laws, 
and  obeying  them,  is  frequently  forgotten  ;  he 
that  acknowledges  the  obligations  of  morality, 
and  pleases  his  vanity  with  enforcing  them  to 
others,  concludes  himself  zealous  in  the  cause  of 
virtue,  though  he  has  no  longer  any  regard  to  her 
precepts,  than  they  conform  to  his  own  desires  ; 
and  counts  himself  among  her  warmest  lovers, 
because  he  praises  her  beauty,  though  every  ri- 
val steals  away  his  heart. 

There  are,  however,  great  numbers  who  have 
little  recourse  to  the  refinements  of  speculation, 
but  who  yet  live  at  peace  with  themselves,  by 
means  which  require  less  understanding,  or  less 
attention.  When  their  hearts  are  burthened 
with  the  consciousness  of  a  crime,  instead  of 


seeking  for  some  remedy  within  themselves,  they 
look  round  upon  the  rest  of  mankind,  to  find 
others  tainted  with  the  same  guilt ;  they  please 
themselves  with  observing,  that  they  have  num- 
bers on  their  side ;  and  that,  though  they  are 
hunted  out  from  the  society  of  good  men,  they 
are  not  likely  to  be  condemned  to  solitude. 

It  may  be  observed,  perhaps  without  excep- 
tion, that  none  are  so  industrious  to  detect  wick- 
edness, or  so  ready  to  impute  it,  as  they  whose 
crimes  are  apparent  and  confessed.  They  envy 
an  unblemished  reputation,  and  what  they  envy 
they  are  busy  to  destroy ;  they  are  unwilling  to 
suppose  themselves  meaner  and  more  corrupt 
than  others,  and  therefore  willingly  pull  down 
from  their  elevations  those  with  whom  they  can- 
not rise  to  an  equality.  No  man  yet  was  ever 
wicked  without  secret  discontent,  and  according 
to  the  different  degrees  of  remaining  virtue,  or 
unextinguished  reason,  he  either  endeavours  to 
reform  himself,  or  corrupt  others ;  either  to  re- 
gain the  station  which  he  has  quitted,  or  pre- 
vail on  others  to  imitate  his  defection. 

It  has  always  been  considered  as  an  alleviation 
of  misery  not  to  suffer  alone,  even  when  union 
and  society  can  contribute  nothing  to  resistance 
or  escape ;  some  comfort  of  the  same  kind  seems 
to  incite  wickedness  to  seek  associates,  though 
indeed  another  reason  may  be  given ;  for  as  guilt 
is  propagated  the  power  of  reproach  is  diminish- 
ed, and  among  numbers  equally  detestable  every 
individual  may  be  sheltered  from  shame,  though 
not  from  conscience. 

Another  lenitive,  by  which  the  throbs  of  the 
breast  are  assuaged,  is  the  contemplation  not  01 
the  same,  but  of  different  crimes.  He  that  can- 
not justify  himself  by  his  resemblance  to  others, 
is  ready  to  try  some  other  expedient,  and  to  in- 
quire what  will  rise  to  his  advantage  from  oppo- 
sition and  dissimilitude.  He  easily  finds  some 
faults  in  every  human  being,  which  he  weighs 
against  his  own,  and  easily  makes  them  prepon- 
derate while  he  keeps  the  balance  in  his  own 
hand,  and  throws  in  or  takes  out  at  his  pleasure 
circumstances  that  make  them  heavier  or  lighter. 
He  then  triumphs  in  his  comparative  purity,  and 
sets  himself  at  ease,  not  because  he  can  refute  the 
charges  advanced  against  him,  but  because  he 
can  censure  his  accusers  with  equal  justice,  and 
no  longer  fears  the  arrows  of  reproach,  when  he 
has  stored  his  magazine  of  malice  with  weapons 
equally  sharp  and  equally  envenomed. 

This  practice,  though  never  just,  is  yet  spe- 
cious and  artful,  when  the  censure  is  directed 
against  deviations  to  the  contrary  extreme.  The 
man  who  is  branded  with  cowardice,  may,  with 
some  appearance  of  propriety,  turn  all  his  force 
of  argument  against  a  stupid  contempt  of  life, 
and  rash  precipitation  into  unnecessary  danger. 
Every  recession  from  temerity  is  an  approach  to- 
wards cowardice;  and  though  it  be  confessed 
that  bravery,  like  other  virtues,  stands  between 
faults  on  either  hand,  yet  the  place  of  the  middle 
point  may  always  be  disputed ;  he  may  therefore 
often  impose  upon  careless  understandings,  by 
turning  the  attention  wholly  from  himself,  and 
keeping  it  fixed  invariably  on  the  opposite  fault ; 
and  by  showing  how  many  evils  are  avoided  by 
his  behaviour,  he  may  conceal  for  a  time  those 
which  are  incurred. 

But  vice  has  not  always  opportunities  or  ad- 
dress for  such  artful  subterfuges ;  men  often  ex 


124 


THE  RAMBLER. 


|No.  77. 


tenuate  their  own  guilt,  only  by  vague  and  gene- 
ral charges  upon  others,  or  endeavour  to  gain  rest 
to  themselves,  by  pointing  some  otlter  prey  to  the 
pursuit  of  censure. 

Every  whisper  of  infamy  is  industriously  cir- 
culated, every  hint  of  suspicion  eagerly  improved, 
and  every  failure  of  conduct  joyfully  published 
by  those  whose  interest  it  is,  that  the  eye  and 
voice  of  the  public  should  be  employed  on  any 
rather  than  on  themselves. 

All  these  artifices,  and  a  thousand  others  equal- 
ly vain  and  equally  despicable,  are  incited  by  that 
conviction  of  the  deformity  of  wickedness,  from 
which  none  can  set  himself  free,  and  by  an  ab- 
surd desire  to  separate  the  cause  from  the  effects, 
and  to  enjoy  the  profit  of  crimes  without  suffering 
the  shame.  Men  are  willing  to  try  all  methods 
of  reconciling  guilt  and  quiet,  and  when  their 
understandings  are  stubborn  and  uncomplying, 
raise  their  passions  against  them,  and  hope  to 
overpower  their  own  knowledge. 

It  is  generally  not  so  much  the  desire  of  men, 
sunk  into  depravity,  to  deceive  the  world  as  them- 
selves; for  when  no  particular  circumstances 
make  them  dependent  on  others,  infamy  disturbs 
them  little,  but  as  it  revives  their  remorse,  and  is 
echoed  to  them  from  their  own  hearts.  The  sen- 
tence most  dreaded  is  that  of  reason  and  con- 
science, which  they  would  engage  on  their  side 
at  any  price  but  the  labours  of  duty  and  the  sor- 
rows of  repentance.  For  this  purpose  every  se- 
ducement  and  fallacy  is  sought,  the  hopes  still 
rest  upon  some  new  experiment  till  life  is  at  an 
end;  and  the  last  hour  steals  on  unperceived, 
while  the  faculties  are  engaged  in  resisting  rea- 
son, and  repressing  the  sense  of  the  Divine  dis- 
approbation. 


No.  77.]        TUESDAY,  DEC.  11, 1750. 

Os  dignum  aterno  nitidum  quod  fulgeat  attro, 
Si  mallet  laudare  Iteurn,  cui  sordida  monstra 
Prtztulit,  et  liquidam  temeravit  crimine  vocem. 

PRUDENT. 

A  golden  statue  such  a  wit  might  claim, 
Had  God  and  virtue  raised  the  noble  flame ; 
But  ah !  how  lewd  a  subject  has  he  sung ! 
What  rile  obscenity  profanes  his  tongue 


AMONG  those  whose  hopes  of  distinction,  or 
riches,  arise  from  an  opinion  of  their  intellectual 
attainments,  it  has  been,  from  age  to  age,  an  es- 
tablished custom,  to  complain  of  the  ingratitude 
of  mankind  to  their  instructors,  and  the  discou- 
ragement which  men  of  genius  and  study  suffer 
from  avarice  and  ignorance,  from  the  prevalence 
of  false  taste,  and  the  encroachment  of  barbarity. 

Men  are  most  powerfully  affbcted  by  those  evils 
which  themselves  feel,  or  which  appear  before 
their  own  eyes ;  and  as  there  has  never  been  a 
time  of  such  general  felicity,  but  that  many  have 
failed  to  obtain  the  rewards  to  which  they  had, 
in  their  own  judgment,  a  just  claim,  some  offend- 
ed writer  has  always  declaimed,  in  the  rage  of 
disappointment,  against  his  age  or  nation ;  nor  is 
there  one  who  has  not  fallen  upon  times  more 
unfavourable  to  learning  than  any  former  cen- 
tury, or  who  does  not  wish  that  he  had  been  re- 
served in  the  insensibility  of  non-existence  to 
some  happier  hour,  when  literary  merit  shall  no 


longer  be  de'spised,  and  the  gifts  and  caresses  of 
mankind  shall  recompense  the  toils  of  study,  and 
add  lustre  to  the  charms  of  wit. 

Many  of  these  clamours  are  undoubtedly  to 
be  considered  only  as  the  bursts  of  pride  never 
to  be  satisfied,  as  the  prattle  of  affectation  mimic- 
ing  distresses  unfelt,  or  as  the  common-places  of 
vanity  solicitous  for  splendour  of  sentences  and 
acuteness  of  remark.  Yet  it  cannot  be  denied, 
that  frequent  discontent  must  proceed  from  fre- 
quent hardships;  and  though  it  is  evident,  that 
not  more  than  one  age  or  people  can  deserve  the 
censure  of  being  more  averse  from  learning  than 
any  other,  yet  at  all  times  knowledge  must  have 
encountered  impediments,  and  wit  been  morti- 
fied with  contempt,  or  harassed  with  persecution. 

It  is  not  necessary,  however,  to  join  immedi- 
ately in  the  outcry,  or  to  condemn  mankind  as 
pleased  with  ignorance,  or  always  envious  of  su- 
perior abilities.  The  miseries  of  the  learned  have 
been  related  by  themselves ;  and  since  they  have 
not  been  found  exempt  from  that  partiality  with 
which  men  look  upon  their  own  actions  and  suf- 
ferings, we  may  conclude  that  they  have  not  for- 
gotten to  deck  their  cause  with  the  brightest  or- 
naments and  strongest  colours.  The  logician 
collected  all  his  subtilties  when  they  were  to  be 
employed  in  his  own  defence ;  and  the  master  of 
rhetoric  exerted  against  his  adversary  all  the  arts 
by  which  hatred  is  embittered,  and  indignation 
inflamed. 

To  believe  no  rnan  in  his  own  cause,  is  the 
standing  and  perpetual  rule  of  distributive  justice. 
Since,  therefore,  in  the  controversy  between  the 
learned  and  their  enemies,  we  have  only  the 
pleas  of  one  party,  of  the  party  more  able  to  de- 
lude our  understandings,  and  engage  our  pas- 
sions, we  must  determine  our  opinion  by  facts 
uncontested,  and  evidences  on  each  side  allowed 
to  be  genuine. 

By  this  procedure,  I  know  not  whether  the 
students  will  find  their  cause  promoted,  or  their 
compassion  which  they  expect  much  increased. 
Let  their  conduct  be  impartially  surveyed  ;  let 
them  be  allowed  no  longer  to  direct  attention  at 
their  pleasure,  by  expatiating  on  their  own  de- 
serts ;  let  neither  the  dignity  of  knowledge  over- 
awe the  judgment,  nor  the  graces  of  elegance 
seduce  it.  It  will  then,  perhaps,  be  found,  that 
they  were  not  able  to  produce  claims  to  kinder 
treatment,  butprovoked  the  calamities  which  they 
suffered,  and  seldom  wanted  friends,  but  when 
they  wanted  virtue. 

That  few  men,  celebrated  for  theoretic  wis 
dom,  live  with  conformity  to  their  precepts,  must 
be  readily  confessed;  and  we  cannot  wonder 
that  the  indignation  of  mankind  rises  with  great 
vehemence  against  those  who  neglect  the  duties 
which  they  appear  to  know  with  so  strong  con- 
viction the  necessity  of  performing.  Yet  since 
no  man  has  power  of  acting  equal  to  that  of  think- 
ing, I  know  not  whether  the  speculatist  may  not 
sometimes  incur  censures  too  severe,  and  by 
those  who  form  ideas  of  his  life  from  their  know- 
ledge of  his  books,  be  considered  as  worse  than 
others,  only  because  he  was  expected  to  be  better. 

He,  by  whose  writings  the  heart  is  rectified, 
the  appetites  counteracted,  and  the  passions  re- 
pressed, may  be  considered  as  not  unprofitable  to 
the  great  republic  of  humanity,  even  though  his 
behaviour  should  not  always  exemplify  his  rules. 
His  instructions  may  diffuse  their  influence  to  re- 


No.  78.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

gions,  in  which  it  will  not  be  inquired,  whether 
the  author  be  albm  an  ater,  good  or  bad ;  to  times, 
when  all  his  faults  and  all  his  follies  shall  be  lost 
in  forgetfulness,  among  things  of  no  concern  or 
importance  to  the  world ;  and  he  may  kindle  in 
thousands  and  ten  thousands  that  flame  which 
burnt  but  dimly  in  himself,  through  the  fumes  of 
passion  or  the  damps  of  cowardice.  The  vi- 
cious moralist  may  be  considered  as  a  taper,  by 
which  we  are  lighted  through  the  labyrinth  of 
complicated  passions,  he  extends  his  radiance 
further  than  his  heat,  and  guides  all  that  are 
within  view,  but  burns  only  those  who  make  too 
near  approaches. 

Yet  since  good  or  harm  must  be  received  for 
the  most  part  from  those  to  whom  we  are  fa- 
miliarly known,  he  whose  vices  overpower  his 
virtues,  in  the  compass  to  which  his  vices  can 
extend,  has  no  reason  to  complain  that  he  meets 
not  with  affection  or  veneration,  when  those 
with  whom  he  passes  his  life  are  more  corrupted 
by  his  practice  than  enlightened  by  his  ideas. 
Admiration  begins  where  acquaintance  ceases  ; 
and  his  favourers  are  distant,  but  his  enemies  at 
hand. 

Yet  many  have  dared  to  boast  of  neglected 
merit,  and  to  challenge  their  age  for  cruelty  and 
folly,  of  whom  it  cannot -be  alleged  that  they  have 
endeavoured  to  increase  the  wisdom  or  virtue  of 
their  readers.  They  have  been  at  once  profli- 
gate in  their  lives,  and  licentious  in  their  compo- 
sitions ;  have  not  only  forsaken  the  paths  of  vir- 
tue, but  attempted  to  lure  others  after  them. 
They  have  smoothed  the  road  of  perdition,  co- 
vered with  flowers  the  thorns  of  guilt,  and  taught 
temptation  sweeter  notes,  softer  blandishments, 
and  stronger  allurements. 

It  has  been  apparently  the  settled  purpose  of 
some  writers,  whose  powers  and  acquisitions 
place  them  high  in  the  ranks  of  literature,  to  set 
fashion  on  the  side  of  wickedness ;  to  recom- 
mend debauchery  and  lewdness,  by  associating 
them  with  qualities  most  likely  to  dazzle  the  dis- 
cernment, and  attract  the  affections ;  and  to  show 
innocence  and  goodness  with  such  attendant 
weaknesses  as  necessarily  expose  them  to  con- 
tempt and  derision. 

Such  naturally  found  intimates  among  the 
corrupt,  the  thoughtless,  and  the  intemperate; 
passed  their  lives  amidst  the  levities  of  sportive 
idleness,  or  the  warm  professions  of  drunken 
friendship ;  and  fed  their  hopes  with  the  promises 
of  wretches,  whom  their  precepts  had  taught  to 
scoff'  at  truth.  But  when  fools  had  laughed  away 
their  sprightliness,  and  the  languors  of  excess 
could  no  longer  be  relieved,  they  saw  their  pro- 
tectors hourly  drop  away,  and  wondered  and 
stormed  to  find  themselves  abandoned.  Whe- 
ther their  companions  persisted  in  wickedness, 
or  returned  to  virtue,  they  were  left  equally  with- 
out assistance ;  for  debauchery  is  selfish  and  ne- 
gligent, and  from  virtue  the  virtuous  only  can  ex- 
pect regard. 

It  is  said  by  Florus  of  Gataline,  who  died  in 
the  midst  of  slaughtered  enemies,  that  his  death 
had  beenittustrious,  had  it  been  suffered  for  his  coun- 
try. Of  the  wits  who  have  languished  away  life 
under  the  pressure  of  poverty,  or  in  the  restless- 
ness of  suspense,  caressed  and  rejected,  flattered 
and  despised,  as  they  were  of  more  or  less  use 
to  those  who  styled  themselves  their  patrons,  it 
inigjit  be  observed,  that  their  miseries  would  en- 


125 

force  compassion,  had  they  been  brought  upon 
them  by  honesty  and  religion. 

The  wickedness  of  a  loose  or  profane  author  is 
more  atrocious  than  that  of  the  giddy  libertine, 
or  drunken  ravisher.  not  only  because  it  extends 
its  effects  wider,  as  a  pestilence  that  taints  the 
air  is  more  destructive  than  poison  infused  in  a 
draught,  but  because  it  is  committed  with  cool 
deliberation.  By  the  instantaneous  violence  ot 
desire,  a  good  man  may  sometimes  be  surprised 
before  reflection  can  come  to  his  rescue  ;  when 
the  appetites  have  strengthened  their  influence 
by  habit,  they  are  not  easily  resisted  or  suppress- 
ed ;  but  for  the  frigid  villany  of  studious  lewd- 
ness,  for  the  calm  malignity  of  laboured  impiety, 
what  apology  can  be  invented  ?  What  punish- 
ment can  be  adequate  to  the  crime  of  him  who 
retires  to  solitudes  for  the  refinement  of  debauch- 
ery; who  tortures  his  fancv,  and  ransacks  his 
memory,  only  that  he  may  leave  the  world  less 
virtuous  than  he  found  it ;  that  he  may  intercept 
the  hopes  of  the  rising  generation ;  and  spread 
snares  for  the  soul  with  more  dexterity. 

What  were  their  motives,  or  what  their  ex- 
cuses, is  below  the  dignity  of  reason  to  examine. 
If  having  extinguished  in  themselves  the  distinc- 
tion of  right  and  wrong,  they  were  insensible  of 
the  mischief  which  they  promoted,  they  deserved 
to  be  hunted  down  by  the  general  compact,  as  no 
longer  partaking  of  social  nature  ;  if  influenced 
by  the  corruption  of  patrons,  or  readers,  they  sa 
crificed  their  own  convictions  to  vanity  or  inte- 
rest, they  were  to  be  abhorred  with  more  acri- 
mony than  he  that  murders  for  pay ;  since  they 
committed  greater  crimes  without  greater  tempt- 
ations. 

Of  him  to  inhom  much  is  given,  much  shall  be  re- 
quired. Those,  whom  God  has  favoured  with 
superior  faculties,  and  made  eminent  for  quick- 
ness of  intuition,  and  accuracy  of  distinctions, 
will  certainly  be  regarded  as  culpable  in  his  eye, 
for  defects  and  deviations  which,  in  souls  less 
enlightened,  may  be  guiltless.  But,  surely,  none 
can  think  without  horror  on  that  man's  condi- 
tion, who  has  been  more  wicked  in  proportion  as 
he  had  more  means  of  excelling  in  virtue,  and 
used  the  light  imparted  from  Heaven  only  to  em- 
bellish folly  and  shed  lustre  upon  crimes. 


No.  78.]     SATURDAY,  DEC.  15,  1750. 

Mors  sola  fatetvr 

Quantttla  sint  hominum  corpugcnla.        .  Jtnr. 

Death  only  this  mysterious  truth  unfolds, 

The  mighty  soul  how  small  a  body%plds.    DRYDEN. 

CORPORAL  sensation  is  known  to  depend  so  much 
upon  novelty,  that  custom  takes  away  from  ma- 
ny things  their  power  of  giving  pleasure  or  pain. 
Thus  a  new  dress  becomes  easy  by  wearing  it, 
and  the  palate  is  reconciled  by  degrees  to  dishes 
which  at  first  disgusted  it.  That  by  long  habit 
of  carrying  a  burden,  we  lose,  in  great  part,  our 
sensibility  of  its  weight,  any  man  may  be  con- 
vinced by  putting  on  for  an  hour  the  armour  of 
our  ancestors ;  for  he  will  scarcely  believe  that 
men  would  have  had  much  inclination  to  marches 
and  battles,  encumbered  and  oppressed,  as  he 
will  find  himself,  with  the  ancient  panoply.  Yet 
the  heroes  that  overrun  regions,  and  stormed 
towns  in  iron  accoutrements,  he  knows  not 


126 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  78. 


to  have  been  bigger,  and  has  no  reason  to  ima- 
gine them  stronger,  than  the  present  race  of 
men-  he  therefore  must  conclude,  that  their 
peculiar  powers  were  conferred  only  by  peculiar 
habits,  and  that  their  familiarity  with  the  dress 
of  war  enabled  them  to  move  in  it  wijh  ease,  vi- 
gour, and  agility. 

Yet  it  seems  to  be  the  condition  of  our  present 
state,  that  pain  should  be  more  fixed  and  perma- 
nent than  pleasure.  Uneasiness  gives  way  by 
slow  degrees,  and  is  long  before  it  quits  its  pos- 
session of  the  sensory  ;  but  all  our  gratifications 
are  volatile,  vagrant,  and  easily  dissipated.  The 
fragrance  of  the  jessamine  bower  is  lost  after  the 
enjoyment  of  a  few  moments,  and  the  Indian 
wanders  among  his  native  spices  without  any 
sense  of  their  exhalations.  It  is,  indeed,  not  ne- 
cessary to  show  by  many  instances  what  all  man- 
kind confess,  by  an  incessant  call  for  variety,  and 
restless  pursuit  of  enjoyments,  which  they  value 
only  because  unpossessed. 

Something  similar,  or  analogous,  may  be  ob- 
served in  effects  produced  immediately  upon  the 
mind  !  nothing  can  strongly  strike  or  affect  us, 
but  what  is  rare  or  sudden.  The  most  import- 
ant events,  when  they  become  familiar,  are  no 
longer  considered  with  wonder  or  solicitude,  and 
that  which  at  first  filled  up  our  whole  attention, 
and  left  no  place  for  any  other  th6ught,  is  soon 
thrust  aside  into  some  remote  repository  of  the 
mind,  and  lies  among  other  lumber  of  the  me- 
mory, overlooked  and  neglected.  Thus  far  the 
mind  resembles  the  body,  but  here  the  similitude 
is  at  an  end. 

The  manner  in  which  external  force  acts  upon 
the  body  is  very  little  subject  to  the  regulation  of 
the  will ;  no  man  can  at  pleasure  obtund  or  invi- 
gorate his  senses,  prolong  the  agency  of  any  im- 
pulse, or  continue  the  presence  of  any  image 
traced  upon  the  eye,  or  any  sound  infused  into  the 
ear.  But  our  ideas  are  more  subjected  to  choice  ; 
we  can  call  them  before  us,  and  command  their 
stay,  we  can  facilitate  and  promote  their  recur- 
rence, we  can  either  repress  their  intrusion,  or 
hasten  their  retreat.  It  is  therefore  the  business 
of  wisdom  and  virtue,  to  select  among  number- 
less objects  striving  for  our  notice,  such  as  may 
enable  us  to  exalt  our  reason,  extend  our  views, 
and  secure  our  happiness.  But  this  choice  is  to 
be  made  with  very  little  regard  to  rareness  or  fre- 
quency ;  for  nothing  is  valuable  merely  because 
it  is  either  rare  or  common,  but  because  it  is 
adapted  to  some  useful  purpose,  and  enables  us 
to  supply  some  deficiency  of  our  nature. 

Milton  has  judiciously  represented  the  father 
of  mankind,  as  seized  with  norror  and  astonish- 
ment at  the  signt  of  death,  exhibited  to  him  on 
the  mount  of  vision.  For  surely,  nothing  can  so 
much  disturb  the  passions,  or  perplex  the  intel- 
lects of  man,  as  the  disruption  of  his  union  with 
visible  nature ;  a  separation  from  all  that  has  hi- 
therto delighted  or  engaged  him  ;  a  change  not 
only  of  the  place,  but  the  manner  of  his  being;  an 
entrance  into  a  state  not  simply  which  he  knows 
not,  but  which  perhaps  he  has  not  faculties  to 
know;  an  immediate  and  perceptible  communi- 
cation with  the  Supreme  Being,  and,  what  is 
above  all  distressful  and  alarming,  the  final  sen- 
tence and  unalterable  allotment. 

Yet  we  to  whom  the  shortness  of  life  has  given 
frequent  occasions  of  contemplating  mortality, 
can,  without  emotion,  see  generations  of  men 


pass  away,  and  are  at  leisure  to  establish  modes 
of  sorrow,  and  adjust  the  ceremonial  of  death. 
We  can  look  upon  funeral  pomp  as  a  common 
spectacle  in  which  we  have  no  concern,  and  turn 
away  from  it  to  trifles  and  amusements,  without 
dejection  of  look,  or  inquietude  of  heart 

It  is,  indeed,  apparent  from  the  constitution  of 
the  world,  that  there  must  be  a  time  for  other 
thoughts ;  and  a  perpetual  meditation  upon  the 
last  hour,  however  it  may  become  the  solitude  of 
a  monastery,  is  inconsistent  with  many  duties  of 
common  life.  But  surely  the  remembrance  of 
death  ought  to  predominate  in  our  minds,  as  an 
habitual  and  settled  principle,  always  operating, 
though  not  always  perceived;  and  our  attention 
should  seldom  wander  so  far  from  our  own  con- 
dition, as  not  to  be  recalled  and  fixed  by  sight  of 
an  event,  which  must  soon,  we  know  not  how 
soon,  happen  likewise  to  ourselves,  and  of  which, 
though  we  cannot  appoint  the  time,  we  may  se- 
cure the  consequence. 

Every  instance  of  death  may  justly  awaken 
our  fears  and  quicken  our  vigilance,  but  its  fre- 
quency so  much  weakens  its  effect,  that  we  are 
seldom  alarmed  unless  some  close  connexion  is 
broken,  some  scheme  frustrated,  or  some  hope 
defeated.  Many  therefore  seem  to  pass  on  from 
youth  to  decrepitude,  without  any  reflection  on 
the  end  of  life,  because  they  are  wholly  involved 
within  themselves,  and  look  on  others  only  as 
inhabitants  of  the  common  earth,  without  any 
expectation  of  receiving  good,  or  intention  of  be- 
stowing it. 

Events,  of  which  we  confess  the  importance, 
excite  little  sensibility,  unless  they  affect  us  more 
nearly  than  as  sharers  in  the  common  interest  of 
mankind ;  that  desire  which  every  man  feels  of 
being  remembered  and  lamented,  is  often  morti- 
fied when  we  remark  how  little  concern  is  caused 
by  the  eternal  departure  even  of  those  who  have 
passed  their  lives  with  public  honours,  and  been 
distinguished  by  extraordinary  performances.  It 
is  not  possible  to  be  regarded  with  tenderness 
except  by  a  few.  That  merit  which  gives  great- 
ness and  renown,  diffuses  its  influence  to  a  wide 
compass,  but  acts  weakly  on  every  single  breast; 
it  is  placed  at  a  distance  from  common  spectators, 
and  shines  like  one  of  the  remote  stars,  of  which 
the  light  reaches  us  but  not  the  heat.  The  wit, 
the  hero,  the  philosopher,  whom  their  tempers  or 
their  fortunes  have  hindered  from  intimate  rela- 
tions, die,  without  any  other  effect  than  that  ot 
adding  a  new  topic  to  the  conversation  of  the  day. 
They  impress  none  with  any  fresh  conviction  of 
the  fragility  of  our  nature,  because  none  had  any 
particular  interest  in  their  lives  or  was  united 
to  them  by  a  reciprocation  of  benefits  and  en 
dearments. 

Thus  it  often  happens,  that  those  who  in  their 
lives  were  applauded  and  admired,  are  laid  at 
last  in  the  ground  without  the  common  honour  ot 
a  stone ;  because  by  those  excellences  with  which 
many  were  delighted,  none  had  been  obliged,  and 
though  they  had  many  to  celebrate,  they  had  none 
to  love  them. 

Custom  so  far  regulates  the  sentiments,  at 
least  of  common  minds,  that  I  believe  men  may 
be  generally  observed  to  grow  less  tender  as  they 
advance  in  age.  He  who,  when  life  was  new, 
melted  at  the  loss  of  every  companion,  can  look 
in  time,  without  concern,  upon  the  grave  into 
which  his  last  friend  was  thrown,  and  into  which 


No.  79.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


127 


himself  is  ready  to  fall;  not  that  he  is  more  will- 
ing to  die  than  formerly,  but  that  he  is  more  fa- 
miliar to  the  death  of  others,  and  therefore  is  not 
alarmed  so  far  as  to  consider  how  much  nearer 
he  approaches  to  his  end.  But  this  is  to  submit 
tamely  to  the  tyranny  of  accident,  and  to  suffer 
our  reason  to  lie  useless.  Every  funeral  may 
justly  be  considered  as  a  summons  to  prepare 
for  that  state,  into  which  it  shows  us  that  we 
must  some  time  enter;  and  the  summons  is 
more  loud  and  piercing,  as  the  event  of  which  it 
warns  us  is  at  less  distance.  To  neglect  at  any 
time  preparation  for  death,  is  to  sleep  on  our 
post  at  a  siege  ;  but  to  omit  it  in  old  age,  is  to 
sleep  at  an  attack. 

It  has  always  appeared  to  me  one  of  the  most 
striking  passages  in  the  visions  of  duevedo, 
which  stigmatizes  those  as  fools  who  complain 
that  they  failed  of  happiness  by  sudden  death. 
"How"  says  he,  "can  death  be  sudden  to  a  be- 
ing who  always  knew  that  he  must  die,  and  that 
the  time  of  his  death  was  uncertain?" 

Since  business  and  gayety  are  always  drawing 
our  attention  away  from  a  future  state,  some  ad- 
monition is  frequently  necessary  to  recall  it  to 
our  minds;  and  what  can  more  properly  renew 
the  impression  than  the  examples  of  mortality 
which  every  day  supplies?  The  great  incentive 
to  virtue  is  the  reflection  that  we  must  die ;  it  will 
therefore  be  useful  to  accustom  ourselves,  when- 
ever we  see  a  funeral,  to  consider  how  soon  we 
may  be  added  to  the  number  of  those  whose  pro- 
bation is  past,  and  whose  happiness  or  misery 
shall  endure  for  ever. 


No.  79.]        TUESDAY,  DEC.  18,  1750. 

Tarn  sape  nostrum  decipi  Fabullum,  quid 
Miraris,  Aule.  ?  Semper  bonus  homo  tiro  eat. 

MARTi 

You  wonder  I've  so  little  wit, 

Friend  John,  so  often  to  be  bit.— 

None  better  guard  against  a  cheat 

Than  he  who  is  a  knave  complete.  F.  LEWIS. 

SUSPICION,  however  necessary  it  may  be  to  our 
safe  passage  through  ways  beset  on  all  sides  by 
fraud  and  malice,  has  been  always  considered, 
when  it  exceeds  the  common  measures,  as  a 
token  of  depravity  and  corruption;  and  a  Greek 
writer  of  sentences  has  laid  down,  as  a  standing 
maxim,  that  he  who  believes  not  another  on  his  oath, 
knoics  himself  to  be  perjured. 

We  can  form  our  opinions  of  that  which  we 
know  not,  only  by  placing  it  in  comparison  with 
something  that  we  know ;  whoever  therefore  is 
overrun  with  suspicion,  and  detects  artifice  and 
stratagem  in  every  proposal,  must  either  have 
learned  by  experience  or  observation  the  wicked- 
ness of  mankind,  and  been  taught  to  avoid  fraud 
by  having  often  suffered  or  seen  treachery,  or  he 
must  derive  his  judgment  from  the  consciousness 
of  his  own  disposition,  and  impute  to  others  the 
same  inclinations  which  he  feels  predominant  in 
himself. 

To  learn  caution  by  turning  our  eyes  upon 
life,  and  observing  the  arts  by  which  negligence 
is  surprised,  timidity  overborne,  and  credulity 
amused,  requires  either  great  latitude  of  converse 
and  long  acquaintance  with  business,  or  uncom- 
mon activity  of  vigilance,  and  acuteness  of  pene- 


tration. When,  therefore,  a  young  man,  not  dis- 
tinguished by  vigour  of  intellect,  comes  into  the 
world  full  of  scruples  and  diffidence  ;  makes  a 
bargain  with  many  provisional  limitations  ;  hesi- 
tates in  his  answer  to  a  common  question,  lest 
more  shc^fe  be  intended  than  he  can  immediately 
discover^Tias  a  long  reach  in  detecting  the  pro- 
jects of  his  acquaintance ;  considers  every  ca- 
ress as  an  act  of  hypocrisy,  and  feels  neither  gra- 
titude nor  affection  from  the  tenderness  of  his 
friends,  because  he  believes  no  one  to  have  any 
real  tenderness  but  for  himself;  whatever  ex- 
pectations this  early  sagacity  may  raise  of  his 
future  eminence  or  riches  I  can  seldom  forbear 
to  consider  him  as  a  wretch  incapable  of  gene- 
rosity or  benevolence ;  as  a  villain  early  com- 
pleted beyond  the  need  of  common  opportuni- 
ties and  gradual  temptations. 

Upon  men  of  this  class  instruction  and  admo- 
nition are  generally  thrown  away,  because  they 
consider  artifice  and  deceit  as  proofs  of  under- 
standing ;  they  are  misled  at  the  same  time  by 
the  two  great  seducers  of  the  world,  vanity  and 
interest,  and  not  only  look  upon  those  who  act 
with  openness  and  confidence,  as  condemned  by 
their  principles  to  obscurity  and  want,  but  as 
contemptible  for  narrowness  of  comprehension, 
shortness  of  views,  and  slowness  of  contrivance. 

The  world  has  been  long  amused  with  the 
mention  of  policy  in  public  transactions,  and  of 
art  in  private  affairs ;  they  have  been  considered 
as  the  effects  of  great  qualities,  and  as  unattain- 
able by  men  of  the  common  level :  yet  I  have 
not  found  many  performances  either  of  art  or 
policy,  that  required  such  stupendous  efforts  of 
intellect,  or  might  not  have  been  effected  by  false- 
hood and  impudence,  without  the  assistance  of 
any  other  powers.  To  profess  what  he  does  not 
mean,  to  promise  what  he  cannot  perform,  to 
flatter  ambition  with  prospects  of  promotion,  and 
misery  with  hopes  of  relief,  to  soothe  pride  with 
appearances  of  submission,  and  appease  enmity 
by  blandishments  and  bribes,  can  surely  imply 
nothing  more  or  greater  than  a  mind  devoted 
wholly  to  its  own  purposes,  a  face  that  cannot 
blush,  and  a  heart  that  cannot  feel. 

These  practices  are  so  mean  and  base,  thi  .t  he 
who  finds  in  himself  no  tendency  to  use  them, 
cannot  easily  believe  that  they  are  considered  by 
others  with  less  detestation  ;  he  therefore  suffers 
himself  to  slumber  in  false  security,  and  becomes 
a  prey  to  those  who  applaud  their  own  subtilty 
because  they  know  how  to  steal  upon  his  sleep, 
and  exult  in  the  success  which  they  could  never 
have  obtained,  had  they  not  attempted  a  man 
better  than  themselves,  who  was  hindered  from 
obviating  their  stratagems,  not  by  folly,  but  by 
innocence. 

Suspicion  is,  indeed,  a  temper  so  uneasy  and 
restless,  that  it  is  very  justly  appointed  the  con- 
comitant of  guilt.  It  is  said,  that  no  torture  is 
equal  to  the  inhibition  of  sleep  long  continued ; 
a  pain  to  which  the  state  of  that  man  bears  a 
very  exact  analogy,  who  dares  never  give  rest  to 
his  vigilance  and  circumspection,  but  considers 
himself  as  surrounded  by  secret  foes,  and  fears 
to  entrust  his  children,  or  Mi  friend,  with  the  se- 
cret that  throbs  in  his  breast  and  the  anxieties 
that  break  into  his  face.  To  avoid,  at  this  ex- 
pense, those  evils  to  which  easiness  and  friend- 
ship might  have  exposed  him,  is  surely  to  buy 
safety  at  too  dear  a  rate,  and,  in  the  language  01 


128 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  80. 


the  Roman  satirist,  to  save  life  by  losing  all  fo 
which  a  wise  man  would  live.* 

When  in  the  diet  of  the  German  empire,  as 
Camerarius  relates,  the  princes  were  once  dis- 
playing their  felicity,  and  each  boasting  the  ad- 
vantages of  his  own  dominion,  one  wflkpossess- 
cd  a  cidiiitry  not  remarkable  for  the  gwmdeur  oi 
its  cities,  or  the  fertility  of  its  soil,  rose  to  speak, 
and  the  rest  listened  between  pity  and  contempt, 
till  he  declared,  in  honour  of  his  territories,  that 
he  could  travel  through  them  without  a  guard, 
and  if  he  was  weary,  sleep  in  safety  upon  the  lap 
of  the  first  man  whom  he  should  meet ;  a  com- 
mendation which  would  have  been  ill  exchanged 
for  the  boast  of  palaces,  pastures,  or  streams. 

Suspicion  is  not  less  an  enemy  to  virtue  than 
to  happiness ;  he  that  is  already  corrupt  is  na- 
turally suspicious,  and  he  that  becomes  suspi- 
cious'will  quickly  be  corrupt.  It  is  too  common 
for  us  to  learn  the  frauds  by  which  oursehes  have 
suffered ;  men  who  are  once  persuaded  that  de- 
ceit will  be  employed  against  them,  sometimes 
think  the  same  arts  justified  by  the  necessity  of 
defence.  Even  they  whose  virtue  is  too  well  es- 
tablished to  give  way  to  example,  or  be  shaken 
by  sophistry,  must  yet  feel  their  love  of  mankind 
diminished  with  their  esteem,  and  grow  less  zeal- 
ous for  the  happiness  of  those  by  whom  they 
imagine  their  own  happiness  endangered. 

Thus  we  find  old  age,  upon  which  suspicion 
has  been  strongly  impressed,  by  long  intercourse 
with  the  world,  inflexible  and  severe,  not  easily 
softened  by  submission,  melted  by  complaint,  or 
subdued  by  supplication.  Frequent  experience 
of  counterfeited  miseries,  and  dissembled  virtue, 
in  time  overcomes  that  disposition  to  tenderness 
and  sympathy,  which  is  so  powerful  in  our  young- 
er years ;  and  they  that  happen  to  petition  the  old 
for  compassion  or  assistance,  are  doomed  to  lan- 
guish without  regard,  and  suffer  for  the  crimes  of 
men  who  have  formerly  been  found  undeserving 
or  ungrateful. 

Historians  are  certainly  chargeable  with  the 
depravation  of  mankind,  when  they  relate  with- 
out censure  those  stratagems  of  war  by  which 
the  virtues  of  an  enemy  are  engaged  to  his  de- 
struction. A  ship  comes  before  a  port,  weather- 
beaten  and  shattered,  arid  the  crew  implore  the 
liberty  of  repairing  their  breaches,  supplying 
themselves  with  necessaries,  or  burying  their 
dead.  The  humanity  of  the  inhabitants  inclines 
them  to  consent ;  the  strangers  enter  the  town 
with  weapons  concealed,  fall  suddenly  upon  their 
benefactors,  destroy  those  that  make  resistance, 
and  become  masters  of  the  place ;  they  return 
home  rich  with  plunder,  and  their  success  is  re- 
corded to  encourage  imitation. 

But  surely  war  has  its  laws,  and  ought  to  be 
conducted  with  some  regard  to  the  universal  in- 
terest of  man.  Those  may  justly  be  pursued  as 
enemies  to  the  community  of  nature,  who  suffer 
hostility  to  vacate  the  unalterable  laws  of  right, 
and  pursue  their  private  advantage  by  means 
which,  if  once  established,  must  destroy  kind- 
ness, cut  off  from  every  man  all  hopes  of  assist- 
ance from  another,  and  fill  the  world  with  per- 
petual suspicion  ant!  implacable  malevolence. 
Whatever  is  thus  gained  ought  to  be  restored, 
and  those  who  have  conquered  by  such  treachery 


*  Propter  vitam  vivendi  perdere  causas. 


may  be  justly  denied  the  protection  of  their  na- 
tive country. 

Whoever  commits  a  fraud  is  guilty  not  only  of 
the  particular  injury  to  him  whom  he  deceives, 
but  of  the  diminution  of  that  confidence  which 
constitutes"  not  only  the  ease  but  the  existence  ol 
society.  He  that  suffers  by  imposture  has  too 
often  his  virtue  more  impaired  than  his  fortune. 
But  as  it  is  necessary  not  to  invite  robbery  by 
supineness,  so  it  is  our  duty  not  to  suppress  ten- 
derness by  suspicion ;  it  is  better  to  suffer  wrong 
than  to  do  it,  and  happier  to  be  sometimes  cheat- 
ed than  not  to  trust. 


No.  80.]     SATURDAY,  DEC.  22,  1750. 

Vides  ut  alta  stet  nive  candidum 
Soracte,  nee  jam  sustineant  onus 
Silvtc  laborantes HOH. 

Sehold  ycm  mountain's  hoary  height 
Made  higher  with  new  mounts  of  snow; 

Again  behold  the  winter's  weight 
Oppress  the  labdtiring  woods  below.        DRYDE«J 

As  Providence  has  rrtade  the  human  soul  an 
active  being  always  impatient  for  novelty,  and 
struggling  for  something  yet  unenjoyed  with 
unwearied  progression,  the  \*oTH  seems  to  have 
been  eminently  adapted  to  this  disposition  of  the 
mind ;  it  is  formed  to  raise  expectations  by  con- 
stant vicissitudes,  and  to  obviate  satiety  by  per- 
petual change. 

Wherever  we  turn  our  eyes,  we  find  some- 
thing to  revive  our  curiosity,  and  engage  our  at- 
tention. In  the  dusk  of  the  morning  we  watch 
the  rising  of  the  sun,  and  see  the  day  diversify 
the  clouds,  and  open  new  prospects  in  its  gradual 
idvance.  After  a  few  hours  we  see  the  shades 
lengthen,  and  the  light  decline,  till  the  sky  is  re- 
signed to  a  m'ultitude  of  shining  orbs  different 
'rom  each  other  in  magnitude  and  splendour. 
The  earth  varies  its  appearance  as  we  move  up- 
on it ;  the  woods  offer  their  shades,  and  the  fields 
their  harvests  ;  the  hill  flatters  with  an  extensive 
view,  and  the  valley  invites  with  shelter,  fra- 
grance, and  flowers. 

The  poets  have  numbered  among  the  felicities 
of  the  golden  age,  an  exemption  from  the  change 
of  seasons,  and  a  perpetuity  of  spring;  but  I  am 
not  certain  that  in  this  state  of  imaginary  happi- 
ness they  have  made  sufficient  provision  for  that 
nsatiable  demand  of  new  gratifications,  which 
seems  particularly  to  characterize  the  nature  of 
man.  Our  sense  of  delight  is  in  a  great  measure 
comparative,  and  arises  at  once  from  the  sensa- 
:ions  which  we  feel,  and  those  which  we  remem- 
ber :  thus  ease  after  torment  is  pleasure  for  a  time, 
and  we  are  very  agreeably  recreated,  when  the 
body,  chilled  with  the  weather,  is  gradually  re- 
covering its  natural  tepidity  ;  but  the  joy  ceases 
when  we  have  forgot  the  cold ;  we  must  fall  be- 
low ease  again,  if  we  desire  to  rise  above  it,  and 
purchase  new  felicity  by  voluntary  pain.  It  is 
therefore  not  unlikely  that  however  the  fancy 
may  be  amused  with  the  description  of  regions 
in  which  no  wind  is  heard  but  the  gentle  zephyr 
and  no  scenes  are  displayed  but  valleys  enamel- 
led with  unfading  flowers,  and  woods  waving 
their  perennial  verdure,  we  should  soon  grow 
weary  of  uniformity,  find  our  thoughts  languish 
tor  want  of  other  subjects,  call  on  Heaven  for  our 


No.  81.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

wonted  round  of  seasons,  and  think  ourselves 
liberally  recompensed  for  the  inconveniences  of 
summer  and  winter,  by  new  perceptions  of  the 
calmness  and  mildness  of  the  intermediate  varia- 
tions. 

Every  season  has  its  particular  power  of  strik- 
ing the  mind.  The  nakedness  and  asperity  of 
the  wintry  world  always  fill  the  beholder  with 
pensive  and  profound  astonishment ;  as  the  va- 
riety of  the  scene  is  lessened,  its  grandeur  is  in- 
creased ;  arid  the  mind  is  swelled  at  once  by  the 
mingled  ideas,  of  the  present  and  the  past,  of  the 
beauties  which  have  vanished  from  the  eyes,  and 
the  waste  and  desolation  that  are  now  before 
them. 

It  is  observed  by  Milton,  that  he  who  neglects 
to  visit  the  country  in  spring,  and  rejects  the  plea- 
sures that  are  then  in  their  first  bloom  and  fra- 
grance, is  guilty  of  sullenness  against  nature.  If 
we  allot  different  duties  to  different  seasons,  he 
may  be  charged  with  equal  disobedience  to  the 
voice  of  nature,  who  looks  on  the  bleak  hills  and 
leafless  woods,  without  seriousness  and  awe. 
Spring  is  the  season  of  gayety,  and  winter  of  ter- 
ror ;  in  spring  the  heart  of  tranquillity  dances  to 
the  melody  of  the  groves,  and  the  eye  of  benevo- 
lence sparkles  at  the  sight  of  happiness  and  plen- 
ty. In  the  winter,  compassion  melts  at  univer- 
sal calamity,  and  the  tear  of  softness  starts  at  the 
waitings  of  hunger,  and  the  cries  of  the  creation 
in  distress. 

Few  minds  have  much  inclination  to  indulge 
heaviness  and  sorrow,  nor  do  I  recommend  them 
beyond  the  degree  necessary  to  maintain  in  its 
full  vigour  that  habitual  sympathy  and  tender- 
ness, which,  in  a  world  of  so  much  misery,  is 
necessary  to  the  ready  discharge  of  our  most  im- 
portant duties.  The  winter  therefore  is  general- 
ly celebrated  as  the  proper  season  for  domestic 
merriment  and  gayety.  We  are  seldom  invited 
by  the  votaries  of  pleasure  to  look  abroad  for  any 
other  purpose,  than  that  we  may  shrink  back 
with  more  satisfaction  to  our  coverts,  and  when 
we  have  heard  the  howl  of  the  tempest,  and  felt 
the  gripe  of  the  frost,  congratulate  each  other 
with  more  gladness  upon  a  close  room,  an  easy 
chair,  a  large  fire,  and  a  smoking  dinner. 

Winter  brings  natural  inducements  to  jollity 
and  conversation.  Differences,  we  know,  are 
never  so  effectually  laid  asleep,  as  by  some  com- 
mon calamity :  sin  enemy  unites  all  to  whom  he 
threatens  danger.  The  rigour  of  winter  brings 
generally  to  the  same  fire-side,  those,  who  by  the 
opposition  of  inclinations,  or  difference  of  em- 
ployment, moved  in  various  directions  through 
the  other  parts  of  the  year ;  and  when  they  have 
met,  and  find  it  their  mutual  interest  to  remain 
together,  they  endear  each  other  by  mutual  com- 
pliances, and  often  wish  for  the  continuance  of 
the  social  season,  with  all  its  bleakness  and  all 
its  severities. 

To  the  men  of  study  and  imagination  the  win- 
ter is  generally  the  chief  time  of  labour.  Gloom 
and  silence  produce  composure  of  mind  and  con- 
centration of  ideas ;  and  the  privation  of  external 
pleasure  naturally  causes  an  effort  to  find  enter- 
tainment within.  This  is  the  time,  in  which  those 
whom  literature  enables  to  find  amusements  for 
themselves,  have  more  than  common  convictions 
of  their  own  happiness.  When  they  are  con- 
demned by  the  elements  to  retirement,  and  de- 
barred from  most  of  the  diversions  which  are 
R 


129 


called  in  to  assist  the  flight  of  time,  they  can  find 
new  subjects  of  inquiry,  and  preserve  themselves 
from  that  weariness,  which  hangs  always  flag- 
ging upon  the  vacant  mind. 

It  cannot  indeed  be  expected  of  all  to  be  poets 
and  philosophers  ;  it  is  necessary  that  the  greater 
part  of  mankind  should  be  employed  in  the  mi- 
nute business  of  common  life ;  minute,  indeed, 
not  if  we  consider  its  influence  upon  our  happi- 
ness, but  if  we  respect  the  abilities  requisite  to 
conduct  it.  These  must  necessarily  be  more  de- 
pendent on  accident  for  the  means  of  spending 
agreeably  those  hours  which  their  occupations 
leave  unengaged,  or  nature  obliges  them  to  allow 
to  relaxation.  Yet  even  on  these  I  would  will 
ingly  impress  such  a  sense  of  the  value  of  time, 
as  may  incline  them  to  find  out  for  their  careless 
hours  amusements  of  more  use  and  dignity  than 
the  common  games,  which  not  only  weary  the 
mind  without  improving  it,  but  strengthen  the 
passions  of  envy  and  avarice,  and  often  lead  to 
fraud  and  to  profusion,  to  corruption  and  to  ruin. 
It  is  unworthy  of  a  reasonable  being  to  spend 
any  of  the  little  time  allotted  us,  without  some 
tendency,  either  direct  or  oblique,  to  the  end  o< 
our  existence.  And  though  every  moment  can  • 
not  be  laid  out  on  the  formal  and  regular  improve 
ment  of  our  knowledge,  or  in  the  stated  practice 
of  a  moral  or  religious  duty,  yet  none  should  be 
so  spent  as  to  exclude  wisdom  or  virtue,  or  pass 
without  possibility  of  qualifying  us  more  or  less 
for  the  better  employment  of  those  which  are  to 
come. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  to  pass  an  hour  in  honest 
conversation,  Without  being  able,  when  we  rise 
from  it,  to  please  ourselves  with  having  given  or 
received  some  advantages ;  but  a  man  may  shuf- 
fle cards,  or  rattle  dice,  from  noon  to  midnight, 
without  tracing  any  new  idea  in  his  mind,  or  be- 
ing able  to  recollect  the  day  by  any  other  token 
than  his  gain  or  loss,  and  a  confused  remem 
brance  ofagitated  passions  and  clamorous  alter 
cations. 

However,  as  experience  is  of  more  weight  than 
precept,  any  of  my  readers,  who  are  contriving 
how  to  spend  the  dreary  months  before  them, 
may  consider  which  of  their  past  amusements 
fills  them  now  with  the  greatest  satisfaction,  and 
resolve  to  repeat  those  gratifications  of  which  the 
pleasure  is  most  durable. 


No.  81.]       TUESDAY,  DEC.  16,  1750. 

Discite  Justitiuin  moniti VIBG 

Hear,  and  be  just. 

AMONG  questions  which  have  been  discussed, 
without  arty  approach  to  decision,  may  be  num- 
bered the  precedency,  or  superior  excellence  of 
one  virtue  to  another,  which  has  long  furnished 
a  subject  of  dispute  to  men  whose  leisure  sent 
them  out  into  the  intellectual  world  in  search  of 
employment,  and  who  have,  perhaps,  been  some- 
times withheld  from  the  practice  of  their  favour- 
ite duty,  by  zeal  for  its  advancement,  and  dili  • 
gence  in  its  celebration. 

The  intricacy  of  this  dispute  may  be  alleged 
as  a  proof  of  that  tenderness  for  mankind  which 
Providence  has,  I  think,  universally  displayed, 
by  making  attainments  easy  in  proportion  as 


130 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  81 


they  are  necessary.  That  all  the  duties  of  mo- 
rality ought  to  be  practised,  is  without  difficulty 
discoverable,  because  ignorance  or  uncertainty 
would  immediately  involve  the  world  in  confu- 
sion and  distress;  but  which  duty  ought  to  be 
most  esteemed,  we  may  continue  to  debate  with- 
out inconvenience ;  so  all  be  diligently  performed 
as  there  is  opportunity  or  need :  for  upon  prac- 
tice, not  upon  opinion,  depends  the  happiness  of 
mankind :  and  controversies,  merely  speculative, 
are  of  small  importance  in  themselves,  however 
they  may  have  sometimes  heated  a  disputant,  or 
provoked  a  faction. 

Of  the  Divine  Author  of  our  religion  it  is  im- 
possible to  peruse  the  evangelical  histories,  with- 
out observing  how  little  he  favoured  the  vanity 
of  inquisitiveness;  how  much  more  rarely  he 
condescended  to  satisfy  curiosity  than  to  relieve 
distress ;  and  how  much  he  desired  that  his  fol- 
lowers should  rather  excel  in  goodness  than  in 
knowledge.  His  precepts  tend  immediately  to 
the  rectification  of  the  moral  principles,  and  the 
direction  of  daily  conduct,  without  ostentation, 
without  art,  at  once  irrefragable  and  plain,  such 
as  well-meaning  simplicity  may  readily  conceive, 
and  of  which  we  cannot  mistake  the  meaning, 
but  when  we  are  afraid  to  find  it. 

The  measure  of  justice  prescribed  to  us,  in  our 
transactions  with  others,  is  remarkarkably  clear 
and  comprehensive :  Whatsoever  ye  would  that 
men  should  do  unto  you,  even  so  do  unto  them.  A 
law  by  which  every  claim  of  right  may  be  imme- 
diately adjusted  as  far  as  the  private  conscience 
requires  to  be  informed ;  a  law,  of  which  every 
man  may  find  the  exposition  in  his  own  breast, 
and  which  may  always  be  observed  without  any 
other  qualifications  than  honesty  of  intention,  and 
purity  of  will. 

Over  this  law,  indeed,  some  sons  of  sophistry 
have  bfcen  subtle  enough  to  throw  mists,  which 
have  darkened  their  own  eyes.  To  perplex  this 
universal  principle,  they  have  inquired  whether  a 
man,  conscious  to  himself  of  unreasonable  wishes, 
be  bound  to  gratify  them  in  another.  But  surely 
there  needed  no  long  deliberation  to  conclude  that 
the  desires,  which  are  to  be  considered  by  us  as 
the  measure  of  right,  must  be  such  as  we  approve, 
and  that  we  ought  to  pay  no  regard  to  those  ex- 
pectations in  others,  which  we  condemn  in  our- 
selves, and  which,  however  they  may  intrude 
upon  our  imagination,  we  know  it  our  duty  to 
resist  and  suppress. 

One  of  the  most  celebrated  cases  which  have 
been  produced  as  requiring  some  skill  in  the  di- 
rection of  conscience  to  adapt  them  to  this  great 
rule,  is  that  of  a  criminal  asking  mercy  of  his  judge, 
who  cannot  but  know,  that  if  he  was  in  the  state 
of  the  supplicant  he  should  desire  that  pardon 
which  he  now  denies.  The  difficulty  of  this  so- 
phism will  vanish,  if  we  remember  that  the  par- 
ties are,  in  reality,  on  one  side  the  criminal,  and 
on  the  other  the  community,  of  which  the  magis- 
trate is  only  the  minister,  and  by  which  he  is  in- 
trusted with  the  public  safety.  The  magistrate, 
therefore,  in  pardoning  a  man  unworthy  of  par- 
don, betrays  the  trust  with  which  he  is  invested, 
gives  away  what  is  not  his  own,  and,  apparently, 
does  to  others  what  he  would  not  that  others 
should  do  to  him.  Even  the  community,  whose 
right  is  still  greater  to  arbitrary  grants  of  mercy, 
is  bound  by  those  laws  which  regard  the  great 
republic  of  mankind,  and  cannot  justify  such  for- 


bearance as  may  promote  wickedness,  and  lessen 
the  general  confidence  and  security  in  which  all 
have  an  equal  interest,  and  which  all  are  there- 
fore bound  to  maintain.  For  this  reason  the 
state  has  not  a  right  to  erect  a  general  sanctuary 
for  fugitives,  or  give  protection  to  such  as  have 
forfeited  their  lives  by  crimes  against  the  laws  of 
common  morality  equally  acknowledged  by  all 
nations,  because  no  people  can,  without  infrac- 
tion of  the  universal  league  of  social  beings,  in- 
cite, by  prospects  of  impunity  and  safety,  those 
practices  in  another  dominion,  which  they  would 
themselves  punish  in  their  own. 

One  occasion  of  uncertainty  and  hesitation, 
in  those  "by  whom  this  great  rule  has  been  com- 
mented and  dilated,  is  the  confusion  of  what  the 
exacter  casuists  are  careful  to  distinguish,  debts 
of  justice,  and  debts  of  charity.  The  immediate 
and  primary  intention  of  this  precept  is  to  establish 
a  rule  of  justice ;  and  I  know  not  whether  inven- 
tion, or  sophistry,  can  start  a  single  difficulty  to 
retard  its  application,  when  it  is  thus  expressed 
and  explained,  let  every  man  allow  the  claim  of  right 
in  another,  which  he  should  think  himself  entitled  to 
make  in  the  like  circumstances. 

The  discharge  of  the  debts  of  charity,  or  duties 
which  we  owe  to  others,  not  merely  as  requires 
by  justice,  but  as  dictated  by  benevolence,  ad  • 
mils  in  its  own  nature  greater  complication  oj 
circumstances,  and  greater  latitude  of  choice. 
Justice  is  indispensably  and  universally  necessa- 
ry, and  what  is  necessary  must  always  be  limited, 
uniform  and  distinct.  But  beneficence,  though 
in  general  equally  enjoined  by  our  religion,  and 
equally  needful  to  the  conciliation  of  the  Divine 
favour,  is  yet,  for  the  most  part,  with  regard  to 
its  single  acts,  elective  and  voluntary.  We  may 
certainly,  without  injury  to  our  fellow-beings,  al- 
low in.the  distribution  of  kindness  something  to 
our  affections,  and  change  the  measure  of  our 
liberality,  according  to  our  opinions  and  pros- 
pects, our  hopes  and  fears.  This  rule  therefore 
is  not  equally  determinate  and  absolute,  with  re- 
spect to  offices  of  kindness,  and  acts  of  liberality ; 
because  liberality  and  kindness,  absolutely  deter- 
mined, would  lose  their  nature ;  for  how  could 
we  be  called  tender,  or  charitable,  for  giving  that 
which  we  are  positively  forbidden  to  withhold  ? 

Yet,  even  in  adjusting  the  extent  of  our  bene 
licence,  no  other  measure  can  be  taken  than  this 
precept  affords  us,  for  we  can  only  know  what 
others  suffer  for  want,  by  considering  how  we 
should  be  affected  in  the  same  state ;  nor  can 
we  proportion  cmr  assistance  by  any  other  rule 
than  that  of  doing  what  we  should  then  expect 
from  others.  It  indeed  generally  happens  that 
the  giver  and  receiver  differ  in  their  opinions  of 
generosity  ;  the  same  partiality  to  his  own  inte- 
rest inclines  one  to  large  expectations,  and  the 
other  to  sparing  distributions.  Perhaps  the  in- 
firmity of  human  nature  will  scarcely  suffer  a  man 
groaning  under  the  pressure  of  distress,  to  judge 
rightly  of  the  kindness  of  his  friends,  or  think 
they  have  done  enough  till  his  deliverance  is 
completed ;  not  therefore  what  we  might  wish, 
but  what  we  could  demand  from  others,  we  are 
obliged  to  grant,  since,  though  we  can  easily 
know  how  much  we  might  claim,  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  determine  what  we  should  hope. 

But  in  all  inquiries  concerning  the  practice  of 
voluntary  and  occasional  virtues,  it  is  safest  for 
minds  not  oppressed  with  superstitious  fears  to 


.No.  82.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


131 


determine  against  their  own  inclinations,  and 
secure  themselves  from  deficiency,  by  doing  more 
than  they  believe  strictly  necessary.  For  of  this 
every  man  may  be  certain,  that  if  he  were  to  ex- 
change conditions  with  his  dependent,  he  should 
expect  more  than,  with  the  utmost  exertion  of  his 
ardour,  he  now  will  prevail  upon  himself  to  per- 
form ;  and  when  reason  has  no  settled  rule,  and 
our  passions  are  striving  to  mislead  us,  it  is  surely 
the  part  of  a  wise  man  to  err  on  the  side  of  safety. 


No.  82.]      SATURDAY,  DEC.  29,  1750. 

Omnia  Cattor  emit,  sicfiet  ut  omnia  vendat.    MART. 
Who  buys  without  discretion,  buys  to  sell. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


IT  will  not  be  necessary  to  solicit  your  good-will 
by  any  formal  preface,  when  I  have  informed 
you,  that  I  have  long  been  known  as  the  most 
laborious  and  zealous  virtuoso  that  the  present 
age  has  had  the  honour  of  producing,  and  that 
inconveniences  have  been  brought  upon  me  by 
en  unextinguishable  ardour  of  curiosity,  and  an 
unshaken  perseverance  in  the  acquisition  of  the 
productions  of  art  and  nature. 

It  was  observed,  from  my  entrance  into  the 
world,  that  I  had  something  uncommon  in  my 
disposition,  and  that  there  appeared  in  me  very 
early  tokens  of  superior  genius.  I  was  always 
an  enemy  to  trifles ;  the  playthings  which  my 
mother  bestowed  upon  me  I  immediately  broke, 
that  I  might  discover  the  method  of  their  struc- 
ture, and  the  causes  of  their  motions  :  of  all  the 
toys  with  which  children  are  delighted  I  valued 
only  my  coral,  and  as  soon  as  I  could  speak, 
asked  like  Pieresc,  innumerable  questions,  which 
the  maids  about  me  could  not  resolve.  As  I 
grew  older  I  was  more  thoughtful  and  serious, 
and  instead  of  amusing  myself  with  puerile  di- 
versions, made  collections  of  natural  rarities,  and 
never  walked  in  the  fields  without  bringing 
home  stones  of  remarkable  forms,  or  insects  of 
some  uncommon  species.  I  never  entered  an 
old  house,  from  which  I  did  not  take  away  the 
painted  glass,  and  often  lamented  that  I  was  not 
one  of  that  happy  generation  who  demolished 
the  convents  and  monasteries,  and  broke  win- 
dows by  law. 

Being  thus  early  possessed  by  a  taste  for  solid 
knowledge,  I  passed  my  youth  with  very  little 
disturbance  from  passions  and  appetites  ;  and 
having  no  pleasure  in  the  company  of  boys  and 
girls,  who  talked  of  plays,  politics,  fashions,  or 
love,  I  carried  on  my  inquiries  with  incessant 
diligence,  and  had  amassed  more  stones,  mosses, 
and  shells,  than  are  to  be  found  in  many  cele- 
brated collections,  at  an  age  in  which  the  great- 
est part  of  young  men  are  studying  under  tutors, 
or  endeavouring  to  recommend  themselves  to  no- 
tice by  their  dress,  their  air,  and  their  levities. 

When  I  was  two-and-twenty  years  old,  I  be- 
came, by  the  death  of  my  father,  possessed  of  a 
small  estate  in  land,  with  a  very  large  sum  ol 
money  in  the  public  funds,  and  must  confess 
that  I  did  not  much  lament  him,  for  he  was  a 
man  of  mean  parts,  bent  rather  upon  growing 
rich  than  wise.  He  once  fretted  at  the  expense 
of  only  ten  shillings,  which  he  happened  to  over- 


lear  me  offering  for  the  sting  of  a  hornet,  though 
t  was  a  cold  moist  summer,  in  which  very  few 
lornets  had  been  seen.     He  often  recommended 
o  me  the  study  of  physic,  in  which,  said  he,  you 
nay  at  once  gratify  your  curiosity  after  natural 
listory,  and  increase  your  fortune  by  benefiting 
mankind.     I  heard  him,  Mr.  Rambler,  with  pity, 
and,  as  there  was  no  prospect  of  elevating  a  mind 
ormed  to  grovel,  suffered  him  to  please  himself 
with  hoping  that  I  should  some  time  follow  his 
advice.    For  you  know  that  there  are  men  with 
whom,  when  they  have  once  settled  a  notion  in 
their  heads,  it  is  to  very  little  purpose  to  dispute. 
Being  now  left  wholly  to  my  own  inclinations, 
very  soon  enlarged  the  bounds  of  my  curiosity, 
and  contented  myself  no  longer  with  such  rari- 
ies  as  required  only  judgment  and  industry,  and 
when  once  found,  might  be  had  for  nothing.     I 
ow  turned  my  thoughts  to  exotics  and  antiques, 
and  became  so  well  known  for  my  generous  pa- 
ronage  of  ingenious  men,  that  my  levee  was 
3rowded  with  visitants ;  some  to  see  my  museum, 
and  others  to  increase  its  treasures,  by  selling  me 
whatever  they  had  brought  from  other  countries 
I  had  always  a  contempt  for  that  narrowness 
f  conception,  which  contents  itself  with  culti 
mating  some  single  corner  of  the  field  of  science , 
took  the  whole  region  into  my  view,  and  wished 
t  of  yet  greater  extent.    But  no  man's  power 
can  be  equal  to  his  will.     I  was  forced  to  proceed 
>y  slow  degrees,  and  to  purchase  what  chance 
ir  kindness  happened  to  present.    I  did  not  how- 
ver  proceed  without  some  design,  or  imitate  the 
ndiscretion  of  those  who  begin  a  thousand  col- 
ections,  and  finish  none.    Having  been  always 
lover  of  geography,  I  determined  to  collect  the 
maps  drawn  in  the  rude  and  barbarous  times,  be- 
ore  any  regular  surveys,  or  just  observations ; 
and  have,  at  a  great  expense,  brought  together  a 
volume,  in  which,  perhaps,  not  a  single  country 
s  laid  down  according  to  its  true  situation,  and 
jy  which,  he  that  desires  to  know  the  errors  of 
;he  ancient  geographers  may  be  amply  informed. 
But  my  ruling  passion  is  patriotism :  my  chief 
care  has  been  to  procure  the  products  of  our  own 
country  ;  and  as  Alfred  received  the  tribute  of 
the  Welsh  in  wolves'  heads,  I  allowed  my  te- 
nants to  pay  their  rents  in  butterflies,  till  I  had 
xhausted  the  papilionaceous  tribe.     I  then  di- 
rected them  to  the  pursuit  of  other  animals,  and 
obtained,  by  this  easy  method,  most  of  the  grubs 
and  insects,  which  land,  air,  or  water,  can  supply. 
T  have  three  species  of  earth-worms  not  known 
to  the  naturalists,  have  discovered  a  new  ephe- 
mera, and  can  show  four  wasps  that  were  taken 
torpid  in  their  winter  quarters.     I  have,  from  my 
own  ground,  the  longest  blade  of  grass  upon  re- 
cord, and  once  accepted,  as  a  half  year's  rent  for 
a  field  of  wheat,  an  ear  containing  more  grains 
than  had  been  s,een  before  upon  a  single  stem. 

One  of  my  tenants  so  much  neglected  his  own 
interest,  as  to  supply  me,  in  a  whole  summer, 
with  only  two  horse-flies,  and  those  of  little  more 
than  the  common  size ;  and  I  was  upon  the  brink 
of  seizing  for  arrears,  when  his  good  fortune 
threw  a  white  mole  in  his  way,  for  which  he  was 
not  only  forgiven,  but  rewarded. 

These,  however,  were  petty  acquisitions,  and 
made  at  small  expense ;  nor  should  I  have  ven- 
tured to  rank  myself  among  the  virtuosi  without 
better  claims.  I  have  suffered  nothing  worthy 
the  regard  of  a  wise  man  to  escape  my  notice:  I 


132 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  83. 


have  ransacked  the  old  and  the  new  world,  and 
been  equally  attentive  to  past  ages  and  the  pre- 
sent. For  the  illustration  of  ancient  history,  I 
can  show  a  marble,  of  which  the  inscription, 
though  it  is  not  now  legible,  appears  from  some 
broken  remains  of  the  letters,  to  have  been  Tus- 
can, and  therefore  probably  engraved  before  the 
foundation  of  Rome.  I  have  two  pieces  of  por- 
phyry found  among  the  ruins  of  Ephesus,  and 
three  letters  broken  off  by  a  learned  traveller 
from  the  monuments  of  Persepolis;  a  piece  of 
stone  which  paved  the  Areopagus  of  Athens, 
*nd  a  plate  without  figures  or  characters,  which 
was  found  at  Corinth,  and  which  I  therefore  be- 
fieve  to  be  that  metal  which  was  once  valued  be- 
fore gold.  I  have  sand  gathered  out  of  the  Gra- 
nicus;  a  fragment  of  Trajan's  bridge  over  the 
Danube  ;  some  of  the  mortar  which  cemented 
the  watercourse  of  Tarquin ;  a  horse-shoe  broken 
on  the  Flaminian  way ;  and  a  turf  with  five  dai- 
oies  dug  from  the  field  of  Pharsalia. 

1  do  not  wish  to  raise  the  envy  of  unsuccessful 
collectors,  by  too  pompous  a  display  of  my  sci- 
entific wealth,  but  cannot  forbear  to  observe,  that 
there  are  few  regions  of  the  globe  which  are  not 
honoured  with  some  memorial  in  my  cabinets. 
The  Persian  monarchs  are  said  to  have  boasted 
the  greatness  of  their  empire,  by  being  served  at 
their  tables  with  drink  from  the  Ganges  and  the 
Danube  ;  I  can  show  one  vial,  of  which  the  water 
was  formerly  an  icicle  on  the  crags  of  Caucasus, 
and  another  that  contains  what  once  was  snow 
on  the  top  of  Atlas ;  in  a  third  is  dew  brushed 
from  a  banana  in  the  gardens  of  Ispahan ;  and, 
in  another,  brine  that  has  rolled  in  the  Pacific 
ocean.  I  flatter  myself  that  I  am  writing  to  a 
man  who  will  rejoice  at  the  honour  which  my 
labours  have  procured  to  my  country ;  and  there- 
fore I  shall  tell  you  that  Britain  can,  by  my  care, 
boast  of  a  snail  that  has  crawled  upon  the  wall  of 
China;  a  humming  bird  which  an  American 
princess  wore  in  her  ear;  the  tooth  of  an  ele- 
phant who  carried  the  GLueen  of  Siam ;  the  skin 
of  an  ape  that  was  kept  in  the  palace  of  the  great 
Mogul ;  a  riband  that  adorned  one  of  the  maids 
of  a  Turkish  sultana;  and  a,  scimitar  once 
wielded  by  a  soldier  of  Abas  the  Great, 

In  collecting  antiquities  of  every  country,  I 
have  been  careful  to  choose  only  by  intrinsic 
worth,  and  real  usefulness,  without  regard  to 
party  or  opinions.  I  have  therefore  a  lock  of 
Cromwell's  hair  in  a  box  turned  from  a  piece  of 
the  royal  oak ;  and  keep  in  the  same  drawers, 
sand  scraped  from  the  coffin  of  King  Richard, 
and  a  commission  signed  by  Henry  the  Seventh. 
I  have  equal  veneration  for  the  ruff  of  Elizabeth, 
and  the  shoe  of  Mary  of  Scotland ;  and  should 
lose,  with  like  regret,  a  tobacco-pipe  of  Raleigh, 
and  a  stirrup  of  King  James.  I  have  paid  the 
same  price  for  the  glove  of  Lewis,  and  a  thimble 
of  dueen  Mary  ;  for  a  fur  cap  of  the  Czar,  and, 
a  boot  of  Charles  of  Sweden. 

You  will  easily  imagine  that  these  accumula- 
tions were  not  made  witho.ut  some  diminution  of 
my  fortune ;  for  I  was  so  well  known  to  spare 
no  cost,  that  at  every  sale  some  bid  against  me 
for  hire,  some  for  sport,  and  some  for  malice ; 
and  if  I  asked  the  pnce  of  any  thing,  it  was  suf- 
ficient to  double  the  demand.  For  curiouity, 
trafficing  thus  with  avarice,  the  wealth  of  India 
had  not  been  enough ;  and  I,  by  little  and  little, 
transferred  all  my  money  from  the  funds  to  my 


closet :  here  I  was  inclined  to  stop,  and  live 
upon  my  estate  in  literary  leisure,  but  the  sale  of 
the  Harleian  Collection  shook  my  resolution ;  I 
mortgaged  my  land,  and  purchased  thirty  me- 
dals, which  I  could  never  find  before.  I  have  at 
length  bought  till  I  can  buy  no  longer,  and  the 
cruelty  of  my  creditors  has  seized  my  repository 
I  am  therefore  condemned  to  disperse  what  the 
labour  of  an  age  will  not  reassemble.  I  submit 
to  that  which  cannot  be  opposed,  and  shall,  in  a 
short  time,  declare  a  sale.  I  have,  while  it  is  yet 
in  my  power,  sent  you  a  pebble,  picked  up  by 
Tavernier  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges ;  for  which 
I  desire  no  other  recompense  than  that  you  will 
recommend  my  catalogue  to  the  public. 

ClUISftCILIUS. 


No.  83.]      TUESDAY,  JAN.  1, 1751. 

Nisi  utile  est  quod  facias,  stulta  est  gloria.   PHJED. 
All  useless  science  is  an  empty  boast. 

THE  publication  of  the  letter  in  my  last  paper  has 
naturally  led  me  to  the  consideration  of  that 
thirst  after  curiosities,  which  often  draws  con- 
tempt and  ridicule  upon  itself,  but  which  is  per- 
haps no  otherwise  blameable,  than  as  it  wants 
those  circumstantial  recommendations  which  add 
lustre  even  to  moral  excellences,  and  are  absolute- 
ly necessary  to  the  grace  and  beauty  of  indiffer- 
ent actions. 

Learning  confers  so  much  superiority  on  those 
who  possess  it,  that  they  might  probably  have  es- 
caped all  censures  had  they  been  able  to  agree 
among  themselves  ;  but  as  envy  and  competition 
have  divided  the  republic  of  letters  into  factions, 
they  have  neglected  the  common  interest ;  each 
has  called  in  foreign  aid,  and  endeavoured  to 
strengthen  his  own  cause  by  the  frown  of  power, 
the  hiss  of  ignorance,  and  the  clamour  of  popu- 
larity. They  have  all  engaged  in  feuds,  till  by 
mutual  hostilities  they  demolished  those  outworks 
which  veneration  had  raised  for  their  security, 
and  exposed  themselves  to  barbarians,  by  whom 
every  region  of  science  is  equally  laid  waste. 

Between  men  of  different  studies  and  profes- 
sions, may  be  observed  a  constant  reciprocation 
of  reproaches.  The  collector  of  shells  and  stones 
derides  the  folly  of  him  who  pastes  leaves  and 
flowers  upon  paper,  pleases  himself  with  colours 
that  are  perceptibly  fading,  and  amasses  with 
care  what  cannot  be  preserved.  The  hunter  of 
insects  stands  amazed  that  any  man  can  waste 
his  short  time  upon  lifeless  matter,  while  many 
tribes  of  animals  yet  want  their  history.  Every 
one  is  inclined  not  only  to  promote  his  own  study, 
but  to  exclude  all  others  from  regard,  and  having 
heated  his  imagination  with  some  favourite  pur- 
suit, wonders  that  the  rest  of  mankind  are  not 
seized  with  same  passion. 

There  are,  indeed,  many  subjects  of  study 
which  seem  but  remotely  allied  to  useful  know- 
ledge, and  of  little  importance  to  happiness  or 
virtue  ;  nor  is  it  easy  to  forbear  some  sallies  of 
merriment,  or  expressions  of  pity,  when  we  see  a 
man  wrinkled  with  attention,  arid  emaciated  with 
solicitude,  in  the  investigation  of  questions,  of 
which,  without  visible  inconvenience,  the  world 
may  expire  in  ignorance.  Yet  it  is  dangerous  to 
discourage  well-intended  labours  or  innocent  cu- 


No.  83.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


riosity  ;  for  he  who  ia  employed  in  searches, 
which  by  any  deduction  of  consequences  tend  to 
the  benefit  of  life,  is  surely  laudable,  in  compari- 
son of  those  who  spend  their  time  in  counteract- 
ing happiness,  and  filling  the  world  with  wrong 
and  danger,  confusion  and  remorse.  No  man 
can  perform  so  little  as  not  to  have  reason  to 
congratulate  himself  on  his  merits,  when  he  be» 
holds  the  multitudes  that  live  in  total  idleness, 
and  have  never  yet  endeavoured  to  be  useful. 
It  is  impossible  to  determine  the  limits  of  in- 

3uiry,  or  to  foresee  what  consequences  a  new 
iscovery  may  produce.  He  who  suffers  not  his 
faculties  to  lie  torpid,  has  a  chance,  whatever  be 
his  employment,  of  doing  good  to  his  fellow-crea- 
tures. The  man  that  first  ranged  the  woods  in 
search  of  medicinal  springs,  or  climbed  the  moun- 
tains for  salutary  plants,  has  undoubtedly  merit- 
ed the  gratitude  of  posterity,  how  much  soever 
his  frequent  miscarriages  might  excite  the  scorn 
of  his  contemporaries.  If  what  appears  little  be 
universally  despised,  nothing  greater  can  be  at- 
tained ;  for  all  that  is  great  was  at  first  little,  and 
rose  to  its  present  bulk  by  gradual  accessions, 
and  accumulated  labours. 

Those  who  lay  out  time  or  money  in  assem- 
bling matter  for  contemplation,  are  doubtless 
entitled  to  some  degree  of  respect,  though  in  a 
flight  of  gayety,  it  be  easy  to  ridicule  their  trea- 
suie,  or  in  a  tit  of  sullenness  to  despise  it.  A 
man  who  thinks  only  on  the  particular  object 
before  him,  goes  not  away  much  illuminated  by 
having  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  handling  the  tooth 
of  a  shark,  or  the  paw  of  a  white  bear ;  yet  there 
is  nothing  more  worthy  of  admiration  to  a  philo» 
sophical  eye  than  the  structure  of  animals,  by 
which  they  are  qualified  to  support  life  in  the 
elements  or  climates  to  which  they  are  appropria- 
ted ;  and  of  all  natural  bodies,  it  must  be  general- 
ly confessed  that  they  exhibit  evidences  of  infi- 
nite wisdom,  bear  their  testimony  to  the  supreme 
reason,  and  excite  in  the  mind  new  raptures  of 
gratitude  and  new  incentives  to  piety. 

To  collect  the  productions  of  art,  and  exam- 
ples of  mechanical  science  or  manual  ability,  is 
unquestionably  useful,  even  when  the  things 
themselves  are  of  small  importance,  because  it  is 
always  advantageous  to  know  how  far  the  hu- 
man powers  have  proceeded,  and  how  much  ex- 
perience has  found  to  be  within  the  reach  of  dili- 
gence. Idleness  and  timidity  often  despair  with- 
out beinff  overcome,  and  forbear  attempts  for  fear 
of  being  defeated ;  and  we  may  promote  the  in- 
vigoration  of  faint  endeavours,  by  showing  what 
has  been  already  performed.  It  may  sometimes 
happen  that  the  greatest  efforts  of  ingenuity  have 
been  exerted  in  trifles  ;  yet  the  same  principles 
and  expedients  may  be  applied  to  more  valuable 
purposes,  and  the  movements,  which  put  into  ac- 
tion machines  of  no  use  but  to  raise  the  wonder 
of  ignorance,  may  be  employed  to  drain  fens,  or 
manufacture  metals,  to  assist  the  architect,  or 
preserve  the  sailor. 

For  the  utensils,  arms,  or  dresses  of  foreign  na- 
tions, which  make  the  greatest  part  of  many  col- 
lections, I  have  little  regard,  when  they  are  valu- 
ed only  because  they  are  foreign,  and  can  suggest 
no  improvement  of  our  own  practice.  Yet  they 
are  not  all  equally  useless,  nor  can  it  be  always 
enfelv  determined  which  should  be  rejected  or  re- 
tame'd :  for  they  may  sometimes  unexpectedly 
contribute  to  the  illustration  of  history,  and  to 


the  knowledge  of  the  natural  commodities  of  the 
country,  or  of  the  genius  and  customs  of  its  in 
habitants. 

Rarities  there  are  of  yet  a  lower  rank,  which 
owe  their  worth  merely  to  accident,  and  which 
can  convey  no  information,  nor  satisfy  any  ra- 
tional desire.  Such  are  many  fragments  of  anti- 
quity, as  urns  and  pieces  of  pavement ;  and  things 
held  in  veneration  only  for  having  been  once  the 
property  of  some  eminent  person,  as  the  armour 
of  King  Henry ;  or  for  having  been  used  on  some 
remarkable  occasion,  as  the  lantern  of  Guy  Faux. 
The  loss  or  preservation  of  these  seems  to  be  a 
tiling  indifferent,  nor  can  I  perceive  why  the  pos- 
session of  them  should  be  coveted.  Yet,  per- 
haps, even  this  curiosity  is  implanted  by  nature ; 
and,  when  I  find  Tully  confessing  of  himself, 
that  he  could  not  forbear  at  Athens  to  visit  the 
walks  and  houses  which  the  old  philosophers  had 
frequented  or  inhabited,  and  recollect  the  reve- 
rence which  every  nation,  civil  and  barbarous, 
has  paid  to  the  ground  where  merit  has  been  bu- 
ried,* I  am  afraid  to  declare  against  the  general 
voice  of  mankind,  and  am  inclined  to  believe, 
that  this  regard,  which  we  involuntarily  pay  to 
the  meanest  relic  of  a  man  great  and  illustrious, 
is  intended  as  an  incitement  to  labour,  and  an 
encouragement  to  expect  the  same  renown,  if  it 
be  sought  by  the  same  virtues. 

The  virtuoso,  therefore,  cannot  be  said  to  be 
wholly  useless ;  but  perhaps  he  may  be  some- 
times culpable,  for  confining  himself  to  business 
below  his  genius,  and  losing,  in  petty  specula- 
tions, those  hours  by  which,  if  he  had  spent  them 
in  nobler  studies,  he  might  have  given  new  light 
to  the  intellectual  world.  It  is  never  without 
grief  that  I  find  a  man  capable  of  ratiocination 
or  invention  enlisting  himself  in  this  secondary 
class  of  learning ;  for  when  he  has  once  discover- 
ed a  method  of  gratifying  his  desire  of  eminence 
by  expense  rather  than  by  labour,  and  known 
the  sweets  of  a  life  blessed  at  once  with  the  ease 
of  idleness,  and  the  reputation  of  knowledge,  he 
will  not  easily  be  brought  to  undergo  again  the 
toil  of  thinking,  or  leave  his  toys  and  trinkets  for 
arguments  and  principles ;  arguments  which  re- 
quire circumspection  and  vigilance,  and  princi- 
ples which  cannot  be  obtained  but  by  the  drudg- 
ery of  meditation.  He  will  gladly  shut  himself 
up  for  ever  with  his  shells  and  metals,  like  the 
companions  of  Ulysses,  who,  having  tasted  the 
fruit  of  Lotos,  would  not,  even  by  the  hope  of 
seeing  their  own  country,  be  tempted  again  to 
the  dangers  of  the  sea. 

'AXX'  avrou  (}OV\OVTO  fitr1  avipaai  \wro<j>dyoi<rit 
AuirJv  fff-KTiiftevoi  fiivifitv,  v6arov  Tt  \dOecr6at. 

Whoso  tastes, 

Insatiate  riots  in  the  sweet  repasts ; 

Nor  other  home  nor  other  care  intends, 

But  quits  his  house,  his  country,  and  his  friends 

POPE, 

Collections  of  this  kind  are  of  use  to  the  learn- 
ed, as  heaps  of  stones  and  piles  of  timber  are  ne- 
cessary to  the  architect.  But  to  dig  the  quarry 
or  to  search  the  field,  requires  not  much  of 
any  quality  beyond  stubborn  perseverance ;  and 


*  See  this  sentiment  illustrated  by  a  most  splendid  pas- 
sage in  Dr.  Johnson's  "  Journey  to  tiio  Western  Islands," 
vol.  viii.  p.  395-6.— C. 


134 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  84. 


though  genius  must  often  lie  inactive  without  this 
humble  assistance,  yet  this  can  claim  little  praise, 
because  every  man  can  afford  it. 

To  mean  understandings,  it  is  sufficient  ho- 
nour to  be  numbered  amongst  the  lowest  labour- 
ers of  learning;  but  different  abilities  must  find 
different  tasks.  To  hew  stone  would  have  been 
unworthy  of  Palladio ;  and  to  have  rambled  in 
search  of  shells  and  flowers,  had  but  ill  suited 
with  the  capacity  of  Newton. 


No.  84.]       SATURDAY,  JAN.  5,  1751. 

Cunarum  ftteras  motor,  Charideme,  mearum, 
Et  paeri  custos,  assidvusque  comes. 

Jam  mihi  nigrescvnt  tonsa  sudaria  barba, 

Sed  tibi  non  crevi :  te  noster  tillicus  horret : 
Te  dispensator,  te  damns  ipsapavet. 

Corripis,  observas,  qur.reris,  suspiria  duds, 
Ei  vix  aferulis  abstinet  ira  manum. 

You  rock'd  my  cradle,  were  my  guide 

In  youth,  still  tending  at  my  side  : 

But  now,  dear  Sir,  my  beard  is  grown, 

Still  I'm  a  child  to  thee  alone. 

Our  steward,  butler,  cook,  and  all 

You  fright,  nay  even  the  very  wall ; 

You  pry,  and  frown,  and  growl,  and  chide, 

And  scarce  will  lay  the  rod  aside.  F. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


You  seem  in  all  your  papers  to  be  an  enemy  to 
tyranny,  and  to  look  with  impartiality  upon  the 
world ;  I  shall  therefore  lay  my  case  before  you, 
and  hope  by  your  decision  to  be  set  free  from  un- 
reasonable restraints,  and  enabled  to  justify  my- 
self against  the  accusations  which  spite  and  pee- 
vishness produce  against  me. 

At  the  age  of  five  years  I  lost  my  mother,  and 
my  father,  being  not  qualified  to  superintend  the 
education  of  a  girl,  committed  me  to  the  care  of 
his  sister,  who  instructed  me  with  the  authority, 
and,  not  to  deny  her  what  she  may  justly  claim, 
with  the  affection  of  a  parent.  She  had  not  very 
elevated  sentiments  or  extensive  views,  but  her 
principles  were  good  and  her  intentions  pure; 
dnd  though  some  may  practise  more  virtues, 
scarce  any  commit  fewer  faults. 

Under  this  good  lady,  I  learned  all  the  com- 
mon rules  of  decent  behaviour,  and  standing 
maxims  of  domestic  prudence  ;  and  might  have 
grown  up  by  degrees  to  a  country  gentlewoman, 
without  any  thoughts  of  ranging  beyond  the 
neighbourhood,  had  not  Flavia  come  down,  last 
summer,  to  visit  her  relations  in  the  next  village. 
I  was  taken,  of  course,  to  compliment  the  stran- 
ger, and  was,  at  the  first  sight,  surprised  at  the 
unconcern  with  which  she  saw  herself  gazed  at 
by  the  company  whom  she  had  never  known  be- 
fore ;  at  the  carelessness  with  which  she  received 
compliments,  and  the  readiness  with  which  she 
returned  them.  I  found  she  had  something  which 
1  perceived  myself  to  want,  and  could  not  but 
wish  to  be  like  her,  at  once  easy  and  officious,  at- 
tentive and  unembarrassed.  I  went  home,  and 
for  four  days  could  think  and  talk  of  nothing  but 
Miss  Flavia :  though  my  aunt  told  me  that  she 
was  a  forward  flirt,  and  thought  herself  wise  be- 
fore her  time. 

In  a  little  time  she  repaid  my  visit,  and  raised 
in  my  heart  a  new  confusion  of  love  and  admira- 
tion. I  soon  saw  her  again,  and  still  found  new 


charms  in  her  air,  conversation,  and  behaviour. 
You,  who  have  perhaps  seen  the  world,  may 
have  observed,  that  formality  soon  ceases  between 
young  persons.  I  know  not  how  others  are  af- 
fected on  such  occasions,  but  I  found  myself  irre- 
sistibly allured  to  friendship  and  intimacy,  by  the 
familiar  complaisance  and  airy  gayety  of  Flavia ; 
so  that  in  a  few  weeks  I  became  her  favourite, 
and  all  the  time  was  passed  with  me,  that  she 
could  gain  from  ceremony  and  visit. 

As  she  came  often  to  me,  she  necessarily  spent 
some  hours  with  my  aunt,  to  whom  she  paid 
great  respect  by  low  courtesies,  submissive  com- 
pliance, and  soft  acquiescence ;  but  as  I  became 
gradually  more  accustomed  to  her  manners,  1 
discovered  that  her  civility  was  general ;  that 
there  was  a  certain  degree  of  deference  shown  by 
her  to  circumstances  and  appearances ;  that  many 
went  away  flattered  by  her  humility,  whom  she 
despised  in  her  heart  ;  that  the  influence  of  far 
the  greatest  part  of  those  with  whom  she  con- 
versed, ceased  with  their  presence ;  and  that 
sometimes  she  did  not  remember  the  names  of 
them,  whom,  without  any  intentional  insincerity 
or  false  commendation,  her  habitual  civility  had 
sent  away  with  very  high  thoughts  of  their  own 
importance. 

It  was  not  long  before  I  perceived,  that  my 
aunt's  opinion  was  not  of  much  weight  in  Flavia's 
deliberations,  and  that  she  was  looked  upon  by 
her  as  a  woman  of  narrow  sentiments,  without 
knowledge  of  books,  or  observations  on  man- 
kind. I  had  hitherto  considered  my  aunt,  as  en- 
titled by  her  wisdom  and  experience  to  the  high- 
est reverence,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wonder 
that  any  one  so  much  younger  should  venture  to 
suspect  her  of  error  or  ignorance ;  but  my  sur- 
prise was  without  uneasiness,  and  being  now  ac 
customed  to  think  Flavia  always  in  the  right,  I 
readily  learned  from  her  to  trust  my  own  reason, 
and  to  believe  it  possible,  that  they  who  had  lived 
longer  might  be  mistaken. 

Flavia  had  read  much,  and  used  so  often  to 
converse  on  subjects  of  learning,  that  she  put  all 
the  men  in  the  country  to  flight,  except  the  old 
parson,  who  declared  himself  much  delighted 
with  her  company,  because  she  gave  him  oppor- 
tunities to  recollect  the  studies  of  his  younger 
years,  and,  by  some  mention  of  ancient  storj , 
had  made  him  rub  the  dust  off  his  Homer,  which 
had  laid  unregarded  in  his  closet.  With  Homer, 
and  a  thousand  other  names  familiar  to  Flavia, 
I  had  no  acquaintance,  but  began  by  comparing 
her  accomplishments  with  my  own,  to  repine  at 
my  education,  and  wish  that  I  had  not  been  so 
long  confined  to  the  company  of  those  from  whom 
nothing  but  housewifery  was  to  be  learned.  I 
then  set  myself  to  peruse  such  books  as  Flavia 
recommended,  and  heard  her  opinion  of  their 
beauties  and  defects.  I  saw  new  worlds  hourly 
bursting  upon  my  mind,  and  was  enraptured  at 
the  prospect  of  diversifying  life  with  endless  en- 
tertainment. 

The  old  lady  finding  that  a  large  screen,  which 
I  had  undertaken  to  adorn  with  Turkey-work 
against  winter,  made  very  slow  advances,  and 
that  I  had  added  in  two  months  but  three  leaves 
to  a  flowered  apron  then  in  the  frame,  took  the 
alarm,  and  with  all  the  zeai  of  honest  folly  ex- 
claimed against  my  new  acquaintance,  who  had 
filled  me  with  idle  notions,  and  turned  my  head 
with  books.  But  she  had  now  lost  her  authority 


No.  85.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


135 


for  I  began  to  find  innumerable  mistakes  in  her 
opinions,  and  improprieties  in  her  language ;  and 
therefore  thought  myself  no  longer  bound  to  pay 
much  regard  to  one  who  knew  little  beyond  her 
needle  and  her  dairy,  and  who  professed  to  think 
that  nothing  more  is  required  of  a  woman  than  to 
see  that  the  house  is  clean,  and  that  the  maids 
go  to  bed,  and  rise  at  a  certain  hour. 

She  seemed  however  to  look  upon  Flavia  as 
seducing  me,  and  to  imagine  that  when  her  in- 
fluence was  withdrawn,  I  should  return  to  my 
allegiance,  she  therefore  contented  herself  with 
remote  hints,  and  gentle  admonitions,  intermixed 
with  "sage  histories  of  the  miscarriages  of  wit, 
and  disappointments  of  pride.  But  since  she 
has  found,  that  though  Flavia  is  departed,  I  still 
persist  in  my  new  scheme,  she  has  at  length,  lost 
her  patience,  she  snatches  my  book  out  of  my 
hand,  tears  my  paper  if  she  finds  me  writing, 
burns  Flavia's  letters  before  my  face  when  she 
can  seize  them,  and  threatens  to  lock  me  up,  and 
to  complain  to  my  father  of  my  perverseness.  If 
women,  she  says,  would  but  know  their  duty  and 
their  interest,  they  would  be  careful  to  acquaint 
themselves  with  family  affairs,  and  many  a  penny 
might  be  saved ;  for  while  the  mistress  of  the 
house  is  scribbling  and  reading,  servants  are 
junketing,  and  linen  is  wearing  out.  She  then 
takes  me  round  the  rooms,  shows  me  the  worked 
hangings,  and  chairs  of  tent-stitch,  and  asks, 
whether  all  this  was  done  with  a  pen  and  a  book  ? 

I  cannot  deny  that  I  sometimes  laugh  and 
sometimes  am  sullen ;  but  she  has  not  delicacy 
enough  to  be  much  moved  either  with  my  mirth 
or  my  gloom,  if  she  did  not  think  the  interest 
of  the  family  endangered  by  this  change  of  my 
manners.  She  had  for  some  years  marked  out 
young  Mr.  Surly,  an  heir  in  the  neighbourhood, 
remarkable  for  his  love  of  fighting-cocks,  as  an 
advantageous  match ;  and  was  extremely  pleased 
with  the  civilities  which  he  used  to  pay  me,  till 
under  Flavia's  tuition  1  learned  to  talk  of  sub- 
jects which  he  could  not  understand.  This,  she 
says,  is  the  consequence  of  female  study  ;  girls 
grow  too  wise  to  be  advised,  and  too  stubborn  to 
be  commanded ;  but  she  is  resolved  to  try  who 
shall  govern,  and  will  thwart  my  humour  till  she 
breaks  my  spirit. 

These  menaces,  Mr.  Rambler,  sometimes  make 
me  quite  angry  ;  for  I  have  been  sixteen  these 
ten  weeks,  and  think  myself  exempted  from  the 
dominion  of  a  governess,  who  has  no  pretensions 
to  more  sense  or  knowledge  than  myself.  I  am 
resolved,  since  I  am  as  tall  and  as  wise  as  other 
women,  to  be  no  longer  treated  like  a  girl.  Miss 
Flavia  has  often  told  me,  that  ladies  of  my  age 
go  to  assemblies  and  routes,  without  their  mp- 
thers  and  their  aunts ;  I  shall,  therefore,  from 
this  time,  leave  asking  advice,  and  refuse  to  give 
accounts.  I  wish  you  would  state  the  time  at 
which  young  ladies  may  judge  for  themselves, 
which  I  am  sure  you  cannot  but  think  ought  to 
begin  before  sixteen ;  if  you  are  inclined  to  delay 
it  longer,  I  shall  have  very  little  regard  to  your 
opinion. 

My  aunt  often  tells  me  of  the  advantages  of 
experience,  and  of  the  deference  due  to  seniority  ; 
and  both  she  and  all  the  antiquated  part  of  the 
world,  talk  of  the  unreserved  obedience  which 
they  paid  to  the  commands  of  their  parents,  and 
the  undoubting  confidence  with  which  they  lis- 
tened to  their  precepts ;  of  the  te-rOrs  which  they 


felt  at  a  frown,  and  the  humility  with  which  they 
supplicated  forgiveness  whenever  they  had  of- 
fended. I  cannot  but  fancy  that  this  boast  is  too 
general  to  be  true,  and  that  the  young  and  old 
were  always  at  variance.  I  have,  however,  told 
my  aunt,  that  I  will  mend  whatever  she  will 
prove  to  be  wrong ;  but  she  replies  that  she  has 
reasons  of  her  own,  and  that  she  is  sorry  to  live 
in  an  age  when  girls  have  the  impudence  to  ask 
for  proofs. 

I  beg  once  again,  Mr.  Rambler,  to  know  whe 
ther  I  am  not  as  wise  as  my  aunt,  and  whether, 
when  she  presumes  to  check  me  as  a  baby,  I 
may  not  pluck  up  a  spirit  and  return  her  inso 
lence  ?  I  shall  not  proceed  to  extremities  with- 
out your  advice,  which  is  therefore  impatiently 
expected  by 

MYRTILLA. 

P.  S.    Remember  I  am  past  sixteen. 


No.  85.]      TUESDAY,  JAN.  8,  1751. 

Olio,  si  tollas  periere  Cvpidinis  arcus 
Contempttequejacent,  et  fine  luce  faces.  -OVID. 

At  busy  hearts  in  vain  Love's  arrows  fly  ; 
Dimm'd,  scorn'd,  and  impotent,  his  torches  lie. 

MANY  writers  of  eminence  in  physic  have  laid 
out  their  diligence  upon  the  consideration  of  those 
distempers  to  which  men  are  exposed  by  particu- 
lar states  of  life,  and  very  learned  treatises  have 
been  produced  upon  the  maladies  of  the  camp, 
the  sea,  and  the  mines.  There  are,  indeed,  few 
employments  which  a  man  accustomed  to  anato- 
mical inquiries,  and  medical  refinements,  would 
not  find  reasons  for  declining  as  dangerous  to 
health,  did  not  his  learning  or  experience  inform 
him,  that  almost  every  occupation,  however  in- 
convenient or  formidable,  is  happier  and  safer 
than  a  life  of  sloth. 

The  necessity  of  action  is  not  only  demonstra 
ble  from  the  fabric  of  the  body,  but  evident  from 
observation  of  the  universal  practice  of  mankind, 
who,  for  the  preservation  of  health,  in  those 
whose  rank  or  wealth  exempts  them  from  the 
necessity  of  lucrative  labour,  have  invented  sports 
and  diversions,  though  not  of  equal  use  to  the 
world  with  manual  trades,  yet  of  equal  fatigue 
to  those  who  practise  them,  and  differing  only 
from  the  drudgery  of  the  husbandman  or  manu- 
facturer, as  they  are  acts  of  choice,  and  therefore 
performed  without  the  painful  sense  of  compul- 
sion. The  huntsman  rises  early  ;  pursues  his 
game  through  all  the  dangers  and  obstructions 
of  the  chase,  swims  rivers,  and  scales  precipices, 
till  he  returns  home  no  less  harassed  than  the 
soldier,  and  has  perhaps  sometimes  incurred  as 
great  hazard  of  wounds  or  death  ;  yet  he  has  no 
motive  to  incite  his  ardour  ;  he  is  neither  subject 
to  the  commands  of  a  general,  nor  dreads  any 
penalties  for  neglect  and  disobedience ;  he  has 
neither  profit  nor  honour  to  expect  from  his  perils 
and  his  conquests,  but  toils  without  the  hope  of 
mural  or  civic  garlands,  and  must  content  him- 
self with  the  praise  of  his  tenants  and  compan- 
ions. 

But  such  is  the  constitution  of  man,  that  la- 
bour maybe  styled  its  own  reward  ;  nor  will  any 
external  incitements  be  requisite,  if  it  be  consider- 
ed how  much  happiness  is  pained,  and  how  much 


136 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  85. 


misci)  escaped,  by  frequent  and  violent  agitation 
of  tho  body. 

Ease  is'the  utmost  that  can  be  hoped  from  a 
sedentary,  and  inactive  habit;  ease,  a  neutral 
state  between  pain  and  pleasure.  The  dance  of 
spirits,  the  bound  of  vigour,  readiness  of  enter- 
prise, and  defiance  of  fatigue,  are  reserved  for  him 
that  braces  his  nerves,  and  hardens  his  fibres, 
that  keeps  his  limbs  pliant  with  motion,  and  by 
fiequent  exposure  fortifies  his  frame  against  the 
common  accidents  of  cold  and  heat. 

With  ease,  however,  if  it  could  be  secured, 
many  would  be  content ;  but  nothing  terrestrial 
can  be  kept  at  a  stand.  Ease,  if  it  is  not  rising 
into  pleasure,  will  be  falling  towards  pain ;  and 
whatever  hope  the  dreams  of  speculation  may 
suggest  of  observing  the  proportion  between  nu- 
triment and  labour,  and  keeping  the  body  in  a 
healthy  state  by  supplies  exactly  equal  to  its 
waste,  we  know  that  in  effect,  the  vital  powers, 
unexcited  by  motion,  grow  gradually  languid ; 
that,  as  their  vigour  fails,  obstructions  are  gene- 
rated; and  that  from  obstructions  proceed  most 
of  those  pains  which  wear  us  away  slowly  with 
periodical  tortures,  and  which,  though  they  some- 
times suffer  life  to  be  long,  condemn  it  to  be  use- 
less, chain  us  down  to  the  couch  of  misery,  and 
mock  us  with  the  hopes  of  death. 

Exercise  cannot  secure  us  from  that  dissolution 
to  which  we  are  decreed ;  but,  while  the  soul  and 
body  continue  united,  it  can  make  the  association 
pleasing,  and  give  probable  hopes  that  they  shall 
be  disjoined  by  an  easy  separation.  It  was  a 
principle  among  the  ancients,  that  acute  diseases 
are  from  heaven,  and  chronical  from  ourselves ; 
the  dart  of  death  indeed  falls  from  heaven,  but 
we  poison  it  by  our  own  misconduct ;  to  die  is 
the  fate  of  man,  but  to  die  with  lingering  anguish 
is  generally  his  folly.* 

It  is  necessary  to  that  perfection  of  which  our 
present,  state  is  capable,  that  the  mind,  and  body 
should  both  be  kept  in  action ;  that  neither  the 
faculties  of  the  one  nor  of  the  other  be  suffered  to 
grow  lax  or  torpid  for  want  of  use;  that  neither 
health  be  purchased  by  voluntary  submission  to 
ignorance,  nor  knowledge  cultivated  at  the  ex- 
pense of  that  health,  which  must  enable  it  either 
to  give  pleasure  to  its  possessor,  or  assistance  to 
others.  It  is  too  frequently  the  pride  of  students, 
to  despise  those  amusements  and  recreations, 
which  give  to  the  rest  of  mankind  strength  of 
limbs  and  cheerfulness  of  heart.  Solitude  and 
contemplation  are  indeed  seldom  consistent  with 
such  skill  in  common  exercises  or  sports  as  are 
necessary  to  mtke  them  practised  with  delight, 
and  no  man  is  willing  to  do  that  of  which  the 
necessity  is  not  pressing  and  immediate,  when 
he  knows  that  his  awkwardness  must  make  him 
ridiculous. 

Lvdere  gtiineacit,  campettribns  ahgtinet armis 

fmlortuii/ue  pilic,  diaeive,  trochivc,  guieacit, 

fft  tpiaaec  riaum  tollant  impunc  corona.  HOR. 

Ih  that's  unskilful  will  not  toss  a  ball. 

Nor  run,  nor  wrestle,  for  he  fears  the  fall ; 

He  justly  fears  to  meet  deserved  disgrace, 

And  that  the  ring  will  hiss  the  baffled  ass.     CREECH. 


*This  passage  was  once  strangely  supposed  by  some 
reader*  to  recommend  suicide,  instead  of  exercise,  which 
is  surely  the  more  obvious  meaning.  See,  however,  a.  let- 
ter from  Dr.  Johnson  on  the  subject,  in  "Boswell's  Life  " 
vol.  iv.  p.  162. — C 


Thus  the  man  of  learning  is  often  resigned, 
almost  by  his  own  consent,  to  languor  and  pain ; 
and  while  in  the  prosecution  of  his  studies  he 
suffers  the  weariness  of  labour,  is  subject  by  his 
course  of  life  to  the  maladies  of  idleness. 

It  was,  perhaps,  from  the  observation  of  this 
mischievous  omission  in  those  who  are  employed 
about  intellectual  objects,  that  Locke  has,  in  his 
"  System  of  Education,"  urged  the  necessity  of  a 
trade  to  men  of  all  ranks  and  professions,  that 
when  the  mind  is  weary  with  its  proper  task,  it 
may  be  relaxed  by  a  slighter  attention  to  some 
mechanical  operation ;  and  that  while  the  vital 
functions  are  resuscitated  and  awakened  by  vi- 
gorous motion,  the  understanding  may  be  re- 
strained from  that  vagrance  and  dissipation  by 
which  it  relieves  itself  after  a  long  intenseness  ot 
thought,  unless  some  allurement  be  presented 
that  may  engage  application  without  anxiety. 

There  is  so  little  reason  for  expecting  frequent 
conformity  to  Locke's  precept,  that  it  is  not  ne- 
cessary to  inquire  whether  the  practice  of  me- 
chanical arts  might  not  give  occasion  to  petty 
emulation,  and  degenerate  ambition,  and  whether 
if  our  divines  and  physicians  were  taught  the 
lathe  and  the  chisel,  they  would  not  think  more  ot 
their  tools  than  their  books  ?  as  Nero  neglected 
the  care  of  his  empire  for  his  chariot  and  his  fid- 
dle. It  is  certainly  dangerous  to  be  too  much 
pleased  with  little  things  ;  but  what  is  there 
which  may  not  be  perverted  ?  Let  us  remember 
how  much  worse  employment  might  have  been 
found  for  those  hours,  which  a  manual  occupation 
appears  to  engross ;  let  us  compute  the  profit  with 
the  loss,  and  when  we  reflect  how  often  a  genius 
is  allured  from  his  studies,  consider  likewise  that 
perhaps  by  the  same  attractions  he  is  sometimes 
withheld  from  debauchery,  or  recalled  from  ma- 
lice, from  ambition,  from  envy,  and  from  lust. 

I  have  always  admired  the  wisdom  of  those 
by  whom  our  female  education  was  instituted,  for 
having  contrived,  that  every  woman,  of  whatever 
condition,  should  be  taught  some  arts  of  manufac- 
ture, by  which  the  vacuities  of  recluse  and  domes- 
tic leisure  may  be  filled  up.  These  arts  are  more 
necessary,  as  the  weakness  of  their  sex,  and  the 
general  system  of  life  debar  ladies  from  many  em- 
ployments which,  by  diversifying  the  circum- 
stances of  men,  preserve  them  from  being  can- 
kered by  the  rust  of  their  own  thoughts.  I  know 
not  how  much  of  the  virtue  and  happiness  of  the 
world  may  be  the  consequence  of  this  judicious 
regulation.  Perhaps  the  most  powerful  fancy 
might  be  unable  to  figure  the  confusion  and 
slaughter  that  would  be  produced  by  so  many 
piercing  eyes  and  vivid  understandings,  turned 
loose  upon  mankind,  with  no  other  business  than 
to  sparkle  and  intrigue,  to  perplex  and  to  destroy. 

For  my  part,  whenever  chance  brings  within 
my  observation  a  knot  of  misses  busy  at  their 
needles,  I  consider  myself  as  in  the  school  of  vir- 
tue ;  and  though  I  have  no  extraordinary  skill  in 
plain  work  or  embroidery,  look  upon  their  opera- 
tions with  as  much  satisfaction  as  their  govern- 
ess, because  I  regard  them  as  providing  a  secu- 
rity against  the  most  dangerous  cnsnarers  of  the 
soul,  by  enabling  themselvoj  to  exclude  idleness 
from  their  solitary  moments,  and  with  idleness 
her  attendant  train  of  passions,  fancies,  and  chi- 
meras, fears,  sorrows,  and  desires.  Ovid  and  Cer- 
vantes will  inform  their  that  love  has  no  power 
but  over  those  whom  he  catches  unemployed ; 


No.  86.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


137 


and  Hector  in  the  Iliad,  when  he  sees  Andro- 
mache overwhelmed  with  terrors,  sends  her  for 
consolation  to  the  loom  and  the  distaff 

It  is  certain  that  any  wild  wish  or  vain  imagi- 
nation never  takes  such  firm  possession  of  the 
mind,  as  when  it  is  found  empty  and  unoccupied. 
The  old  peripatetic  principle,  that  Nature  abhore 
a  vacuum,  may  be  properly  applied  to  the  intellect, 
which  will  embrace  any  thing,  however  absurd 
or  criminal,  rather  than  be  wholly  without  an  ob- 
ject. Perhaps  every  man  may  date  the  predomi- 
nance of  those  desires  that  disturb  his  life  and 
contaminate  his  conscience,  from  some  unhappy 
hour  when  too  much  leisure  exposed  him  to  their 
incursions;  for  he  has  lived  with  little  observa- 
tion either  on  himself  or  others,  who  does  not 
know  that  to  be  idle  is  to  be  vicious. 


No.  8C.]       SATURDAY,  JAN.  12,  1751. 

Legitimumque  sonum  digitis  callemvset  atire. 


By  fingers,  or  by  ear,  we  numbers  scan. 


ELPHINSTON. 


ONE  of  the  ancients  has  observed,  that  the  bur- 
den of  government  is  increased  upon  princes  by 
the  virtues  of  their  immediate  predecessors.  It 
is,-  indeed,  always  dangerous  to  be  placed  in  a 
state  of  unavoidable  comparison  with  excellence, 
and  the  danger  is  still  greater  when  that  excel- 
lence is  consecrated  by  death ;  when  envy  and 
interest  cease  to  act  against  it,  and  those  pas- 
sions by  which  it  was  at  first  vilified  and  oppos- 
ed, now  stand  in  its  defence,  and  turn  their  ve- 
hemence against  honest  emulation. 

He  that  succeeds  a  celebrated  writer  has  the 
same  difficulties  to  encounter ;  he  stands  under 
the  shade  of  exalted  merit,  and  is  hindered  from 
rising  to  his  natural  height,  by  the  interception  of 
those  beams  which  should  invigorate  and  quicken 
him.  He  applies  to  that  attention  which  is  al- 
ready engaged,  and  unwilling  to  be  drawn  off 
from  certain  satisfaction ;  or  perhaps  to  an  atten- 
tion already  wearied,  and  not  to  be  recalled  to 
the  same  object. 

One  of  the  old  poets  congratulates  himself  that 
he  has  the  untrodden  regions  of  Parnassus  be- 
fore him,  and  that  his  garland  will  be  gathered 
from  plantations  which  no  writer  had  yet  culled. 
But  the  imitator  treads  a  beaten  walk,  and  with 
all  his  diligence  can  only  hope  to  find  a  few  flow- 
ers or  branches  untouched  by  his  predecessor, 
the  refuse  of  contempt,  or  the  omissions  of  negli- 
gence. The  Macedonian  conqueror,  when  he 
was  once  invited  to  hear  a  man  that  sung  like  a 
nightingale,  replied  with  contempt,  "  that  he  had 
heard  the  nightingale  herself;"  and  the  same 
treatment  must  every  man  expect,  whose  praise 
is,  that  he  imitates  another. 

Yet,  in  the  midst  of  these  discouraging  reflec- 
tions, I  am  about  to  offer  to  my  reader  some  ob- 
servations upon  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  hope,  that, 
however  I  may  fall  below  the  illustrious  writer 
who  has  so  long  dictated  to  the  commonwealth 
of  learning,  my  attempt  may  not  be  wholly  use- 
less. There  are,  in  every  age,  new  errors  to 
be  rectified,  and  new  prejudices  to  be  opposed. 
False  taste  is  always  busy  to  mislead  those  that 
are  entering  upon  the  regions  of  learning ;  and 
the  traveller,  uncertain  of  his  way,  and  forsaken 


by  the  sun,  will  be  pleased  to  see  a  fainter  oro 
arise  on  the  horizon,  that  may  rescue  him  from 
total  darkness,  though  with  weak  and  borrowed 
lustre. 

Addison,  though  he  has  considered  this  poem 
under  most  of  the  general  topics  of  criticism,  has 
barely  touched  upon  the  versification ;  not  proba- 
bly because  he  thought  the  art  of  numbers  un- 
worthy of  his  notice,  for  he  knew  with  what  mi- 
nute attention  the  ancient  critics  considered  the 
disposition  of  syllables,  and  had  himself  given 
hopes  of  some  metrical  observations  upon  the 
great  Roman  poet ;  but  being  the  first  who  un- 
dertook to  display  the  beauties,  and  point  out  the 
defects  of  Milton,  he  had  many  objects  at  once 
before  him,  and  passed  willingly  over  those  which 
were  most  barren  of  ideas,  and  required  labour 
rather  than  genius. 

Yet  versification,  or  the  art  of  modulating  his 
numbers,  is  indispensably  necessary  to  a  poet. 
Every  other  power  by  which  the  understanding 
is  enlightened,  or  the  imagination  enchanted,  may 
be  exercised  in  prose.  But  the  poet  has  this  pe- 
culiar superiority,  that  to  all  the  powers  which 
the  perfection  of  every  other  composition  can  re 
quire,  he  adds  the  faculty  of  joining  music  with 
reason,  and  of  acting  at  once  upon  the  senses 
and  the  passions.  I  suppose  there  are  few  who 
do  not  feel  themselves  touched  by  poetical  melo 
dy,  and  who  will  not  confess  that  they  are  more 
or  less  moved  by  the  same  thoughts,  as  they  arc 
conveyed  by  different  sounds,  and  more  affected 
by  the  eame  words  in  one  order  than  in  another. 
The  perception  of  harmony  is.  indeed  conferred 
upon  men  in  degrees  very  unequal ;  but  there  are 
none  who  do  not  perceive  it,  or  to  whom  a  regu- 
lar series  of  proportionate  sounds  cannot  give 
delight 

In  treating  on  the  versification  of  Milton  I  am 
desirous  to  be  generally  understood,  and  shall 
therefore  studiously  decline  the  dialect  of  gram 
marians ;  though,  indeed,  it  is  always  difficult, 
and  sometimes  scarcely  possible,  to  deliver  the 
precepts  of  an  art,  without  the  terms  by  which 
the  peculiar  ideas  of  that  art  are  expreseed,  and 
which  had  not  been  invented  but  because  the  Ian 
guage  already  in  use  was  insufficient  If,  there 
fore,  I  shall  sometimes  seem  obscure,  it  may  be 
imputed  to  this  voluntary  interdiction,  and  to  a 
desire  of  avoiding  that  offence  which  is  always 
given  by  unusual  words. 

The  heroic  measure  of  the  English  language 
may  be  properly  considered  as  pure  or  mixed. 
It  is  pure  when  the  accent  rests  upon  every  se- 
cond syllable  through  the  whole  line. 

Courage  uncertain  dangers  may  abate, 

But  who  can  hearth'  approach  of  certain  fate. 

DEYDEN. 

Jlere  Love  his  golden  phafts  employs,  here  lights 
His  constant  lamp,  and  waves  his  pfirple  wings, 
Reigns  here  and  revels;  not  in  the  bought  smile 
Of  harlots,  loveless,  juyless,  imendeared.  MILTON. 

The  accent  may  be  observed,  in  the  second  line 
of  Dryden,  and  the  second  and  fourth  of  Milton, 
to  repose  upon  every  second  syllable. 

The  repetition  of  this  sound  or  percussion  at 
equal  times,  is  the  most  complete  harmony  of 
which  a  single  verse  is  capable,  and  should  there- 
fore be  exactly  kept  in  distichs,  and  generally  in 
the  last  line  of  a  paragraph,  that  the  ear  may  rest 
without  any  senee  of  imperfection. 


138 


TTIE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  87 


But,  to  preserve  the  series  of  sounds  ""trans- 
posed in  a  long  composition,  is  not  only  very  dim- 
cult,  but  tiresome  and  disgusting;  for  we  arc  soon 
wearied  with  the  perpetual  recurrence  of  the  same 
cadence.  Necessity  has  therefore  enforced  the 
mixed  measure,  in  which  some  variation  of  the 
accents  is  allowed ;  this,  though  it  always  injures 
the  harmony  of  the  line,  considered  by  itself,  yet 
compensates  the  loss  by  relieving  us  from  the 
continual  tyranny  of  the  same  sound,  and  makes 
us  more  sensible  of  the  harmony  of  the  pure 
measure. 

Of  these  mixed  numbers  every  poet  affords  us 
innumerable  instances,  and  Milton  seldom  has 
two  pure  lines  together,  as  will  appear  if  any  of 
his  paragraphs  be  read  with  attention  merely  to 
the  music. 

Thus  at  their  shady  lodge  arrived  both  stood, 

Both  turn'd,  and  under  open  sky  adored 

The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heaven, 

Which  they  beheld ;  the  moon's  resplendent  globe, 

And  slurry  pale :  tliou  also  mad'st  the  night, 

Maker  omnipotent :  and  thou  tho  day, 

Which  we  in  our  appointed  work  employ'd 


Have  finish'd,  happy  in  our  mutual  help, 
And  mutual  love,  the  crown  of  all  our  bli. 


liss 


Ordain'd  by  thee;  and  this  delicious  place, 
For  us  too  large ;  where  thy  abundance  wants 
Partakers,  and  uncropp'd  falls  to  the  ground ; 
But  thou  hast  promised  from  us  two  a  race 
To  fill  the  earth,  who  shall  with  us  extol 
Thy  goodness  infinite,  both  when  we  wake, 
And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thy  gift  of  sleep. 

In  this  passage  it  will  be  at  first  observed  that 
all  the  lines  are  not  equally  harmonious,  and  up- 
on a  nearer  examination  it  will  be  found  that  only 
the  fifth  and  ninth  lines  are  regular,  and  the  rest 
are  more  or  less  licentious  with  respect  to  the  ac- 
cent. In  some  the  accent  is  equally  upon  two 
syllables  together,  and  in  both  strong.  As 

Thus  at  their  shady  lodge  arrived,  both  stood, 

Both  turn'd,  and  under  open  sky  adored 

The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heaven. 

In  others  the  accent  is  equally  upon  two  sylla- 
bles, but  upon  both  weak. 

a  race 

To  fill  the  earth,  who  shall  with  us  extol 
Thy  goodness  infinite,  both  when  we  wake, 
And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thy  gift  of  sleep. 

In  the  first  pair  of  syllables  the  accent  may  devi- 
ate from  the  rigour  of  exactness,  without  any  un- 
pleasing  diminution  of  harmony,  as  may  be  ob- 
served in  the  lines  already  cited,  and  more  re- 
markably in  this, 


Thou  also  mads't  the  night, 
Maker  omnipotent !  and  thou  the  day. 

But,  excepting  in  the  first  pair  of  syllables, 
which  may  be  considered  as  arbitrary,  a  poet  who, 
not  having  the  invention  or  knowledge  of  Milton, 
has  more  need  to  allure  his  audience  by  musical 
cadences,  should  seldom  suffer  more  than  one 
aberration  from  the  rule  in  any  single  verse. 

There  are  two  lines  in  this  passage  more  re- 
markably unharmonious  : 


-This  delicious  place, 


For  us  too  large ;  uhrrr  thy  abundance  wants 
Partakers,  and  uncropp'd  falls  to  the  ground. 

Here  the  third  pair  of  syllables  in  the  first,  and 
fourth  pair  in  the  second  verse,  have  their  accents 


retrograde  or  inverted ;  the  first  syllable  being 
strong  or  acute,  and  the  second  weak.  The  de- 
triment which  the  measure  suffers  by  this  inver- 
sion of  the  accents  is  sometimes  less  perceptible, 
when  the  verses  are  carried  one  into  another,  but 
s  remarkably  striking  in  this  place,  where  the 
vicious  verse  concludes  a  period,  and  is  yet  more 
offensive  in  rhyme,  when  we  regularly  attend  to 
:he  flow  of  every  single  line.  This  will  appeal 
jy  reading  a  couplet  in  which  Cowley,  an  authoi 
not  sufficiently  studious  of  harmony,  has  commit 
ted  the  same  fault. 


-his  harmless  life 


Does  with  substantial  blessedness  abound, 
And  the  soft  wings  of  peace  cover  him  round. 

[n  these  the  law  of  metre  is  very  grossly  violated 
by  mingling  combinations  of  sound  directly  op- 
posite to  each  other;  as  Milton  expresses  in  his 
sonnet,  by  committing  short  and  long,  and  setting 
one  part  of  the  measure  at  variance  with  the  rest. 
The  ancients,  who  had  a  language  more  capable 
of  variety  than  ours,  had  two  kinds  of  verse,  the 
Iambic,  consisting  of  short  and  long  syllables  al 
ternately,  from  which  our  heroic  measure  is  de 
rived,  and  the  Trochaic,  consisting  in  a  like  altera 
tion  of  long  and  short.  These  were  considered 
as  opposites,  and  conveyed  the  contrary  images 
of  speed  and  slowness ;  to  confound  them,  there- 
fore, as  in  these  lines,  is  to  deviate  from  the  es- 
tablished practice.  But  where  the  senses  are  to 
judge,  authority  is  not  necessary,  the  ear  is  suffi- 
cient to  detect  dissonance,  nor  should  I  have 
sought  auxiliaries  on  such  an  occasion  against 
any  name  but  that  of  Milton. 


No.  87.]        TUESDAY,  JAN.  15,  1751. 

Invidus,  iracxndnf,  inert,  vinosus,  amator, 
Nemo  adeoferus  est,  ut  non  mitescere  possit,    • 
Si  modo  cullura  patientem  commodet  aurem. 

HOK 

The  slave  to  envy,  anger,  wine,  or  love, 
The  wretch  of  sloth,  its  excellence  shall  prove ; 
Fierceness  itself  shall  hear  its  rage  away, 
When  listening  calmly  to  th'  instructive  lay. 

FRANCIS. 

THAT  few  things  are  so  liberally  bestowed,  or 
squandered  with  so  little  effect,  as  good  advice, 
has  been  generally  observed ;  and  many  sage  po- 
sitions have  been  advanced  concerning  the  rea- 
sons of  this  complaint,  and  the  means  of  remov- 
ing it.  It  is  indeed  an  important  and  noble  in- 
quiry, for  little  would  be  wanting  to  the  happi- 
ness of  life,  if  every  man  could  conform  to  the 
right  as  soon  as  he  was  shown  it. 

This  perverse  neglect  of  the  most  salutary 
precepts,  and  stubborn  resistance  of  the  most 
pathetic  persuasion,  is  usually  imputed  to  him 
by  whom  the  counsel  is  received,  and  we  often 
hear  k  mentioned  as  a  sign  of  hopeless  depravi- 
ty, that  though  good  advice  was  given,  it  has 
wrought  no  reformation. 

Others,  who  imagine  themselves  to  have  quick- 
er  sagacity  and  deeper  penetration,  have  found 
out  that  the  inefficacy  of  advice  is  usually  the 
fault  of  the  counsellor,  and  rules  have  been  laid 
down,  by  which  this  important  duty  may  be  suc- 
cessfully performed:  we  are  directed  by  what 
tokens  to  discover  the  favourable  moment  at 
which  the  heart  is  disposed  for  the  operation  cJ 


o.  87.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


139 


truth  and  reason,  with  what  address  to  adminis- 
ter, and  with  what  vehicles  to  disguise  the  cathar- 
tics of  the  soul. 

But,  notwithstanding  this  specious  expedient, 
we  find  the  world  yet  in  the  same  state :  advice 
is  still  given,  but  still  received  with  disgust;  nor 
has  it  appeared  that  the  bitterness  of  the  medi- 
cine has  been  yet  abated,  or  its  power  increased, 
by  any  methods  of  preparing  it. 

If  we  consider  the  manner  in  which  those  who 
assume  the  office  of  directing  the  conduct  of 
others  execute  their  undertaking,  it  will  not  be 
very  wonderful  that  their  labours,  however  zeal- 
ous or  affectionate,  are  frequently  useless.  For 
what  is  the  advice  that  is  commonly  given?  A 
few  general  maxims,  enforced  with  vehemence 
and  inculcated  with  importunity,  but  failing  for 
want  of  particular  reference  and  immediate  ap- 
plication. 

It  is  not  often  that  any  man  can  have  so  much 
knowledge  of  another,  as  is  necessary  to  make 
instruction  useful.  We  are  sometimes  not  our- 
selves conscious  of  the  original  motives  of  our 
actions,  and  when  we  know  them,  our  first  care 
is  to  hide  them  from  the  sight  of  others,  and  often 
from  those  most  diligently,  whose  superiority 
either  of  power  or  understanding  may  entitle 
them  to  inspect  our  lives  ;  it  is  therefore  very  pro- 
bable that  he  who  endeavours  the  cure  of  our  in- 
tellectual maladies,  mistakes  their  cause;  and 
that  his  prescriptions  avail  nothing,  because  he 
knows  not  which  of  the  passions  or  desires  is 
vitiated. 

Advice,  as  it  always  gives  a  temporary  appear- 
ance of  superiority,  can  never  be  very  grateful, 
even  when  it  is  most  necessary  or  most  judicious. 
But  for  the  same  reason  every  one  is  eager  to  in- 
struct his  neighbours.  To  be  wise  or  to  be  vir- 
tuous, is  to  buy  dignity  and  importance  at  a  high 
price ;  but  when  nothing  is  necessary  to  eleva- 
tion but  detection  of  the  follies  or  the  faults  of 
others,  no  man  is  so  insensible  to  the  voice  of 
fame  as  to  linger  on  the  ground. 

Tentanda  via  est,  qua  me  quogue  passim 

Tollere  kumo,  victorque  virumvolitareper  ora. 

VIRG. 

New  ways  I  must  attempt,  my  grovelling  name 
To  raise  aloft,  and  wing  my  flight  to  fame. 

DRTDEN. 

Vanity  is  so  frequently  the  apparent  motive 
of  advice,  that  we,  for  the  most  part,  summon 
our  powers  to  oppose  it  without  any  very  accu- 
rate inquiry  whether  it  is  right.  It  is  sufficient 
that  another  is  growing  great  in  his  own  eyes, 
at  our  expense,  and  assumes  authority  over  us 
without  our  permission ;  for  many  would  con- 
tentedly suffer  the  consequences  of  their  own 
mistakes,  rather  than  the  insolence  of  him  who 
triumphs  as  .their  deliverer. 

It  is,  indeed,  seldom  found  that  any  advanta- 
ges are  enjoyed  with  that  moderation  which  the 
uncertainty  of  all  human  good  so  powerfully  en- 
forces; and  therefore  the  adviser  may  justly  sus- 
Kect,  that  he  has  inflamed  the  opposition  which 
e  laments  by  arrogance  and  superciliousness. 
He  may  suspect,  but  needs  not  hastily  to  con- 
demn himself,  for  he  can  rarely  be  certain  that 
the  softest  language  or  most  humble  diffidence 
would  have  escaped  resentment ;  since  scarcely 
any  degree  of  circumspection  ran  prevent  or  ob- 


viate the  rage  with  which  the  slothful,  the  impo- 
tent, and  the  unsuccessful,  vent  their  discontent 
upon  those  that  excel  them.  Modesty  itself,  if  it 
is  praised,  will  be  envied ;  and  there  are  minds 
so  impatient  of  inferiority,  that  their  gratitude  is 
a  species  of  revenge,  and  they  return  benefits, 
not  because  recompense  is  a  pleasure,  but  be- 
cause obligation  is  a  pain. 

The  number  of  those  whom  the  love  of  them- 
selves has  thus  far  corrupted,  is  perhaps  not 
great ;  but  there  are  few  so  free  from  vanity,  as 
not  to  dictate  to  those  who  will  hear  their  in- 
structions with  a  visible  sense  of  their  own  bene- 
ficence :  and  few  to  whom  it  is  not  unpleasing  to 
receive  documents,  however  tenderly  and  cau- 
tiously delivered,  or  who  are  not  willing  to  raise 
themselves  from  pupilage,  by  disputing  the  pro- 
positions of  their  teacher. 

It  was  the  maxim,  I  think,  of  Alphonsus  of 
Arragon,  that  dead  counsellors  are  safest.  The 
?rave  puts  an  end  to  flattery  and  artifice,  and  the 
information  that  we  receive  from  books  is  pure 
Prom  interest,  fear,  or  ambition.  Dead  counsel- 
lors are  likewise  most  instructive ;  because  they 
are  heard  with  patience  and  with  reverence. 
We  are  not  unwilling  to  believe  that  man  wiser 
than  ourselves,  from  whose  abilities  we  may  re- 
ceive advantage,  without  any  danger  of  rivalry 
or  opposition,  and  who  affords  us  the  light  of  his 
experience,  without  hurting  our  eyes  by  flashes 
of  insolence. 

By  the  consultation  of  books,  whether  of  dead 
or  living  authors,  many  temptations  to  petulance 
and  opposition,  which  occur  in  oral  conferences, 
are  avoided.  An  author  cannot  obtrude  his  ser- 
vice unasked,  nor  can  be  often  suspected  of  any 
malignant  intention  to  insult  his  readers  with  his 
knowledge  or  his  wit.  Yet  so  prevalent  is  the 
habit  of  comparing  ourselves  with  others,  while 
they  remain  within  the  reach  of  our  passions, 
that  books  are  seldom  read  with  complete  im- 
partiality, but  by  those  from  whom  the  writer  is 
placed  at  such  a  distance  that  his  life  or  death  is 
indifferent. 

We  see  that  volumes  may  be  perused,  and 
perused  with  attention,  to  little  effect ;  and  that 
maxims  of  prudence,  or  principles  of  virtue,  may 
be  treasured  in  the  memory  without  influencing 
the  conduct.  Of  the  numbers  that  pass  theL 
lives  among  books,  very  few  read  to  be  made 
wiser  or  better,  apply  any  general  reproof  of  vice 
to  themselves,  or  try  their  own  manners  by  ax 
ioms  of  justice.  They  purpose  either  to  con 
sume  those  hours  for  which  they  can  find  no 
other  amusement,  to  gain  or  preserve  that  respect 
which  learning  has  always  obtained ;  dr  to  gratify 
their  curiosity  with  knowledge,  which,  like  trea- 
sures buried  and  forgotten,  is  of  no  use  to  others 
or  themselves. 

"The  preacher  (says  a  French  author)  may 
spend  an  hour  in  explaining  and  enforcing  a  pre 
cept  of  religion,  without  feeling  any  impression 
from  his  own  performance,  because  he  may  have 
no  further  design  than  to  fill  up  his  hour."  A 
student  may  easily  exhaust  his  life  in  comparing 
divines  and  moralists,  without  any  practical  re- 
gard to  morality  or  religion ;  he  may  be  learning 
not  to  live,  but  to  reason  ;  he  may  regard  only 
the  elegance  of  style,  justness  of  argument,  and 
accuracy  of  method  ;  and  may  enable  himself  to 
criticise  with  judgment,  and  dispute  with  subtili- 
ty,  while  the  chief  use  of  his  volumes  is  unthought 


140 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  88. 


of,  his  mind  is  unaffected,  and  his  life  is  unre- 

But  though  truth  and  virtue  are  thus  frequently 
defeated  by  pride,  obstinacy  or  folly,  we  are  not 
allowed  to  desert  them  ;  for  whoever  can  furnish 
arms  which  they  hitherto  have  not  employed, 
may  enable  them  to  gain  some  hearts  which 
would  have  resisted  any  other  method  of  attack. 
Every  man  of  genius  has  some  arts  of  fixing  the 
attention  peculiar  to  himself,  by  which,  honestly 
exerted,  he  may  benefit  mankind  ;  for  the  argu- 
ments for  purity  of  life  fail  of  their  due  influence, 
not  because  they  have  been  considered  and  con- 
futed, but  because  they  have  been  passed  over 
without  consideration.  To  the  position  of  Tully, 
that  if  Virtue  could  be  seen,  she  must  be  loved, 
may  be  added,  that  if  Trutli  could  be  heard,  she 
must  be  obeyed. 


No.  88.]     SATURDAY,  JAN.  19,  1751. 

Cumtabulis  animum  censoris  sumet  honesti  : 
Audebit,  queccunque  minus  splendoris  habebunt, 
Et  fine  pondere  erunt,  et  hnnore  indignaferentnr, 
Vtrba  Movere  loco,  quamvis  invita  recedant, 
Et  versentur  adhuc  intra  penetralia  Vesta*        HOR. 

But  he  that  bath  a  curious  piece  design'd, 

When  he  begins  must  take  a  censor's  mind, 

Severe  and  honest ;  and  what  words  appear 

Too  light  and  trivial,  or  too  weak  to  bear 

The  weighty  sense,  nor  worth  the  reader's  care, 

Shake  off;  though  stubborn,  they  are  loath  to  move, 

And  though  we  fancy,  dearly  though  we  love. — CREECH. 

"THERE  is  no  reputation  for  genius,"  says  duin- 
tilian,  "  to  be  gained  by  writing  on  things,  which, 
however  necessary,  have  little  splendour  or  show. 
The  height  of  a  building  attracts  the  eye,  but  the 
foundations  lie  without  regard.  Yet  since  there 
is  not  any  way  to  the  top  of  science,  but  from  the 
lowest  parts,  I  shall  think  nothing  unconnected 
with  the  art  of  oratory,  which  he  that  wants  can- 
not be  an  orator." 

Confirmed  and  animated  by  this  illustrious  pre- 
cedent, I  shall  continue  my  inquiries  into  Mil- 
ton's art  of  versification.  Since,  however  minute 
the  employment  may  appear,  of  analysing  lines 
into  syllables,  and  whatever  ridicule  may  be  in- 
curred by  a  solemn  deliberation  upon  accents 
and  pauses,  it  is  certain,  that  without  this  petty 
knowledge  no  man  can  be  a  poet ;  and  that  from 
the  proper  disposition  of  single  sounds  results 
that  harmony  that  adds  force  to  reason,  and  gives 
grace  to  sublimity ;  that  shackles  attention,  and 
governs  passions. 

That  verse  may  be  melodious  and  pleasing,  it 
is  necessary,  not  only  that  the  words  be  so  ranged 
as  that  the  accent  may  fall  on  its  proper  place, 
but  that  the  syllables  themselves  be  so  chosen  as 
to  flow  smoothly  into  ene  another.  This  is  to  be 
effected  by  a  proportionate  mixture  of  vowels  and 
consonants,  and  by  tempering  the  mute  conso- 
nants with  liquids  and  semivowels.  The  Hebrew 
grammarians  have  observed,  that  it  is  impossible 
to  pronounce  two  consonants  without  the  inter- 
vention of  a  vowel,  or  without  some  emission  of 
the  breath  between  one  and  the  other ;  this  is 
longer  and  more  perceptible,  as  the  sounds  of  the 
consonants  are  less  harmonically  conjoined,  and, 
by  consequence  the  flow  of  the  verse  is  longer 
interrupted. 

It  is  pronounced  by  Dryden,  that  a  line  of 


monosyllables  is  almost  always  harsh.  This, 
with  regard  to  our  language,  is  evidently  true, 
not  because  monosyllables  cannot  compose  har- 
mony, but  because  our  monosyllables  being  of 
Teutonic  original,  or  formed  by  contraction, 
commonly  begin  and  end  with  consonants,  as, 

Every  lower  faculty 

Of  sense,  whereby  they  hear,  see,  smell,  touch,  taste. 

The  difference  of  harmony  arising  principally 
from  the  collocation  of  vowels  and  consonants, 
will  be  sufficiently  conceived  by  attending  to  the 
following  passages : 

Immortal  Amarant — there  grows 

And  flowers  aloft,  shading  the  fount  of  life, 

And  where  the  river  of  bliss  through  midst  of  heaven 

Rolls  o'er  Ely sian  flowers  her  amber  stream; 

With  these  that  neverfade,  the  spirits  elect 

Jiind  their  resplendent  locks  inwreath'd  with  beams 

The  same  comparison  that  I  propose  to  be 
made  between  the  fourth  and  sixth  verses  of  this 
passage  may  be  repeated  between  the  last  lines 
of  the  following  quotations : 

Under  foot  the  violet, 

Crocus,  and  hyacinth,  with  rich  inlay 

Broidered  the  ground,  more  coloured  than  icilh  stone 

Of  costliest  emblem. 

Here  in  close  recess, 

With  flowers,  garlands,  and  sweet-smelling  herbs. 
Espoused  Eve  first  deck'd  her  nuptial  bed  ; 
And  heavenly  choirs  the  hymenean  svng. 

Milton,  whose  ear  had  been  accustomed,  not 
only  to  the  music  of  the  ancient  tongues,  which, 
however  vitiated  by  our  pronunciation,  excel  all 
that  are  now  in  use,  but  to  the  softness  of  the 
Italian,  the  most  mellifluous  of  all  modern  poetry, 
seems  fully  convinced  of  the  unfitness  of  our  lan- 
guage for  smooth  versification,  and  is  therefore 
pleased  with  an  opportunity  of  calling  in  a  softer 
word  to  his  assistance:  for  this  reason,  and  I  be- 
lieve for  this  only,  he  sometimes  indulges  himself 
in  a  long  series  of  proper  names,  and  introduces 
them  where  they  add  little  but  music  to  his  poem. 


-The  richer  seat 


Of  Atabalipa,  and  yetunspoil'd 
Guiana,  whose  great  city  Gerion's  sons 
Call  El  Dorado 

The  moon — The  Tuscan  artist  views 
At  evening,  from  the  top  of  Fesole 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands. 

He  has  indeed  been  more  attentive  to  his  syi 
lables  than  to  his  accents,  and  does  not  often  of- 
fend by  collisions  of  consonants,  or  openings  of 
vowels  upon  each  other,  at  least  not  more  often 
than  other  writers  who  have  had  less  important 
or  complicated  subjects  to  take  off"  their  care  from 
the  cadence  of  their  lines. 

The  great  peculiarity  of  Milton's  versification, 
compared  with  that  of  later  poets,  is  the  elision 
of  one  vowel  before  another,  or  the  suppression 
of  the  last  syllable  of  a  word  ending  with  a  vowel, 
when  a  vowel  begins  the  following  word.  As 

Knowledge 

Oppresses  else  with  surfeit,  and  soon  turns 
Wisdom  to  folly,  as  nourishment  to  wind. 

This  license,  though  now  disused  in  English 
poetry,  was  practised  by  our  old  writers,  and  is 
allowed  in  many  other  languages  ancient  and 
modern,  and  therefore  the  critics  on  "  Paradise 


No.  89.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


141 


Lost"  have,  without  much  deliberation,  commend- 
ed Milton  for  continuing  it*  But  one  language 
cannot  communicate  its  rules  to  another.  We 
have  already  tried  and  rejected  the  hexameter  of 
the  ancients,  the  double  close  of  the  Italians,  and 
the  alexandrine  of  the  French ;  and  the  elision  of 
vowels,  however  graceful  it  may  seem  to  other 
nations,  may  be  very  unsuitable  to  the  genius  of 
the  English  tongue. 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  we  have  negli- 
gently lost  part  of  our  vowels,  and  that  the  silent 
e,  which  our  ancestors  added  to  the  most  of  our 
monosyllables,  was  once  vocal.  By  this  detrun- 
cation  of  our  syllables,  our  language  is  over- 
stocked with  consonants,  and  it  is  more  necessa- 
ry, to  add  vowels  to  the  beginning  of  words,  than 
to  cut  them  off  from  the  end. 

Milton  therefore  seems  to  have  somewhat  mis- 
taken the  nature  of  our  language,  of  which  the 
chief  defect  is  ruggedness  and  asperity,  and  has 
left  our  harsh  cadences  yet  harsher.  But  his  eli- 
sions are  not  all  equally  to  be  censured  ;  in  some 
syllables  they  may  be  allowed,  and  perhaps  in  a 
few  may  be  safely  imitated.  The  abscission  of 
a  vowel  is  undoubtedly  vicious  when  it  is  strong- 
ly sounded,  and  makes,  with  its  associate  conso- 
nant, a  full  and  audible  syllable. 

What  Le  gives, 

Spiritual,  may  to  purest  spirits  be  found, 
ffo  ingrateful  food,  and  food  alike  these  pure 
Intelligential  substances  require. 

Fruits, — Hesperian  fables  true, 
If  true,  here  only,  and  of  delicious  taste. 


-Evening  now  approach'd, 


For  we  have  alsu  our  evening  and  our  morn. 

Of  guests  he  makes  them  slaves^ 
InhospitaiJy,  and  kills  their  infant  males. 

And  vital  Virtue  infused,  and  vital  warmth, 
Throughout  the  fluid  mass. 

God  made  Ihce  of  choice  his  own,  and  of  his  own 
To  serve  him. 

I  believe  every  reader  will  agree,  that  in  all 
those  passages,  though  not  equally  in  all,  the 
music  is  injured,  and  in  some  the  meaning  ob- 
scured. There  are  other  lines  in  which  the  vow- 
el is  cut  off,  but  it  is  so  faintly  pronounced  in 
common  speech,  that  the  loss  of  it  in  poetry  is 
scarcely  perceived  ;  and  therefore  such  compli- 
ance with  the  measure  may  be  allowed. 

Xature  breeds 

Perverse,  all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things, 
Abominate,  inutterafr/e ;  and  worse 
Than  fables  yet  have  fuign'd 

From  the  shore 

They  view'd  the  vast  iiumnasura&fe  abyss, 
Impenetrafi/e,  impal'd  with  circling  fire. 

To  none  communicad/t  in  earth  or  heaven. 

Yet  even  these  contractions  increase  the  rough- 
ness of  a  language  too  rough  already ;  and  though 
in  Ions  poems  they  may  be  sometimes  suffered, 
it  never  can  be  faulty  to  forbear  them. 


'  In  the  original  Rambler,  in  folio,  our  author's  opinion 
appeal's  different,  and  is  thus  expressed: — "This  license, 
though  an  innovation  in  English  poetry,  is  yet  allowed  in 
many  other  languages  ancient  and  modern,  and  therefore 
Ibe  critics  on  '  Paradise  Lost'  have,  without  much  delibera- 
Jion,  commended  Milton  for  introducing  h." 


Milton  frequently  uses  in  his  poems  the  hy. 
permetrical  or  redundant  line  of  eleven  syllables 


-Thus  it  shall  befall 


Him  whom  to  worth  in  woman  over-trusting 
Lets  her  will  rule. 

I  also  err'd  in  over-much  admiring-. 

Verses  of  this  kind  occur  almost  in  every 
page ;  but,  though  they  are  not  unpleasing  or 
dissonant,  they  ought  to  be  admitted  into  heroic 
poetry,  since  the  narrow  limits  of  our  language 
allow  us  no  other  distinction  of  epic  and  tragic 
measures,  than  is  afforded  by  the  liberty  of  chang- 
ing at  will  the  terminations  of  the  dramatic  lines, 
and  bringing  them  by  that  relaxation  of  metrical 
rigour  nearer  to  prose. 


No.  89.]       TUESDAY,  JAN.  22,  1751. 

Dulee  ett  desipere  in  loco.  HOE. 

Wisdom  at  proper  times  is  well  forgotten. 

LOCKE,  whom  there  is  no  reason  to  suspect  of 
being  a  favourer  of  idleness  or  libertinism,  has 
advanced,  that  whoever  hopes  to  em  ploy  any  part 
of  his  time  with  efficacy  and  vigour,  must  allow 
some  of  it  to  pass  in  trifles.  It  is  beyond  the 
powers  of  humanity  to  spend  a  whole  life  in  pro- 
found study  and  intense  meditation,  and  the  most 
rigorous  exacters  of  industry  and  seriousness 
have  appointed  hours  for  relaxation  and  amuse 
ment. 

It  is  certain,  that,  with  or  without  our  consent, 
many  of  the  few  moments  allotted  us  will  slide 
imperceptibly  away,  and  that  the  mind  will  break, 
from  confinement  to  its  stated  task,  into  sudden 
excursions.  Severe  and  connected  attention  is 
preserved  but  for  a  short  time ;  and  when  a  man 
shuts  himself  up  in  his  closet,  and  bends  his 
thoughts  to  the  discussion  of  any  abstruse  ques- 
tion, he  will  find  his  faculties  continually  stealing 
away  to  more  pleasing  entertainments.  He  often 
perceives  himself  transported,  he  knows  not 
how,  to  distant  tracts  of  thought,  and  returns  to 
his  first  object  as  from  a  dream,  without  knowing 
when  he  forsook  it,  or  how  long  he  has  been  ab- 
stracted from  it. 

It  has  been  observed  that  the  most  studious 
are  not  always  the  most  learned.  There  is,  in- 
deed, no  great  difficulty  in  discovering  that  this 
difference  of  proficiency  may  arise  from  the  dif- 
ference of  intellectual  powers,  of  the  choice  of 
books,  or  the  convenience  of  information.  But 
I  believe  it  likewise  frequently  happens  that  the 
most  recluse  are  not  the  most  vigorous  prosecut- 
ors of  study.  Many  impose  upon  the  world,  and 
many  upon  themselves  by  an  appearance  of  se- 
vere and  exemplary  diligence,  when  they,  in  real- 
ity, give  themselves  up  to  the  luxury  of  fancy, 
please  their  minds  with  regulating  the  past,  or 
planning  out  the  future ;  place  themselves  at  will 
in  varied  situations  of  happiness,  and  slumber 
away  their  days  in  voluntary  visions.  In  the 
journey  of  life  some  are  left  behind  because  they 
are  naturally  feeble  and  slow :  some  because  they 
miss  the  way,  and  many  because  they  leave  it  by 
choice,  and,  instead  of  pressing  onward  with  a 
steady  pace,  delight  themselves  with  momentary 
deviations,  turn  aside  to  pluck  every  flower,  and 
repose  in  every  shade. 


142 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  89. 


There  is  nothing  more  fatal  to  a  man  whose 
business  is  to  think,  than  to  have  learned  the  art 
of  regaling  his  mind  with  those  airy  gratifications. 
Other  vices  or  follies  are  restrained  by  fear,  re- 
formed by  admonition,  or  rejected  by  the  convic- 
tion which  the  comparison  of  our  conduct  with 
that  of  others  may  in  time  produce.  But  tliis  in- 
visible riot  of  the  mmd,  this  secret  prodigality  of 
being,  is  secure  from  detection,  and  fearless  of 
reproach.  The  dreamer  retires  to  his  apart- 
ments, shuts  out  the  cares  and  interruptions  of 
mankind,  and  abandons  himself  to  his  own  fancy ; 
new  worlds  rise  up  before  him,  one  image  is 
followed  by  another,  and  a  long  succession  of 
delights  dances  round  liim.  He  is  at  last  called 
back  to  life  by  nature,  or  by  custom,  and  enters 
peevish  into  society,  because  he  cannot  model  it 
toJiis  own  will.  He  returns  from  his  idle  ex- 
cursions with  the  asperity,  though  not  with  the 
knowledge,  of  a  student,  and  hastens  again  to 
the  same  felicity  with  the  eagerness  of  a  man 
bent  upon  the  advancement  of  some  favourite 
science.  The  infatuation  strengthens  by  degrees, 
and,  like  the  poison  of  opiates,  weakens  his 
powers,  without  any  external  symptom  of  malig- 
nity. 

It  happens,  indeed,  that  these  hypocrites  of 
learning  are  in  time  detected,  and  convinced  by 
disgrace  and  disappointment  of  the  difference 
between  the  labour  of  thought,  and  the  sport  of 
musing.  But  this  discovery  is  often  not  made  till 
it  is  too  late  to  recover  the  time  that  has  been 
fooled  away.  A  thousand  accidents  may  indeed, 
awaken  drones  to  a  more  early  sense  of  their 
danger  and  their  shame.  But  they  who  are  con- 
vinced of  the  necessity  of  breaking  from  this  ha- 
bitual drowsiness,  too  often  relapse  in  spite  of 
their  resolution ;  for  these  ideal  seducers  are 
always  near,  and  neither  any  particularity  of  time 
nor  place  is  necessary  to  their  influence ;  they 
invade  the  soul  without  warning,  and  have  often 
charmed  down  resistance  before  their  approach 
is  perceived  or  suspected. 

This  captivity,  however,  it  is  necessary  for 
every  man  to  break,  who  has  any  desire  to  be 
wise  or  useful,  to  pass  his  life  with  the  esteem  of 
others,  or  to  look  back  with  satisfaction  from  his 
old  age  upon  his  earlier  years.  In  order  to  re- 

gain  liberty,he  must  find  the  means  of  flyingfrom 
imself ;  he  must,  in  opposition  to  the  stoic  pre- 
cept, teach  his  desires  to  fix  upon  eternal  things ; 
he  must  adopt  the  joys  and  the  pains  of  others, 
and  excite  in  his  mind  the  want  of  social  plea- 
sures and  amicable  communication. 

It  is,  perhaps,  not  impossible  to  promote  the 
cure  of  this  mental  malady,  by  close  application 
to  some  new  study,  which  may  pour  in  fresh 
ideas,  and  keep  curiosity  in  perpetual  motion. 
But  study  requires  solitude,  and  solitude  is  a 
state  dangerous  to  those  who  are  too  much  ac- 
customed to  sink  into  themselves.  Active  em- 
ployment or  public  pleasure  is  generally  a  neces- 
sary part  of  this  intellectual  regimen,  without 
which,  though  some  remission  may  be  obtained, 
a  complete  cure  will  scarcely  be  effected. 

This  is  a  formidable  and  obstinate  disease  of 
the  intellect,  of  which,  when  it  has  once  become 
radicated  by  time,  the  remedy  is  one  of  the  hard- 
eat  tasks  of  reason  and  of  virtue.  Its  slightest 
attacks  therefore,  should  be  watchfully  opposed ; 
and  he  that  finds  the  frigid  and  narcotic  infection 


beginning  to  seize  him,  should  turn  his  whole  at- 
tention against  it,  and  check  it  at  the  first  disco- 
very by  proper  counteraction. 

The  great  resolution  to  be  formed,  when  hap- 
piness and  virtue  are  thus  formidably  invaded, 
is,  that  no  part  of  life  be  spent  in  a  state  of  neu 
trality  or  indifference;  but  that  some  pleasure 
be  found  for  every  moment  that  is  not  devoted  to 
labour;  and  that,  whenever  the  necessary  busi 
ness  of  life  grows  irksome  or  disgusting,  an  im- 
mediate transition  be  made  to  diversion  and 
gayety. 

t  After  the  exercises  which  the  health  of  the 
body  requires,  and  which  have  themselves  a  na- 
tural tendency  to  actuate  and  invigorate  the  mind, 
the  most  eligible  amusement  of  a  rational  being 
seems  to  be  that  interchange  of  thoughts  which 
is  practised  in  free  and  easy  conversation ;  where 
suspicion  is  banished  by  experience,  and  emula- 
tion by  benevolence ;  where  every  man  speaks 
with  no  other  restraint  than  unwillingness  to  of- 
fend, and  hears  with  no  other  disposition  than 
desire  to  be  pleased. 

There  must  be  a  time  in  which  every  man  tri- 
fles ;  and  the  only  choice  that  nature  offers  us,  is, 
to  trifle  in  company  or  alone.  To  join  profit 
with  pleasure,  has  been  an  old  precept  among 
men  who  have  had  very  different  conceptions  ot 
profit.  All  have  agreed  that  our  amusements 
should  not  terminate  wholly  in  the  present  mo- 
ment, but  contribute  more  or  less  to  future  ad- 
vantage. He  that  amuses  himself  among  well 
chosen  companions,  can  scarcely  fail  to  receive, 
from  the  most  careless  and  obstreperous  merri- 
ment which  virtue  can  allow,  some  useful  hints; 
nor  can  converse  on  the  most  familiar  topics, 
without  some  casual  information.  The  loose 
sparkles  of  thoughtless  wit  may  give  new  light  to 
the  mind,  and  the  gay  contention  for  paradoxical 
positions  rectify  the  opinions. 

This  is  the  time  in  which  those  friendships  that 
give  happiness  or  consolation,  relief  or  security, 
are  generally  formed.  A  wise  and  good  man  is 
never  so  amiable  as  in  his  unbended  and  familiar 
intervals.  Heroic  generosity,  or  philosophical 
discoveries,  may  compel  veneration  and  respect, 
but  love  always  implies  some  kind  of  natural  or 
voluntary  equality,  and  is  only  to  be  excited  by 
that  levity  and  cheerfulness  which  disencumber 
all  minds  from  awe  and  solitude,  invite  the  mo 
dest  to  freedom,  and  exalt  the  timorous  to  confi 
dence.  This  easy  gayety  is  certain  to  please, 
whatever  be  the  character  of  him  that  exerts  it ; 
if  our  superiors  descend  from  their  elevation,  \ve 
love  them  for  lessening  the  distance  at  which  we 
are  placed  below  them ;  and  inferiors,  from  whom 
we  can  receive  no  lasting  advantage,  will  always 
keep  our  affections  while  their  sprightliness  and 
mirth  contribute  to  our  pleasure. 

Every  man  finds  himself  differently  affected 
by  the  sight  of  fortresses  of  war,  and  palaces  of 
pleasure ;  we  look  on  the  height  and  strength  ot 
the  bulwarks  with  a  kind  of  gloomy  satisfaction. 
for  we  cannot  think  of  defence  without  admitting 
images  of  danger;  but  we  range  delighted  and 
jocund  through  the  gay  apartments  of  the  pa- 
lace, because  nothing  is  impressed  by  them  on 
the  mind  but  joy  and  festivity.  Such  is  the  dif- 
ference between  great  and  amiable  characters; 
with  protectors  we  are  safe,  with  companions  we 
are  happy. 


No.  90.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

No.  90.]       SATURDAY,  JAN.  26,  1751. 

In  tenui  labor.  VIRG. 

What  toil  in  slender  things ! 

IT  is  very  difficult  to  write  on  the  minuter  parts 
of  literature  without  failing  either  to  please  or  in- 
struct. Too  much  nicety  of  detail  disgusts  the 
greatest  part  of  readers,  and  to  throw  a  multitude 
of  particulars  under  general  heads,  and  lay  down 
rules  of  extensive  comprehension,  is  to  common 
understandings  of  little  use.  They  who  under- 
take these  subjects  are  therefore  always  in  dan- 
ger, as  one  or  other  inconvenience  arises  to  their 
imagination,  of  frighting  us  with  rugged  science, 
or  amusing  us  with  empty  sound. 

In  criticising  the  work  of  Milton,  there  is,  in- 
deed, opportunity  to  intersperse  passages  that 
can  hardly  fail  to  relieve  the  languors  of  atten- 
tion ;  and  since,  in  examining  the  variety  and 
choice  of  the  pauses  with  which  he  has  diversi- 
fied his  numbers,  it  will  be  necessary  to  exhibit 
the  lines  in  which  they  are  to  be  found,  perhaps 
the  remarks  may  be  well  compensated  by  the 
examples,  and  the  irksomeness  of  grammatical 
disquisitions  somewhat  alleviated.  Milton  form- 
ed his  scheme  of  versification  by  the  poets  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  whom  he  proposed  to  himself 
for  his  models,  so  far  as  the  difference  of  his  lan- 
guage from  theirs  would  permit  the  imitation. 
There  are  indeed  many  inconveniences  insepa- 
rable from  our  heroic  measure  compared  with 
that  of  Homer  and  Virgil ;  inconveniences,  which 
it  is  no  reproach  to  Milton  not  to  have  overcome, 
because  they  are  in  their  own  nature  insupera- 
ble ;  but  against  which  he  has  struggled  with  so 
much  art  and  diligence,  that  he  may  at  least  be 
said  to  have  deserved  success. 

The  hexameter  of  the  ancients  may  be  consi- 
dered as  consisting  of  fifteen  syllables,  so  melo- 
diously disposed,  that,  as  every  one  knows  who 
has  examined  the  poetical  authors,  very  pleas- 
ing and  sonorous  lyric  measures  are  formed 
from  the  fragments  of  the  heroic.  It  is,  indeed, 
scarce  possible  to  break  them  in  such  a  manner, 
but  that  invenias  etiam  disjecta  membra  poeta, 
some  harmony  will  still  remain,  and  the  due 
proportions  of  sound  will  always  be  discovered. 
This  measure  therefore  allowed  great  variety  of 
pauses,  and  great  liberties  of  connecting  one 
verse  with  another,  because  wherever  the  line 
was  interrupted,  either  part  singly  was  musical. 
But  the  ancients  seem  to  have  confined  this  pri- 
vilege to  hexameters;  for  in  their  other  mea- 
sures, though  longer  than  the  English  heroic, 
those  who  wrote  after  the  refinements  of  versifi- 
cation, venture  so  seldom  to  change  their  pauses, 
that  every  variation  may  be  supposed  rather  a 
compliance  with  necessity  than  the  choice  of 
judgment. 

Milton  was  constrained  within  the  narrow  li- 
mits of  a  measure  not  very  harmonious  in  the  ut- 
most perfection  ;  the  single  parts,  therefore,  into 
which  it  was  to  be  sometimes  broken  by  pauses, 
were  in  danger  of  losing  the  very  form  of  verse. 
This  has,  perhaps,  notwithstanding  all  his  care, 
sometimes  happened. 

As  harmony  is  the  end  of  poetical  measures,  no 
part  of  a  verse  ought  to  be  so  separated  from  the 
rest  as  not  to  remain  still  more  harmonious  than 
prose,  or  to  show,  by  the  disposition  of  the  tones, 
that  it  is  part  of  a  verse.  This  rule  in  the  old 


143 

hexameter  might  be  easily  observed,  but  in  En- 
glish will  very  frequently  be  in  danger  of  viola- 
tion; for  the  order  and  regularity  of  accents  can- 
not well  be  perceived  in  a  succession  of  fewer 
than  three  syllables,  which  will  confine  the  En- 
glish poet  to  only  five  pauses ;  it  being  supposed 
that  when  he  connects  one  line  with  another,  he 
should  never  make  a  full  pause  at  less  distance 
than  that  of  three  syllables  from  the  beginning  or 
end  of  a  verse. 

That  this  rule  should  be  universally  and  in- 
dispensably established,  perhaps  cannot  be 
granted;  something  may  be  allowed  to  variety, 
and  something  to  the  adaptation  of  the  numbers 
to  the  subject ;  but  it  will  be  found  generally 
necessary,  and  the  ear  will  seldom  fail  to  suffer 
by  its  neglect. 

Thus  when  a  single  syllable  is  cut  off  from  the 
rest,  it  must  either  be  united  to  the  line  with 
which  the  sense  connects  it,  or  be  sounded  alone. 
If  it  be  united  to  the  other  line,  it  corrupts  its  har- 
mony ;  if  disjoined,  it  must  standalone,  and  with 
regard  to  music  be  superfluous ;  for  there  is  no 
harmony  in  a  single  sound,  because  it  has  no 
proportion  to  another. 


-Hypocrites  austerely  talk; 


Defaming  as  impure  what  God  declares 

Pure  ;  and  commands  to  some,  leaves  free  to  all. 

When  two  syllables  likewise  are  abscinded 
from  the  rest,  they  evidently  want  some  associ 
ate  sounds  to  make  them  harmonious. 


-Eyes- 


— more  wakeful  than  to  drowse, 
Charm'd  with  Arcadian  pipe,  the  past'ral  reed 
Of  Hermes,  or  his  opiate  rod.     Meanwhile 
To  re-salute  the  world  with  sacred  light 
Leucothea  waked. 

He  ended,  and  the  Son  gave  signal  high 
To  the  bright  minister  that  watch'd :  he  blew 
His  trumpet. 

First  in  the  east  his  glorious  lamp  was  seen, 
Regent  of  day  j  aud  all  th'  horizon  round 
Invested  with  bnVht  rays,  jocund  to  run 
His  longitude  through  heaven's  high  road;  the  gray 
Dawn,  and  the  Pleiades,  before  him  danced, 
Shedding  sweet  influence. 

The  same  defect  is  perceived  in  the  following 
line,  where  the  pause  is  at  the  second  syllable 
from  the  beginning 


-The  race 


Of  that  wild  rout  that  tore  the  Thracian  bard 
In  Rhodope  where  woods  and  rooks  had  ears 
To  rapture,  till  the  savage  clamour  drown'd 
Both  harp  and  voice  ;  nor  could  the  Muse  defend 
Her  son.    So  fail  not  thou,  who  thee  implores 

When  the  pause  falls  upon  the  third  syllable 
or  the  seventh,  the  harmony  is  better  preserved 
but  as  the  third  and  seventh  are  weak  syllables' 
the  period  leaves  the  ear  unsatisfied,  and  in  ex 
pectation  of  the  remaining  part  of  the  verse. 


-He,  with  his  horrid  crew, 


Lay  vanquish'd  rolling  in  tho  fiery  gulf, 
Confounded  though  immortal.     But  his  doom 
Reserved  him  to  more  wrath  ;  for  now  the  thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain 
Torments  At m. 

God,  with  frequent  intercourse, 
Thither  will  send  his  winged  messengers 
On  errands  of  supernal  grace.     So  sung 
The  glorious  train  ascending. 

It  may  be,  I  think,  established  as  a  rule,  that  a 
pause  which  concludes  a  period  should  be  made 


144 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  91 


for  the  most  part  upon  a  strong  syllable,  as  the 
fourth  and  sixth;  but  those  pauses  which  only 
suspend  the  sense  may  be  placed  upon  the  weak- 
er. Thus  the  rest  in  the  third  line  of  the  firs' 
passage  satisfies  the  ear  better  than  in  the  fourth 
and  the  close  of  the  second  quotation  better  than 
of  the  third. 

The  evil  soon 

Drawn  back,  redounded  (as  a  flood)  on  those 
From  whom  it  sprung ;  impossible  to  mix 
With  blessedness. 

What  we  by  day 

Lop  overgrown,  or  prune,  or  prop,  or  bind, 
One  night  or  two  with  wauton  growth  derides, 
Tending  to  wild. 

The  paths  and  bowers  doubt  not  but  our  joint  hands 
Will  keep  from  wilderness  with  ease  as  wide 
As  we  need  walk,  till  younger  hands  ere  long 
Assist  us. 

The  rest  in  the  fifth  place  has  the  same  incon- 
venience as  in  the  seventh  and  third,  that  the  syl- 
lable is  weak. 

Beast  now  with  beast  'gan  war,  and  fowl  with  fowl, 
And  fish  with  fish,  to  graze  the  herb  all  leaving, 
Devour'd  each  other  ;  Nor  stood  much  in  awe 
Of  man,  but  fled  him,  or  with  countenance  grim, 
Glared  on  him  passing. 

The  noblest  and  most  majestic  pauses  which 
our  versification  admits,  are  upon  the  fourth  and 
sixth  syllables,  which  are  both  strongly  sounded 
in  a  pure  and  regular  verse,  and  at  either  of 
which  the  line  is  so  divided,  that  both  members 
participate  of  harmony. 

But  now  at  last  the  sacred  influence 
Of  light  appears,  and  from  the  walls  of  heaven 
Shoots  far  into  the  bosom  of  dim  night 
A  glimmering  dawn  :  here  nature  first  begins 
Her  farthest  verge,  and  chaos  to  retire. 

But  far  above  all  others,  if  I  can  give  any  cre- 
dit to  my  own  ear,  is  the  rest  upon  the  sixth  syl- 
lable, which,  taking  in  a  complete  compass  of 
sound,  such  as  is  sufficient  to  constitute  one  of 
our  lyric  measures,  makes  a  full  and  solemn 
close.  Some  passages  which  conclude  at  this 
stop,  I  could  never  read  without  some  strong 
emotions  of  delight  or  admiration. 

Before  the  hills  appear'd,  or  fountain  flow'd, 
Thou  with  the  eternal  wisdom  didst  converse, 
+  Wisdom  thy  sister,  and  with  her  didst  play 

In  presence  of  the  almighty  Father,  pleased 
.     With  thy  celestial  song. 

Or  other  worlds  they  seem'd,  or  happy  isles, 
Like  those  Hesperian  gardens  famed  of  old, 
Fortunate  fields,  and  groves,  and  flowery  vales, 
Thrice  happy  isles  !  But  who  dwelt  happy  there, 
He  stay'd  not  to  inquire. 

He  blew 

His  trumpet,  heard  in  Oreb  since,  perhaps 
When  God  descended  ;   and,  perhaps,  once  more 
To  sound  at  general  doom. 

If  the  poetry  of  Milton  be  examined,  with  re- 
gard to  the  pauses  and  flow  of  his  verses  into 
each  other,  it  will  appear  that  he  has  performed 
all  that  our  language  would  admit;  and  the  com- 
parison of  his  numbers  with  those  who  have  cul- 
tivated the  same  manner  of  writing,  will  show 
that  he  excelled  as  much  in  the  lower  as  the 
higher  parts  of  his  art,  and  that  his  skill  in  har- 
mony was  not  less  than  his  invention  or  his 
learning 


No.  91.]         TUESDAY,  JAN.  29,  1751. 


Dulcis  inexpertis  cultura  potentis  amid, 

Ezpertvs  metuit.  HOR 

To  court  the  great  ones,  and  to  soothe  their  pride. 

Seems  a  sweet  task  to  those  that  never  tried  ; 

But  those  that  have,  know  well  that  danger's  near. 

CREECH. 

THE  Sciences  having  long  seen  their  votaries  la>- 
bouring  for  the  benefit  of 'mankind  without  re- 
ward, put  up  their  petition  to  Jupiter  for  a  more 
equitable  distribution  of  riches  and  honours.  Ju- 
piter was  moved  at  their  complaints,  and  touched 
with  the  approaching  miseries  of  men,  whom  the 
Sciences,  wearied  with  perpetual  ingratitude, 
were  now  threatening  to  forsake,  and  who  would 
have  been  reduced  by  their  departure  to  feed  in 
dens  upon  the  mast  of  trees,  to  hunt  their  prey  in 
deserts,  and  to  perish  under  the  paws  of  animals 
stronger  and  fiercer  than  themselves. 

A  synod  of  the  celestials  was  therefore  con- 
vened, in  which  it  was  resolved,  that  Patronage 
should  descend  to  the  assistance  of  the  Sciences. 
Patronage  was  the  daughter  of  Astrea,  by  a  mor- 
tal father,  and  had  been  educated  in  the  school 
of  Truth,  by  the  goddesses,  whom  she  was  now 
appointed  to  protect.  She  had  from  her  mother 
that  dignity  of  aspect,  which  struck  terror  into 
false  merit,  and  from  her  mistress  that  reserve, 
which  made  her  only  accessible  to  those  whom 
the  Sciences  brought  into  her  presence. 

She  came  down  with  the  general  acclamation 
of  all  the  powers  that  favour  learning.  Hope 
danced  before  her,  and  Liberality  stood  at  her 
side,  ready  to  scatter  by  her  direction  the  gifts 
which  Fortune,  who  followed  her,  was  com- 
manded to  supply.  As  she  advanced  towards 
Parnassus,  the  cloud  which  had  long  hung  over 
t,  was  immediately  dispelled.  The  shades,  be- 
bre  withered  with  drought,  spread  their  original 
verdure,  and  the  flowers  that  had  languished  with 
:hilness  brightened  their  colours,  and  invigorated 
heir  scents  ;  the  Muses  tuned  their  harps  and 
:xerted  their  voices  ;  and  all  the  concert  of  na- 
ure  welcomed  her  arrival. 

On  Parnasses  she  fixed  her  residence,  in  a  pa 
ace  raised  by  the  Sciences,  and  adorned  with 
whatever  could  delight  the  eye,  elevate  the  ima- 
gination, or  enlarge  the  understanding.  Here 
she  dispersed  the  gifts  of  Fortune  with  the  im- 
>artiality  of  Justice,  and  the  discernment  of  Truth. 
3er  gate  stood  always  open,  and  Hope  sat  at  the 
>ortal,  inviting  to  entrance,  all  whom  the  Sciences 
numbered  in  their  train.  The  court  was  there- 
ore  thronged  with  innumerable  multitudes,  of 
whom,  though  many  returned  disappointed,  sel- 
dom any  had  confidence  to  complain  ;  for  Pa- 
ronage  was  known  to  neglect  few,  but  for  want 
of  the  due  claims  to  her  regard.  Those  therefore, 
who  had  solicited  her  favour  without  success, 
generally  withdrew  from  public  notice,  and  either 
diverted  their  attention  to  meaner  employments, 
or  endeavoured  to  supply  their  deliciences  by 
loser  application. 

In  time,  however,  the  number  of  those  who 
lad  miscarried  in  their  pretensions  grew  so  great, 
hat  they  became  less  ashamed  of  their  repulses; 
and,  instead  of  hiding  their  disgrace  in  retire- 
ment, began  to  besiege  the  gates  of  the  palace, 
ind  obstruct  the  entrance  of  such  as  they  thought 
ikely  to  be  more  caressed.  The  decisions  of 
""'atronage,  who  was  but  half  a  goddess,  had 
>een  sometimes  erroneous;  and  though  she  al 


No.  92.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


145 


ways  made  haste  to  rectify  aer  mistakes,  a  few 
instances  of  her  fallibility  encouraged  every  one 
to  appeal  from  her  judgment  to  his  own,  and  that 
of  his  companions,  who  are  always  ready  to  cla- 
mour in  the  common  cause,  and  elate  each  other 
with  reciprocal  applause. 

Hope  was  a  steady  friend  to  the  'disappointed, 
and  Impudence  incited  them  to  accept  a  second 
invitation,  and  lay  their  claim  again  before  Pa- 
tronage. They  were  again,  for  the  most  part, 
sent  back  with  ignominy,  but  found  hope  not 
alienated,  and  Impudence  more  resolutely  zeal- 
ous ;  they  therefore  contrived  new  expedients, 
and  hoped  at  last  to  prevail  by  their  multitudes, 
which  were  always  increasing,  and  their  perse- 
verance, which  Hope  and  Impudence  forbade 
them  to  relax. 

Patronage  having  been  long  a  stranger  to  the 
heavenly  assemblies,  began  to  degenerate  to- 
wards terrestrial  nature,  and  forgot  the  precepts 
of  Justice  and  Truth.  Instead  of  confining  her 
friendship  to  the  Sciences,  she  suffered  herself, 
by  little  and  little,  to  contract  an  acquaintance 
with  Pride  the  son  of  Falsehood,  by  whose  em- 
braces she  had  two  daughters,  Flattery  and  Ca- 
price. Flattery  was  nursed  by  Liberality,  and 
Caprice  by  Fortune,  without  any  assistance  from 
the  lessons  of  the  Sciences. 

Patronage  began  openly  to  adopt  the  senti- 
ments and  imitaFe  the  manners  of  her  husband, 
by  whose  opinions  she  now  directed  her  deci- 
sions with  very  little  heed  to  the  precepts  of 
Truth ;  and  as  her  daughters  continually  gained 
upon  her  affections,  the  Sciences  lost  their  influ- 
ence, till  none  found  much  reason  to  boast  of 
their  reception,  but  those  whom  Caprice  or  Flat- 
tery conducted  to  her  throne. 

The  throngs  who  had  so  long  waited,  and  so 
often  been  dismissed  for  want  of  recommenda- 
tion from  the  Sciences,  were  delighted  to  see  the 
power  of  those  rigorous  goddesses  tending  to 
its  extinction.  Their  patronesses  now  renewed 
their  encouragements.  Hope  smiled  at  the  dp- 
proach  of  Caprice,  and  Impudence  was  always  at 
hand  to  introduce  her  clients  to  Flattery. 

Patronage  had  now  learned  to  procure  herself 
reverence  by  ceremonies  and  formalities,  and,  in- 
stead of  admitting  her  petitioners  to  an  immedi- 
ate audience,  ordered  the  antechamber  to  be 
erected,  called  among  mortals  the  Hall  of  Ex- 
pectation. Into  this  hall  the  entrance  was  easy 
to  those  whom  Impudence  had  consigned  to 
Flattery,  and  it  was  therefore  crowded  with  a 
promiscuous  throng,  assembled  from  every  cor- 
ner of  the  earth,  pressing  forward  with  the  ut- 
most eagerness  of  desire,  and  agitated  with  all 
the  anxieties  of  competition. 

They  entered  this  general  receptacle  with  ar- 
dour and  alacrity,  and  made  no  doubt  of  speedy 
access,  under  the  conduct  of  Flattery,  to  the  pre- 
sence of  Patronage.  But  it  generally  happened 
that  they  were  here  left  to  their  destiny,  for  the 
inner  doors  were  committed  to  Caprice,  who 
opened  and  shut  them,  as  it  seemed,  by  chance, 
and  rejected  or  admitted  without  any  settled  rule 
of  distinction.  In  the  mean  time,  the  miserable 
attendants  were  left  to  wear  out  their  lives  in  al- 
ternate exultation  and  dejection,  delivered  up  to 
the  sport  of  Suspicion,  who  was  always  whisper- 
ing in  to  their  ear  designs  against  them  which  were 
never  formed,  and  of  Envy,  who  diligently  point- 
ed out  the  good  fortune  of  one  or  other  of  their 


competitors.  Infamy  flew  round  the  hall,  and 
scattered  mildews  from  her  wings,  with  which 
every  one  was  stained  ;  Reputation  followed  her 
with  slower  flight,  and  endeavoured  to  hide  the 
blemishes  with  paint,  which  was  immediately 
brushed  away,  or  separated  of  itself,  and  left 
the  stains  more  visible  ;  nor  were  the  spots  of  In- 
famy eter  effaced,  but  with  limpid  water  effused 
by  the  hand  of  Time  from  a  well  which  sprung 
up  beneath  the  throne  of  Truth. 

It  frequently  happened  that  Science,  unwill- 
ing to  lose  the  ancient  prerogative  of  recom- 
mending to  Patronage,  would  lead  her  followers 
into  the  Hall  of  Expectation  ;  but  they  were  soon 
discouraged  from  attending  ;  for  not  only  Envy 
and  Suspicion  incessantly  tormented  them,  but 
Impudence  considered  them  as  intruders,  and  in- 
cited Infamy  to  blacken  them.  They  therefore 
quickly  retired,  but  seldom  without  some  spots 
which  they  could  scarcely  wash  away,  and  which 
showed  that  they  had  once  waited  in  the  Hall 
of  Expectation. 

The  rest  continued  to  expect  the  happy  mo- 
ment, at  which  Caprice  should  beckon  them  to 
approach ;  and  endeavoured  to  propitiate  her, 
not  with  Homerical  harmony,  the  representation 
of  great  actions,  or  the  recital  of  noble  sentiments, 
but  with  soft  and  voluptuous  melody,  intermin- 
gled with  the  praises  of  Patronage  and  Pride,  by 
whom  they  were  heard  at  once  with  pleasure 
and  contempt. 

Some  were  indeed  admitted  by  Caprice,  when 
they  least  expected  it,  and  heaped  by  Patronage 
with  the  gifts  of  Fortune  ;  but  they  were  from 
that  time  chained  to  her  footstool,  and  condemn- 
ed to  regulate  their  lives  by  her  glances  and  her 
nods  ;  they  seemed  proud  of  their  manacles,  and 
seldom  complained  of  any  drudgery  however  ser- 
vile, or  any  affront  however  contemptuous  ;  yet 
they  were  often,  notwithstanding  their  obedi- 
ence, seized  on  a  sudden  by  Caprice,  divested  of 
their  ornaments,  and  thrust  back  into  the  Hall 
of  Expectation. 

Here  they  mingled  again  with  the  tumult,  and 
all,  except  a  few  whom  experience  had  taught  to 
seek  happiness  in  the  regions  of  liberty,  continued 
to  spend  hours,  and  days  and  years,  courting  the 
smile  of  Caprice  by  the  arts  of  Flattery ;  till  at 
length  new  crowds  pressed  in  upon  them,  and 
drove  them  forth  at  different  outlets  into  the  ha- 
bitations of  Disease,  and  Shame,  and  Poverty, 
and  Despair,  where  they  passed  the  rest  of  their 
lives  in  narratives  of  promises  and  breaches  of 
faith,  of  joys  and  sorrows,  of  hopes  and  disap- 
pointments. 

The  Sciences,  after  a  thousand  indignities,  re- 
tired from  the  palace  of  Patronage,  and  having 
long  wandered  over  the  world  in  grief  and  dis- 
tress, were  .led  at  last  to  the  cottage  of  Independ- 
ence, the  daughter  of  Fortitude ;  where  they 
were  taught  by  Prudence  and  Parsimony  to  sup- 
port themselves  in  dignity  and  quiet. 


No.  92.]      SATURDAY,  FEB.  2, 1751. 

Jam  nunc  minaci  mvrmure  cornuum 

Perstringis  aures,jam  litui  strepunt.  HOR 

Lo !  now  the  clarion's  voice  I  hear, 

Its  threatening-  murmurs  pierce  my  ear, 

And  in  thy  lines  with  brazen  breath 

The  trumpet  sounds  the  charge  of  death.       FRANCIS. 

IT  has  been  long  observed,  that  the  idea  of  beau 
ty  is  vague  and  undefined,  different  in  different 


146 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  i>2. 


minds,  and  diversified  by  time  or  place.  It  lias 
been  a  term  hitherto  used  to  signify  that  which 
pleases  us  we  know  not  why,  and  in  our  appro- 
bation of  which  we  can  justify  ourselves  only  by 
the  concurrence  of  numbers,  without  much  power 
of  enforcing  our  opinion  upon  others  by  any  ar- 
gument, but  example  and  authority.  It  is,  in- 
deed, so  little  subject  to  the  examinations  of  rea- 
son, that  Paschal  supposes  it  to  end  where  de- 
monstration begins,  and  maintains,  that  without 
incongruity  ana  absurdity  we  cannot  speak  of 
geometrical  beauty. 

To  trace  all  the  sources  of  that  various  plea- 
sure which  we  ascribe  to  the  agency  of  beauty,  or 
to  disentangle  all  the  perceptions  involved  in  its 
idea,  would,  perhaps,  require  a  very  great  part 
ot  the  life  of  Aristotle  or  Plato.  It  is,  however, 
in  many  cases  apparent  that  this  quality  is  mere- 
ly relative  and  comparative;  that  we  pronounce 
things  beautiful  because  they  have  something 
which  we  agree,  for  whatever  reason,  to  call 
beauty,  in  a  greater  degree  than  we  have  been 
accustomed  to  find  it  in  other  things  of  the  same 
kind ;  and  that  we  transfer  the  epithet  as  our 
knowledge  increases,  and  appropriate  it  to  higher 
excellence,  when  liigher  excellence  comes  within 
our  view. ' 

Much  of  the  beauty  of  writing  is  of  this  kind, 
and  therefore  Boileau  justly  remarks,  that  the 
books  which  have  stood  the  test  of  time,  and  been 
admired  through  all  the  changes  which  the  mind 
of  man  has  suffered  from  the  various  revolutions 
of  knowledge,  and  the  prevalence  of  contrary 
customs,  have  a  better  claim  to  our  regard  than 
any  modern  can  boast,  because  the  long  continu- 
ance of  their  reputation  proves  that  they  are  ade- 
quate to  our  faculties,  and  agreeable  to  nature. 

It  is,  however,  the  task  of  criticism  to  establish 
principles;  to  improve  opinion  into  knowledge; 
and  to  distinguish  those  means  of  pleasing  which 
depend  upon  known  causes  and  rational  deduc- 
tion, from  the  nameless  and  inexplicable  ele- 
gancies which  appeal  only  to  the  fancy,  from 
which  we  feel  delight,  but  know  not  how  they 
produce  it,  and  which  may  well  be  termed  the 
enchantress  of  the  soul.  Criticism  reduces  those 
regions  of  literature  under  the  dominion  of 
science,  which  have  hitherto  known  only  the 
anarchy  of  ignorance,  the  caprices  of  fancy,  and 
the  tyranny  of  prescription. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  art  of  versifying  so 
much  exposed  to  the  power  of  imagination  as  the 
accommodation  of  the  sound  to  the  sense,  or  the 
representation  of  particular  images,  by  the  flow 
of  the  verse  in  which  they  are  expressed.  Every 
student  has  innumerable  passages,  in  which  he, 
and  perhaps  he  alone,  discovers  such  resem- 
blances ;  and  since  the  attention  of  the  present 
race  of  poetical  readers  seems  particularly  turned 
upon  this  species  of  elegance,  I  shall  endeavour 
to  examine  how  much  these  conformities  have 
been  observed  by  the  poets,  or  directed  by  the  cri- 
tics, how  far  they  can  be  established  upon  na- 
ture and  reason,  and  on  what  occasions  they 
have  been  practised  by  Milton. 

Homer,  the  father  of  all  poetical  beauty,  has 
been  particularly  celebrated  by  Dionysius  of 
Halicarnassus,  as  he  that,  of  all  the  poets,  exhi- 
bited the  greatest  variety  of  sound  ;  "  for  there 
are,  (says  he,)  innumerable  passages,  in  which 
length  of  time,  bulk  of  body,  extremity  of  pas- 
Bion,  and  stillness  of  repose  ;  or,  in  which,  on 


the  contrary,  brevity,  speed,  and  eagerness,  are 
evidently  marked  out  by  the  sound  of  the  sylla- 
bles. Thus  the  anguish  and  slow  pace  with 
which  the  blind  Polypheme  groped  out  with  his 
hands  the  entrance  of  his  cave,  are  perceived  in 
the  cadence  of  the  verses  which  describe  it. 


x/'  fie 


re  Ka   ucivwv 


Meantime  the  Cyclop  raging  with  his  wound, 
Spreads  his  wide  arras,  and  searches  rouu-   and  round. 

POPF. 

The  critic  then  proceeds  to  show,  that  the  ef- 
forts of  Achilles  struggling  in  his  armour  against 
the  current  of  a  river,  sometimes  resisting,  and 
sometimes  yielding,  may  be  perceived  in  the  eli- 
sions of  the  syllables,  the  slow  succession  of  the 
feet,  and  the  strength  of  the  consonants. 


Atlvov  (5'  a/* 


f  ov&e 


So  oft  the  surge,  in  watery  mountains  spread, 
Beats  on  his  back,  or  bursts  upon  his  head  ; 
Yet,  dauntless  still,  the  adverse  flood  he  braves, 
And  still  indignant  bounds  above  the  waves, 
Tired  by  the  tides,  his  knees  relax  with  toil; 
Wash'd  from  beneath  him,  slides  the  slimy  soil. 

POPE. 

When  Homer  describes  the  crush  of  men 
dashed  against  a  rock,  he  collects  the  most  un- 
pleasing  and  harsh  sounds. 

Xtrv  Si  &6<jt  [tdpipas,  wore  crKv\axas  irorl  vaij; 
K.6itT'  tK  &'  tyxityaXos  %and&is  pic,Stvs  oc  yaiav. 

-  His  bloody  hand 

Suatch'd  two,  unhappy  !  of  my  martial  band, 
And  dash'd  like  dogs  against  the  stony  floor  ; 
The  pavement  swims  with  brains  and  mingled  gore. 

POPE. 

And  when  he  would  place  before  the  eyes  some- 
thing dreadful  and  astonishing,  he  makes  choice 
of  the  strongest  vowels,  and  the  letters  of  most 
difficult  utterance. 

T^  <5'  £*•(  r«pyu>  ^AwrupuJTrij  earc^dviaro 
Acuuv  iefKoftevt]'  rrcpi  it  A£('/IO?  re  <p60os  Tt. 

Tremendous  Gorgon  frowu'd  upon  its  field, 
And  circling  terrors  fill'd  th'  expressive  shield, 


Many  other  examples  Dionysius  produces; 
but  these  will  sufficiently  show,  that  either  ho 
was  fanciful,  or  we  have  lost  the  genuine  pro- 
nunciation ;  for  I  know  not  whether,  in  any  one 
of  these  instances,  such  similitude  can  be  dis- 
covered. It  seems,  indeed,  probable,  that  the 
veneration  with  which  Homer  was  read,  pro- 
duced many  supposititious  beauties;  for  though 
it  is  certain,  that  the  sound  of  many  of  his  verses 
very  justly  corresponds  with  the  things  express- 
ed, yet,  when  the  force  of  his  imagination,  which 
gave  him  full  possession  of  every  object,  is  con- 
sidered, together  with  the  flexibility  of  his  lan- 
guage, of  which  the  syllables  might  be  often  con- 
tracted or  dilated  at  pleasure,  it  will  seem  un- 
likely that  such  conformity  should  happen  less 
frequently  even  without  design. 

It  is  not  however  to  be  doubted,  that  Virgil, 
who  wrote  amidst  the  light  of  criticism,  and  who 
owed  so  much  of  his  success  to  art  and  labour, 
endeavoured  among  other  excellences,  to  exhibit 
this  similitude ;  nor  has  he  been  less  happy  in 
this  than  in  the  other  graces  of  versification. 


No.  92.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


147 


This  felicity  of  his  numbers  was,  at  the  revival 
of  learning,  displayed  with  great  elegance  by 
Vida,  in  his  Art  of  Poetry. 

Haud  sutis  est  illisutcunque  olaudere  versum.— 
Omnia  sed  numeris  vocum  conconlibus  aptant, 
Atque  sono  quaecunque  canunt  iinitantur,  et  apta 
Verborum  facie,  et  quaosito  carminis  ore. 
Nam  diversa  opus  est  veluti  dare  versibusora, 
Hie  raelior  motuque  pedura,  et  pernicibus  alls, 
Molle  viam  tacito  lapsu  per  levia  radit : 
Ille  autem  membris,  ac  mole  ignavius  ingens 
Incedit  tardu  iiioliinme  subsidendo. 
Ecce  aliquis  suhit  egregio  pulcherrimus  ore, 
Cui  laetum  membris  Venus  omnibus  afflat  honorem. 
Contra  alius  rudis,  informes  ostendit  et  arturi, 
Hirsutumqiie  superciliura,  ac  caudam  sinuosam, 

Ingrutus  visu,  sonitu  illaetabilis  ipso. 

Ergo  ubi  jam  nautne  spumas  satis  sere  rueates 

Incubuere  mari,  videas  spumare,  reductis 

Convulsum  remis,  rostrisque  strideutibus  tequor. 

Tune  longe  sale  saxa  sonant,  tune  et  freta  ventis 

lacipiunt  agitata  tumescere  :  littore  fluctus 

Illidunt  rauco,  atque  refracta  remurmurat  unda 

Ad  scopulos,  cumulo  insequitur  pra  ruptus  aquae  mons. — 

Cum  vero  ex  alto  speculatus  c:erula  Nereus 

Leiiiit  in  morem  stagni,  placidseque  paludis, 

Labitur  uncta  vadis  abies,  natat  uncta  carina.— 

Verba  etiam  res  exiguas  angusta  sequuntur, 

Ingeutesque  juvant  ingentia :  cuncta  gigantem 

Vasta  decent,  vultus  immanes,  pectora  lata, 

Et  magni  membrorum  artus,  magna  ossa,  lacertique. 

Atque  adeo,  siquid  geritur  molimine  magno, 

Adde  moram,  et  pariter  tecum  quoque  verba  laborent 

Segnia ;  sen  quaudo  vi  multa  gleba  coactis 

^Sternum  frangenda  bidentibus,  oequore  seu  cum 

Cornua  velatarum  obvertimus  antennarum. 

At  mora  si  fuerit  damno  properare  jubebo. 

Si  se  forte  cava  extulerit  mala  vipera  terra, 

Tolle  moras,  cape  saxa  maim,  cape  robora,  pastor ; 

Ferte  citi  namiuas,  date  tela,  repellite  pestem. 

Ipse  etiara  versus  ruat,  in  prcecepsque  feratur, 

Immenso  cum  proecipitans  ruitOceano  nox, 

Aut  cum  perculsus  graviter  procumbit  huini  bos. 

Cumque  etiam  requies  rebus  datur,  ipsa  quoque  ultro 

Carmina  paulisper  cursu  cessare  videbis 

In  medio  interrupta  :  quierunt  cum  freta  ponti, 

Postquam  aura?  posuere,  quiescere  protiiius  ipsura 

Cernere  erit,  mediisque  incosptis  sistere  versum. 

Quid  die  am,  senior  cum  telum  imbelle  sine  ictu 

Invalidus  jacit,  et  defectis  viribus  aeger  1 

Num  quoque  turn  versus  segni  pariter  pede  languet : 

Sanguis  liebet,  frigent  effoeta;  in  corpore  vires. 

Fortem  autem  juveuem  deceat  prorumpere  in  arces, 

Evertisse  domes,  praefractaque  quadrupedantum 

Pectora  pectoribus  perrumpere,  sternere  turres 

Ingentes,  totaque,  ferum  dare  funera  campo. 

'Tisnot  enough  his  verses  to  complete, 
In  measure,  numbers,  or  determined  feet. 
To  all,  proportiou'd  terms  he  must  dispense, 
And  make  the  sound  a  pics  "ire  of  the  sense  ; 
The  correspondent  words  exactly  frame, 
The  look,  the  features,  and  the  mien  the  same. 
With  rapid  feet  and  wings,  without  delay, 
This  swiftly  flies,  and  smoothly  skims  away: 
This  blooms  with  youth  and  beauty  in  his  face, 
And  Venus  breathes  on  every  limb  a  grace ; 
That,  of  rude  form,  his  uncouth  members  shows, 
Looks  horrible,  and  frowns  with  his  rough  brows ; 
His  monstrous  tail,  in  many  a  fold  and  wind, 
Voluminous  and  vast,  curls  up  behind; 
At  once  the  image  and  the  lines  appear 
Rude  to  i he  eye,  and  frightful  to  the  ear. 
Lo  !  when  the  sailors  steer  the  ponderous  ships, 
And  plough,  witli  brazen  beaks,  the  foamy  deep* 
Incumbent  on  the  main  that  roars  around, 
Beneath  their  labouring  oars  the  waves  resound; 
Tile  prows  wide  echoing  through  the  dark  profound 
To  the  loud  call  each  distant  rock  replies; 
Toss'd  by  the  storm  the  towering  surges  rise  ; 
While  the  hoarse  ocean  beats  the  sounding  shore, 
nash'd  from  the  strand,  the  flying  waters  roar. 
Flash  at  the  shock,  and  gathering  in  a  heap, 
The  liquid  mountains  rise,  and  overhang  the  deep. 
But  when  blue  Neptune  from  his  car  surveys, 
And  calms  at  one  regard  the  raging  seas, 
Stretch' i  like  a  peaceful  lake  the  deep  subsides, 
And  the  pitch'd  vessel  o'er  the  surface  glides. 


When  things  are  small,  the  terms  should  still  be  so  ; 

For  low  words  please  us,  when  the  theme  is  low 

But  when  some  giant,  horrible  and  grim, 

Enormous  in  his  gait,  and  vast  in  every  limb. 

Stalks  towering  on  ;  the  swelling  words  must  rise 

In  just  proportion  to  the  monster's  size. 

If  some  large  weight  his  huge  arms  strive  to  shove, 

The  verse  too  labours  ;  the  throng'd  words  scarce  move, 

When  each  stiff  clod  beneath  the  ponderous  plough 

Crumbles  and  breaks,  tlr  encumber' J  lines  march  slow 

Nor  less,  when  pilots  catch  the  friendly  gales, 

Unfurl  their  shrouds,  and  hoist  the  wide-stretch'd  sails 

But  if  the  poem  suffers  from  delay, 

Let  the  lines  fly  precipitate  away, 

And  when  the  viper  issues  from  the  brake, 

Be  quick  ;  with  stones,  and  brands,  and  fire,  attack 

His  rising  crest,  and  drive  the  serpent  back. 

When  night  descends,  or  stunn'd  by  numerous  strokei, 

And  groaning,  to  the  earth  drops  the  vast  ox ; 

The  line  too  sinks  with  correspondent  sound, 

Flat  with  the  steer,  and  headlong  to  the  ground. 

When  the  wild  waves  subside,  and  tempests  cease, 

And  hush  the  roarings  of  the  sea  to  peace ; 

So  oft  we  see  the  interrupted  strain 

Stopp'd  in  the  midst — and  with  the  silent  main 

Paused  for  a  space — at  last  it  glides  again. 

When  Priam  strains  his  aged  arm,  to  throw 

His  unavailing  javelin  at  the  foe  ; 

(His  blood  congeal'd,  and  every  nerve  unstrung) 

Then  with  the  theme  complies  the  artful  song ; 

Like  him,  the  solitary  numbers  flow, 

Weak,  trembling,  melancholy,  stiff,  and  slow 

Not  so  young  Pyrrhus,  who  with  rapid  force 

Beats  down  embattled  armies  in  his  course. 

The  raging  youth  in  trembling  Ilion  falls. 

Bursts  her  strong  gates,  and  shakes  her  lofty  walla ; 

Provokes  his  flying  courser  to  his  speed, 

In  full  career  to  charge  the  warlike  steed : 

He  piles  the  field  with  mountains  of  the  slain  ; 

He  pours,  he  storms,  he  thunders  thro'  the  plain. 

PITT. 

From  the  Italian  gardens  Pope  seems  to  have 
transplanted  this  flower,  the  growth  of  happier 
climates,  into  a  soil  less  adapted  to  its  nature,  and 
less  favourable  to  its  increase. 

Soft  is  the  strain,  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 

And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows, 

But  when  loud  billows  lash  the  sounding  shore, 

The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 

When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 

The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow ; 

Not  so  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 

Flies  o'er  the  unbending  corn  and  skims  along  the  main. 

From  these  lines,  laboured  with  great  atten- 
tion, and  celebrated  by  a  rival  wit,  may  be  judg- 
ed what  can  be  expected  from  the  most  diligent 
endeavours  after  this  imagery  of  sound.  The 
verse  intended  to  represent  the  whisper  of  the 
vernal  breeze,  must  be  confessed  not  much  to 
excel  in  softness  or  volubility  ;  and  the  smooth 
stream  runs  with  a  perpetual  clash  of  jarring 
consonants.  The  noise  and  turbulence  of  the 
torrent  is,  indeed  distinctly  imaged,  for  it  requires 
very  little  skill  to  make  our  language  rough  ;  but 
in  these  lines,  which  mention  the  effort  of  Ajax, 
there  is  no  particular  heaviness,  obstruction,  or 
delay.  The  swiftness  of  Camilla  is  rather  con- 
trasted than  exemplified  ;  why  the  verse  should 
be  lengthened  to  express  speed,  will  not  easily 
be  discovered.  In  the  dactyls  used  for  that  pur- 
pose by  the  ancients,  two  short  syllables  were 
pronounced  with  such  rapidity,  as  to  be  equal 
only  to  one  long ;  they,  therefore,  naturally  ex- 
hibit the  act  of  passing  through  a  long  space  in  a 
short  time.  But  the  Alexandrine,  by  its  pause 
in  the  midst,  is  a  tardy  and  stately  measure ;  and 
the  word  unbending  one  of  the  most  sluggish  and 
slow  which  our  language  affords,  cannot  much 
accelerate  its  motion. 


148 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  93. 


These  rules  and  these  examples  have  (aught 
our  present  critics  to  inquire  very  studiously  and 
minutely  into  sounds  and  cadences,  it  is  there- 
fore useful  to  examine  with  what  skill  they  have 
proceeded;  what  discoveries  they  have  made; 
and  whether  any  rules  can  be  established  which 
may  guide  us  hereafter  in  such  researches. 


No.  93.]      TUESDAY,  FEB.  5,  1751. 

Experiar  quid  concedatur  in  illot 

Quorum  Plaminia,  tegitur  dais  atquc  Latina. 

JUV. 

More  safely  truth  to  urge  her  claim  presumes, 
On  names  now  found  alone  on  books  arid  tombs. 

THERE  are  few  books  on  which  more  time  is 
spent  by  young  students,  than  on  treatises  which 
deliver  the  characters  of  authors ;  nor  any  which 
oftener  deceive  the  expectation  of  the  reader,  or 
fill  his  mind  with  more  opinions  which  the  pro- 
gress of  his  studies  and  the  increase  of  his  know- 
ledge oblige  him  to  resign. 

Baillet  has  introduced  his  collection  of  the  de- 
cisions of  the  learned,  by  an  enumeration  of  the 
prejudices  which  mislead  the  critic,  and  raise  the 
passions  in  rebellion  against  the  judgment.  His 
catalogue,  though  large,  is  imperfect ;  and  who 
can  hope  to  complete  it  ?  The  beauties  of  writing 
have  been  observed  to  be  often  such  as  cannot 
in  the  present  state  of  human  knov/ledge  be 
evinced  by  evidence,  or  drawn  out  into  demon- 
strations; they  are  therefore  wholly  subject  to 
the  imagination,  and  do  not  force  their  effects 
upon  a  mind  preoccupied  by  unfavourable  sen- 
timents, nor  overcome  the  counter-action  of  a 
false  principle  or  of  stubborn  partiality. 

To  convince  any  man  against  his  will  is  hard, 
but  to  please  him  against  his  will  is  justly  pro- 
nounced by  Dryden  to  be  above  the  reach  of  hu- 
man abilities.  Interest  and  passion  will  hold  out 
long  against  tne  closest  siege  of  diagrams  and 
syllogisms,  b,ut  they  are  absolutely  impregnable 
to  imagery  and  sentiment ;  and  will  for  ever  bid 
defiance  to  the  most  powerful  strains  of  Virgil  or 
Homer,  though  they  may  give  way  in  time  to  the 
batteries  of  Euclid  or  Archimedes. 

In  trusting  therefore  to  the  sentence  of  a  critic, 
we  are  in  danger  not  only  from  that  vanity  which 
exalts  writers  too  often  to  the  dignity  of  teachj 
hig  what  they  are  yet  to  learn,  from  that  negli- 
gence which  sometimes  steals  upon  the  most  vi- 
gilant caution,  and  that  fallibility  to  which  the 
condition  of  nature  has  subjected  every  human 
understanding ;  but  from  a  thousand  extrinsic 
and  accidental  causes,  from  every  thing  which 
can  excite  kindness  or  malevolence,  veneration 
or  contempt. 

Many  of  those  who  have  determined  with  great 
boldness  upon  the  various  degrees  of  literary  me- 
rit, may  be  justly  suspected  of  having  passed 
Rentence,  as  Seneca  remarks  of  Claudius, 

Una  tantum  parle  audita, 
Sape  el  nulla, 

without  much  knowledge  of  the  cause  before 
them  :  for  it  will  not  easily  be  imagined  of  Lang- 
bane,  Borrichitus,  or  Rapin,  that  they  had  very 
accurately  perused  all  the  books  which  they  praise 
or  censure ;  or  that,  even  if  nature  and  learning 
had  qualified  them  for  judges,  they  could  read 
for  ever  with  the  attention  necessary  to  just  cri- 


ticism. Such  performances,  however,  are  »ot 
wholly  without  their  use ;  for  they  are  commonly 
just  echoes  to  the  voice  of  fame,  and  transmit  the 
general  suffrage  of  mankind  when  they  have  no 
particular  motives  to  suppress  it. 

Critics,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  are  very  fre- 
quently misled  by  interest.  The  bigotry  with 
which  editors  regard  the  authors  whom  they 
illustrate  or  correct,  has  been  generally  remarked. 
Dryden  was  known  to  have  written  most  of  his 
critical  dissertations  only  to  recommend  the  work 
upon  which  he  then  happened  to  be  employed : 
and  Addison  is  suspected  to  have  denied  the  ex- 
pediency of  poetical  justice,  because  his  own 
Cato  was  condemned  to  perish  in  a  good  cause. 

There  are  prejudices  which  authors,  not  other- 
wise weak  or  corrupt,  have  indulged  without 
scruple  ;  and  perhaps  some  of  them  are  so  com- 
plicated with  our  natural  affections,  that  they 
cannot  easily  be  disentangled  from  the  heart. 
Scarce  any  can  hear  with  impartiality  a  compari- 
son between  the  writers  of  his  own  and  another 
country:  and  though  it  cannot,  I  think,  be  charged 
equally  on  all  nations,  that  they  are  blinded  with 
this  literary  patriotism,  yet  there  are  none  that  do 
not  look  upon  their  authors  with  the  fondness  of 
affinity,  and  esteem  them  as  well  for  the  place 
of  their  birth,  as  for  their  knowledge  or  their  wit. 
There  is,  therefore,  seldom  much  respect  due  to 
comparative  criticism,  when  the  competitors  are 
of  different  countries,  unless  the  judge  is  of  a  na- 
tion equally  indifferent  to  both.  The  Italians 
could  not  for  a  long  time  believe,  that  there  was 
any  learning  beyond  the  mountains ;  and  the 
French  seem  generally  persuaded,  that  there  are 
no  wits  or  reasoners  equal  to  their  own.  I  can 
scarcely  conceive  that  if  Scaliger  had  not  consi- 
dered himself  as  allied  to  Virgil,  by  being  born 
in  the  same  country,  he  would  have  found  his 
works  so  much  superior  to  those  of  Homer,  or 
have  thought  the  controversy  worthy  of  so  much 
zeal,  vehemence  and  acrimony. 

There  is,  indeed,  one  prejudice,  and  only  one, 
by  which  it  may  be  doubted  whether  it  is  any  dis- 
honour to  be  sometimes  misguided.  Criticism 
has  so  often  given  occasion  to  the  envious  and 
ill-natured,  of  gratifying  their  malignity,  that 
some  have  thought  it  necessary  to  recommend 
the  virtue  of  candour  without  restriction,  and  to 
preclude  all  future  liberty  of  censure.  Writers 
possessed  \vith  this  opinion  are  continually  en- 
forcing civility  and  decency,  recommending  to 
critics  the  proper  diffidence  of  themselves,  and 
inculcating  the  veneration  due  to  celebrated 

imes. 

I  am  not  of  opinion  that  these  professed  ene- 
mies of  arrogance  and  severity  have  much  more 
benevolence  or  modesty  than  the  rest  of  man- 
kind ;  or  that  they  feel  in  their  own  hearts,  anv 
other  intention  than  to  distinguish  themselves  I j 
their  softness  and  delicacy.  Some  are  modes'i 
because  they  are  timorous,  and  some  are  lavish 
of  praise  because  they  hope  to  be  repaid. 

There  is,  indeed,  some  tenderness  due  to  li ' 
ing  writers,  when  they  attack  none  of  those  truths 
which  are  of  importance  to  the  happiness  of  man- 
kind, and  have  committed  no  other  offence  than 
that  of  betraying  their  own  ignorance  ordulness. 
I  should  think  it  cruelty  to  crush  an  insect  who 
had  provoked  me  only  by  buzzing  in  my  ear  ;  and 
would  not  willingly  interrupt  the  dream  of  harm- 
less stupidity,  or  destroy  the  jest  which  makes 


No.  94.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

its  author  laugh.  Yet  I  am  far  from  thinking 
this  tenderness  universally  necessary,  for  he  that 
writes  may  be  considered  as  a  kind  of  general 
challenger,  whom  every  one  has  a  right  to  at- 
tack ;  since  he  quits  the  common  rank  of  life, 
steps  forward  beyond  the  lists,  and  offers  his 
merit  to  the  public  judgment.  To  commence 
author  is  to  claim  praise,  and  no  man  can  justly 
aspire  to  honour,  but  at  the  hazard  of  disgrace. 

But,  whatever  be  decided  concerning  contem- 
poraries, whom  he  that  knows  the  treachery  of 
the  human  heart,  and  considers  how  often  we 
gratify  our  own  pride  or  envy,  under  the  appear- 
ance of  contending  for  elegance  and  propriety, 
will  find  himself  not  much  inclined  to  disturb ; 
there  can  surely  be  no  exemptions  pleaded  to  se- 
cure them  from  criticism,  who  can  no  longer  suf- 
fer by  reproach,  and  of  whom  nothing  now  re- 
mains but  their  writings  and  their  names.  Upon 
these  authors  the  critic  is  undoubtedly  at  full 
liberty  to  exercise  the  strictest  severity,  since  he 
endangers  only  his  own  fame  ;  and  like  ^Eneas, 
when  he  drew  his  sword  in  the  infernal  regions, 
encounters  phantoms  which  cannot  be  wounded. 
He  may,  indeed,  pay  some  regard  to  established 
reputation  ;  but  he  can  by  that  show  of  reverence 
consult  only  his  own  security,  for  all  other  mo- 
tives are  now  at  an  end. 

The  faults  of  a  wrkcr  of  acknowledged  excel- 
lence are  more  dangerous,  because  the  influence 
of  his  example  is  more  extensive ;  and  the  inte- 
rest of  learning  requires  that  they  ehould  be  disco- 
vered and  stigmatised,  before  they  have  the  sanc- 
tion of  antiquity  conferred  upon  them,  and  become 
precedents  of  indisputable  authority. 

It  has,  indeed,  been  advanced  by  Addison,  as 
one  of  the  characteristics  of  a  true  critic,  that  he 
points  out  beauties  rather  than  faults.  But  it  is  j 
rather  natural  to  a  man  of  learning  and  genius  to 
apply  himself  chiefly  to  the  study  of  writers  who 
have  more  beauties  than  faults  to  be  displayed : 
for  the  duty  of  criticism  is  neither  to  depreciate, 
nor  dignify  by  partial  representations,  but,to  hold 
out  the  light  of  reason,  whatever  it  may  discover ; 
and  to  promulgate  the  determinations  of  truth, 
whatever  she  shall  dictate. 


No.  94]      SATURDAY,  FEB.  9,  i751. 


-Bonus  atquejidus 


fudex — per  obstantes  catervas 
Explicuit  sua  victor  arma.  HOR. 

Perpetual  magistrate  is  he 

Wlio  keeps  strict  justice  full  in  sight; 
Who  bids  the  crowd  at  awful  distance  gaze, 
And  yirtue's  arms  victoriously  displays.     FRANCIS. 

THE  resemblance  of  poetic  numbers  to  the  sub- 
ject which  they  mention  or  describe,  maybe  con- 
sidered as  general  or  particular;  as  consisting  in 
the  flow  and  structure  of  a  whole  passage  taken 
together,  or  as  comprised  in  the  sound  of  some 
emphatical  and  descriptive  words,  or  in  the  ca- 
dence and  harmony  of  single  verses. 

The  general  resemblance  of  the  sound  to  the 
sense  is  to  be  found  in  every  language  which  ad- 
mits of  poetry,  in  every  author  whose  force  of 
fancy  enables  him  to  impress  images  strongly  on 
his  own  mind,  and  whose  choice  and  variety  of 
language  readily  supplies  him  with  just  represent- 
§.tions.  To  such  a  writer  it  is  natural  to  change 


149 

his  measure  with  his  subject,  even  without  any 
effort  of  the  understanding,  or  intervention  of  the 
judgment.  To  revolve  jollity  and  mirth  necessa- 
rily tunes  the  voice  of  a  poet  to  gay  and  sprightly 
notes,  as  it  fires  his  eye  with  vivacity ;  and  re- 
flection on  gloomy  situations  and  disastrous 
events,  will  sadden  his  numbers,  as  it  will  cloud 
his  countenance.  But  in  such  passages  there  is 
only  the  similitude  of  pleasure  to  pleasure,  and 
of  grief  to  grief,  without  any  immediate  applica- 
tion to  particular  images.  The  same  flow  of 
joyous  versification  will  celebrate  the  jollity  of 
marriage,  and  the  exultation  of  triumph ;  and  the 
same  languor  of  melody  will  suit  the  complaints 
of  an  absent  lover,  as  of  a  conquered  king. 

It  is  scarcely  to  be  doubted,  that  on  many  oc- 
casions we  make  the  music  which  we  imagine 
ourselves  to  hear,  that  we  modulate  the  poem  by 
our  own  disposition,  and  ascribe  to  the  numbers 
the  effects  of  the  sense.  We  may  observe  in  life, 
that  it  is  not  easy  to  deliver  a  pleasant  message 
in  an  unpleasing  manner,  and  that  we  readily  as- 
sociate beauty  and  deformity  with  those  whom 
for  any  reason  we  love  or  hate.  Yet  it  would  be 
too  daring  to  declare  that  all  the  celebrated 
adaptations  of  harmony  are  chimerical,  that  Ho- 
mer had  no  extraordinary  attention  to  the  me- 
lody of  his  verse  when  he  described  a  nuptial 
festivity ; 

Nv//^aj  <5'  CK  $a\aft<i>v,  Sa'tSiav,  vTro\aiiiropevau>Vi 
Hyivcov  avd  aerm,  jroAuj  6'  liptvaios  opwpet  . 

Here  sacred  pomp,  and  genial  feast  delight 

And  solemn  dance,  and  hymeneal  rite  ; 

Along  the  street  the  new-made  brides  are  led. 

With  torches  flaming  to  the  nuptial  bed  ; 

The  youthful  dancers  in  a  circle  bound 

To  the  soft  flute,  and  cittern's  silver  sound.         POPE. 

that  Vida  was  merely  fanciful,  when  he  supposed 
Virgil  endeavouring  to  represent  by  uncommon 
sweetness  of  numbers  the  adventitious  beauty  of 


Os,  humerosque  Deo  similis :  namgue  ipse  vccoram 
Ctzsaricm  nato  genitrix,  lumenque  juventa 
Purpureum,  et  la,tos  oculis  cfflarat  honor  es. 

The  Trojan  chief  appear'd  in  open  sight) 
August  in  visage,  and  serenely  bright ; 
His  mother  goddess  with  her  hands  divine, 
Had  form'd  his  curling  locks,  and  made  his  temples  shine 
And  given  his  rolling.cyes  a  sparkling  grace, 
And  breath'd  a  youthful  vigour  on  his  face.        DRYDEN. 

or  that  Milton  did  not  intend  to  exemplify  the 
harmony  which  he  mentions  : 

Fountains !  and  ye  that  warble  as  ye  flow,  ' 
Melodious  murmurs  !  warbling  tune  his  praise. 

That  Milton  understood  the  force  of  sounds 
well  adjusted,  and  knew  the  compass  and  variety 
of  the  ancient  measures,  cannot  be  doubted ; 
since  he  was  both  a  musician  and  a  critic ;  but 
he  seems  to  baye  considered  these  conformities 
of  cadence  as  either  not  often  attainable  in  our 
language,  or  as  petty  excellences  unworthy  of  his 
ambition :  for  it  will  not  be  found  that  he  has  al- 
ways assigned  the  same  cast  of  numbers  to  the 
same  objects.  He  has  given  in  two  passages 
very  minute  descriptions  of  angelic  beauty ;  but 
though  the  images  are  nearly  the  same,  the  num- 
bers will  be  found  upon  comparison  very  dif- 
ferent : 

And  now  a  strippling  cherub  he  appears, 
Not  of  the  prime,  yet  such  as  in  his  faca 


150 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  94. 


Youth  smiled  celestial,  and  to  every  limb 
Suitable  grace  diffused,  so  well  he  feign  d ; 
Under  a  coronet  his  flowing  huir 
In  curls  uu  either  cheekplay'd ;  icings  he  wore 
Of  many  a  colvur'd  plume,  sprinkled  with  gold. 

Some  of  the  lines  of  this  description  are  remark- 
ably defective  in  harmony,  and  therefore  by  no 
means  correspondent  with  that  symmetrical  ele- 
gance and  easy  grace  which  they  are  intended  to 
exhibit.  The  failure,  however,  is  fully  compen- 
sated by  the  representation  of  Raphael,  which 
equally  delights  the  ear  and  imagination : 

A  seraph  wing'd;  six  wings  he  wore  to  shade 
His  lineaments  Divine  ;  the  pair  that  clad 
Each  shoulder  broad,  came  mantling  o'er  his  breast 
With  regal  ornament :  the  middle  pair 
Girt  like  a  starry  zone  his  waist,  and  round 
Skirted  his  loins  and  thighs,  with  downy  gold, 
Ard  colours  dipp'd  in  heaven :  the  third  his  feet 
Sh  idow'd  from  either  heel  with  feather'd  mail, 
Sky-tinctur'd  grain !  like  Maia's  son  he  stood, 
And  shook  his  plumes,  that  heavenly  fragrance  fill'd 
The  circuit  wide. 

The  adumbration  of  particular  and  distinct 
inages  by  an  exact  and  perceptible  resemblance 
of  sound,  is  sometimes  studied,  and  sometimes 
casual.  Every  language  has  many  words  form- 
ed in  imitation  of  the  noises  which  they  signify. 
Such  are  Strider,  Balo,  and  Beatus,  in  Latin  ; 
and  in  English  to  growl,  to  buzz,  to  hiss,  and  to 
jar.  Words  of  this  kind  give  to  a  verse  the  pro- 
per similitude  of  sound,  without  much  labour  of 
the  writer,  and  such  happiness  is  therefore  rather 
to  be  attributed  to  fortune  than  skill  ;  yet  they 
are  sometimes  combined  with  great  propriety, 
and  undeniably  contribute  to  enforce  the  im- 
pression of  the  idea.  We  hear  the  passing  ar- 
row in  this  line  of  Virgil ; 

Et  fugit  horrendum  stridens  elapsa  sagitta , 

Th'  impetuous  arrow  whizzes  on  the  wing — POPE. 

and  the  creaking  of  hell-gates,  in  the  description 
bv  Milton  j 

Open  fly 

With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound 
Th'  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder. 

But  many  beauties  of  this  kind,  which  the  mo- 
derns, and  perhaps  the  ancients,  have  observed, 
seem  to  be  the  product  of  blind  reverence  acting 
upon  fancy.  Dionysius  himself  tells  us  that  the 
sound  of  Homer's  verses  sometimes  exhibits  the 
idea  of  corporeal  bulk  :  is  not  this  a  discovery 
nearly  approaching  to  that  of  the  blind  man,  who 
after  long  inquiry  into  the  nature  of  the  scarlet 
colour,  found  that  it  represented  pothing  so 
much  as  the  clangour  of  a  trumpet  ?  The  repre- 
sentative power  of  poetic  harmony  consists  of 
sound  and  measure;  of  the  force  of  the  syllables 
singly  considered,  and  of  the  time  in  which  they 
are  pronounced.  Sound  can  resemble  nothing 
but  sound,  and  time  can  measure  nothing  but 
motion  and  duration. 

The  critics,  however,  have  struck  out  other  si- 
militudes ;  nor  is  there  any  irregularity  of  num- 
bers which  credulous  admiration  cannot  discover 
to  be  eminently  beautiful.  Thus  the  propriety 
of  each  of  these  lines  has  been  celebrated  by 
writers  whose  opinion  the  world  has  reason  to 
regard  ; 


Verlilur  interea  catlum,  et  ruit  occano  nut. 

Meantime  the  rapid  heavens  roll'd  Jown  the  light, 
And  011  the  shaded  ocean  rush'd  the  night.          DRYDEN. 

Sternitur,  exanimisque  trcmens,procnmbit  humi  bos. 

Down  drops  the  beast,  nor  needs  a  second  wound  ; 
But  sprawls  in  pangs  of  death,  and  spurns  the  ground. 

DRYDEN. 

Parturittnt  mantes,  naseitur  ridiculus  mus. 

The  mountains  labour,  and  a  mouse  is  born.     ROSCOMMON. 

If  all  these  observations  are  just,  there  must  be 
some  remarkable  conformity  between  the  sud 
den  succession  of  night  to  day,  the  fall  of  an  ox 
under  a  blow,  and  the  birth  of  a  mouse  from  a 
mountain  ;  since  we  are  told  of  all  these  images, 
that  they  are  very  strongly  impressed  by  the 
same  form  and  termination  of  the  verse. 

We  may,  however,  without  giving  way  to  en- 
thusiasm, admit  that  some  beauties  of  this  kind 
may  be  produced.  A  sudden  stop  at  an  unusual 
syllable  may  image  the  cessation  of  action,  or  the 
pause  of  discourse ;  and  Milton  has  very  hap 
pily  imitated  the  repetitions  of  an  echo : 

1  fled,  and  cried  out  death  : 

Hell  trembled  at  the  hideous  name,  and  sigh'd 
From  all  her  caves,  and  back  resounded  death. 

The  measure  of  time  in  pronouncing  may  be 
varied  so  as  very  strongly  to  represent,  not  only 
modes  of  external  motion,  but  the  quick  or  slow 
succession  of  ideas,  and  consequently  the  pas- 
sions of  the  mind.  This  at  least  was  the  power 
of  the  spondaic  and  dactylic  harmony,  but  our 
language  can  reach  no  eminent  diversities  of 
sound.  We  can  indeed  sometimes,  by  encum- 
bering and  retarding  the  line,  show  the  difficulty 
of  a  progress  made  by  strong  efforts  and  with 
frequent  interruptions,  or  mark  a  slow  and 
heavy  motion,  Thus  Milton  has  imaged  the 
toil  of  Satan  struggling  through  chaos ; 

So  he  with  difficulty  and  labour  hard 
Mov'd  on :  with  difficulty  and  labour  he — 

thus  he  has  described  the  leviathans  or  whales ' 
Wallowing  unwieldy,  enormous  in  their  gait 

But  he  has  at  other  times  neglected  such  repre- 
sentations, as  may  be  observed  in  the  volubility 
and  levity  of  these  lines,  which  express  an  action 
tardy  and  reluctant. 

Descent  and  fall 

To  us  is  adverse.     Who  but  felt  of  late, 
When  the  fierce  fos  hung  on  our  brol><-i  rp1r 
Insulting,  and  pursued  us  through  the  (!<•••]>. 
With  what  confusion  and  Liburiuus  Lifjln 
We  sunk  thus  low  J  Th'  ascent  is  easy  then. 

In  another  place,  he  describes  the  gentle  glide 
of  ebbing  waters  in  a  line  remarkably  rough  and 
halting. 

Tripping  ebb  ;  that  stole 

With  soft  foot  tow'rds  the  deep  who  now  had  stopp'd 
His  sluices. 

It  is  not,  indeed,  to  be  expected,  that  the  sound 
should  always  assist  the  meaning,  but  it  ought 
never  to  counteract  it;  and  therefore  Milton  has 
here  certainly  committed  a  fault  like  that  of  the 
player,  who  looked  on  the  earth  when  he  im- 


No.  95.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

plored  the  heavens,  and  to  the  heavens  when  he 
addressed  the  earth,. 

Those  who  are  determined  to  find  in  Milton 
an  assemb.age  of  all  the  excellences  which  have 
ennobled  all  other  poets,  will  perhaps  be  offended 
that  I  do  not  celebrate  his  versification  in  higher 
terms ;  for  there  are  readers  who  discover  that  in 
this  passage, 

So  stretch'd  out  huge  in  length  the  arch  fiend  lay, 

a  long  form  is  described  in  a  long  line ;  but  the 
truth  is,  that  length  of  body  is  only  mentioned  in 
a  5/010  line,  to  which  it  has  only  the  resemblance 
of  time  to  space,  of  an  hour  to  a  maypole. 

The  same  turn  of  ingenuity  might  perform 
wonders  upon  the  description  of  the  ark : 

Then  from  the  mountains  hewing  timber  tall, 

Began  to  build  a  vessel  of  huge  bulk ; 

Measured  by  cubit,  length  and  breadth,  and  height. 

In  these  lines  the  poet  apparently  designs  to  fix 
the  attention  upon  bulk  ;  but  this  is  effected  by 
the  enumeration,  not  by  the  measure  ;  for  what 
analogy  can  there  be  between  modulations  of 
sound,  and  corporeal  dimensions  ? 

Milton,  indeed,  seems  only  to  have  regarded 
this  species  of  embellishment  so  far  as  not  to  re- 
ject it  when  it  came  unsought;  which  would 
often  happen  to  a  mind  so  vigorous,  employed 
upon  a  subject  so  various  and  extensive.  He 
had,  indeed,  a  greater  and  a  nobler  work  to  per- 
form ;  a  single  sentiment  of  moral  or  religious 
truth,  a  single  image  of  life  or  nature,  would 
have  been  cheaply  lost  for  a  thousand  echoes  of 
the  cadence  to  the  sense ;  and  he  who  had  un- 
dertaken to  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man,  might 
have  been  accused  of  neglecting  his  cause,  had 
lie  lavished  much  of  his  attention  upon  syllables 
and  sounds. 


151 


No.  95.]       TUESDAY,  FEB.  12,  1751. 

Parcus  Dcorum  cultor,  et  infrequens, 

Insanicntis  dum  sapicntia 
Consultus  erro ;  nunc  retrorsum 
Vr.la  dare,  atque  Her  arc  cursus 

Coger  relictos.  HOR. 

A  fugitive  from  Heaven  and  prayer, 
I  mock'd  at  all  religious  fear, 

Deep  scienc'd  in  the  mazy  lore 
Of  mad  philosophy  :  but  now 
Hoist  sail,  r.nd  back  my  voyage  plow 

To  that  blest  harbour,  which  I  left  before. 

FRANCIS. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


THERE  are  many  diseases  both  of  the  body  and 
mind,  which  it  is  far  easier  to  prevent  than  to 
cure,  and  therefore  I  hope  you  will  think  me  em- 
ployed in  an  office  not  useless  either  to  learning 
or  virtue,  if  I  describe  the  symptoms  of  an  intel- 
lectual malady,  which,  though  at  first  it  seizes 
only  the  passions,  will,  if  not  speedily  remedied, 
infect  the  reason,  and,  from  blasting  the  blos- 
soms of  knowledge,  proceed  in  time  to  canker 
the  root. 

I  was  born  in  the  house  of  discord.  My  pa- 
rents were  of  unsuitable  ages,  contrary  tempers, 
and  different  religions,  and  therefore  employed 


the  spirit  and  acuteness  which  nature  had  very 
liberally  bestowed  upon  both  in  hourly  disputes, 
and  incessant  contrivances  to  detect  each  other 
in  the  wrong  ;  so  that  from  the  first  exertions  of 
reason  I  was  bred  a  disputant,  trained  up  in  all 
the  arts  of  domestic  sophistry,  initiated  in  a  thou- 
sand low  stratagems,  nimble  shifts,  and  sly  con- 
cealments; versed  in  all  the  terms  of  altercation, 
and  acquainted  with  the  whole  discipline  offend- 
ing and  proving. 

It  was  necessarily  my  care  to  preserve  the 
kindness  of  both  the  controvertists,  and  therefore 
I  had  very  early  formed  the  habit  of  suspending 
my  judgment,  of  hearing  arguments  with  indif- 
ference, inclining  as  occasion  required  to  either 
side,  and  of  holding  myself  undetermined  be- 
tween them  till  I  knew  for  what  opinion  I  might 
conveniently  declare. 

Thus,  Sir,  I  acquired  very  early  the  skill  of  dis- 
putation ;  and  as  we  naturally  love  the  arts  in 
which  we  believe  ourselves  to  excel,  I  did  not  let 
my  abilities  lie  useless,  nor  suffer  my  dexterity  to 
be  lost  for  want  of  practice.  I  engaged  in  per- 
petual wrangles  with  my  schoolfellows,  and  was 
never  to  be  convinced  or  repressed  by  any  other 
arguments  than  blows,  by  which  my  antagonists 
commonly  determined  the  controversy,  as  I  was, 
like  the  Roman  orator,  much  more  eminent  for 
eloquence  than  courage. 

At  the  university  I  found  my  predominant  am 
bition  completely  gratified  by  the  study  of  logic. 
I  impressed  upon  my  memory  a  thousand  axioms, 
and  ten  thousand  distinctions,  practised  every 
form  of  syllogism,  passed  all  my  days  in  the 
schools  of  disputation,  and  slept  every  night  with 
Smiglecius*  on  my  pillow. 

You  will  not  doubt  but  such  a  genius  was  soon 
raised  to  eminence  by  such  application:  I  was 
celebrated  in  my  third  year  for  the  most  artful 
opponent  that  the  university  could  boast,  and 
became  the  terror  and  envy  of  all  the  candidates 
for  philosophical  reputation. 

My  renown,  indeed,  was  not  purchased  but 
at  the  p.rice  of  all  my  time  and  all  my  studies.  I 
never  spoke  but  to  contradict,  nor  declaimed  but 
in  defence  of  a  position  universally  acknowledged 
to  be  false,  and  therefore  worthy,  in  my  opinion, 
to  be  adorned  with  all  the  colours  of  false  repre- 
sentation, and  strengthened  with  all  the  arts  of 
fallacious  subtilty. 

My  father,  who  had  no  other  wish  than  to  see 
his  son  richer  than  himself,  easily  concluded  that 
I  should  distinguish  myself  among  the  professors 
of  the  law  ;  and,  therefore,  when  I  had  taken  my 
first  degree,  despatched  me  to  the  Temple  with 
a  paternal  admonition,  that  I  should  never  suffer 
myself  to  feel  shame,  for  nothing  but  modesty 
could  retard  my  fortune. 

Vitiated,  ignorant,  and  heady,  as  I  was,  I  had 
not  yet  lost  my  reverence  for  virtue,  and  there- 
fore could  not  receive  such  dictates  without  hor- 
ror ;  but  however,  was  pleased  with  his  determi- 
nation of  my  course  of  life,  because  he  placed  me 
in  the  way  that  leads  soonest  from  the  prescribed 
walks  of  discipline  and  education,  to  the  open 
fields  of  liberty  and  choice. 

I  was  now  in  the  place  where  every  one  catch- 
es the  contagion  of  vanity,  and  soon  began  to 


A  Polish  writer,  whose  "  Logic"  was  formerly  held 
in  great  estimation  in  this  country  as  well  as  on  the  cor 
tinent 


152 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  96 


distinguish  myself  by  sophisms  and  paradoxes 
I  declared  war  against  all  received  opinions  and 
established  rules,  and  levelled  my  batteries  par- 
ticularly against  those  universal  principles  which 
had  stood  unshaken  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of  lite- 
rature, and  are  considered  as  the  inviolable  tem- 
ples of  truth,  or  the  impregnable  bulwarks  of 
science. 

I  applied  myself  chiefly  to  those  parts  of  learn- 
ing which  have  filled  the  world  with  doubt  and 
perplexity,  and  could  readily  produce  all  the  ar- 
guments relating  to  matter  and  motion,  time  and 
space,  identity  and  infinity. 

I  was  equally  able  and  equally  willingto  main- 
tain the  system  of  Newton  or  Descartes,  and 
favoured  occasionally  the  hypothesis  of  Ptolemy, 
or  that  of  Copernicus.  I  sometimes  exalted  ve- 
getables to  sense,  and  sometimes  degraded  ani- 
mals to  mechanism. 

Nor  was  I  less  inclined  to  weaken  the  credit 
of  history,  or  perplex  the  doctrines  of  polity.  I 
was  always  of  the  party  which  I  heard  the  com- 
pany condemn. 

Among  the  zealots  of  liberty  I  could  harangue 
with  great  copiousness  upon  the  advantages  of 
absolute  monarchy,  the  secrecy  of  its  counsels, 
and  the  expedition  of  its  measures ;  and  often  ce- 
lebrated the  blessings  produced  by  the  extinction 
of  parties,  and  preclusion  of  debates. 

Among  the  assertors  of  regal  authority,  I  ne- 
ver failed  to  declaim  with  republican  warmth 
upon  the  original  charter  of  universal  liberty,  the 
corruption  of  courts,  and  the  folly  of  voluntary 
submission  to  those  whom  nature  has  levelled 
with  ourselves. 

I  knew  the  defects  of  every  scheme  of  govern- 
ment, and  the  inconveniences  of  every  law.  I 
sometimes  showed  how  much  the  condition  of 
mankind  would  be  improved,  by  breaking  the 
world  into  petty  sovereignties,  and  sometimes 
displayed  the  felicity  and  peace  which  universal 
monarchy  would  diffuse  over  the  earth. 

To  every  acknowledged  fact  I  found  innume- 
rable objections ;  for  it  was  my  rule,  to  judge  of 
history  only  by  abstracted  probability,  and  there- 
fore I  made  no  scruple  of  bidding  defiance  to  tes- 
timony. I  have  more  than  once  questioned  the 
existence  of  Alexander  the  Great;  and  having 
demonstrated  the  folly  of  erecting  edifices  like 
the  pyramids  of  Egypt,  I  frequently  hinted  my 
suspicion  that  the  world  had  been  long  deceived, 
and  that  they  were  to  be  found  only  in  the  nar- 
ratives of  travellers. 

It  had  been  happy  for  me  could  I  have  fco'rifiried 
my  scepticism  to  historical  controversies,  and 
philosophical  disquisitions  ;  but  having  now  vio- 
lated my  reason,  and  accustomed  myself  to  in- 
quire not  after  proofs  but  objections,  I  had  per- 
piexed  truth  with  falsehood,  till  my  ideas  were 
confused,  my  judgment  embarrassed,  and  m'y  in- 
tellects distorted.  The  habit  of  considering  eve- 
ry proposition  as  p.like  uncertain,  left  me  no  test 
by  which  any  tenet  could  be  tried ;  every  opinion 
presented  both  sides  with  equal  evidence,  and  my 
fallacies  began  to  operate  upon  my  own  mind  in 
more  important  inquiries.  It  was  at  last  the 
sport  of  my  vanity  to  weaken  the  obligations  of 
moral  duty,  and  efface  the  distinctions  of  good 
and  evil,  till  I  had  deadened  the  sense  of  convic- 
tion, and  abandoned  my  heart  to  the  fluctuations 
of  uncertainty,  without  anchor  and  without  com- 
pass, without  satisfaction  of  curiosity,  or  peace  of 


conscience,  without  principles  of  reason,  or  mo- 
tives of  action. 

Such  is  the  hazard  of  repressing  the  first  per- 
ceptions of  truth,  of  spreading  for  diversion  the 
snares  of  sophistry,  and  engaging  reason  against 
its  own  dctbrmination. 

The  disproportions  of  absurdity  grow  less  and 
less  visible,  as  we  are  reconciled  by  degrees  to 
the  deformity  of  a  mistress ;  and  falsehood  by 
long  use  is  assimilated  to  the  mind,  as  poison  to 
the  body. 

I  had  soon  the  mortification  of  seeing  my  con- 
versation courted  only  by  the  ignorant  or  wicked, 
by  either  boys  who  were  enchanted  by  novolty, 
or  wretches,  who,  having  long  disobeyed  virtue 
and  reason,  were  now  desirous  of  my  assistance 
to  dethrone  them. 

Thus  alarmed,  I  shuddered  at  my  own  corrup- 
tion, and  that  pride  by  which  I  had  been  seduced, 
contributed  to  reclaim  me.  I  was  weary  of  con- 
tinual irresolution,  and  a  perpetual  equipoise  of 
the  mind;  and  ashamed  of  being  the  favourite  of 
those  who  were  scorned  and  shunned  by  the  rest 
of  mankind: 

I  therefore  retired  from  all  temptation  to  dispute, 
prescribed  a  new  regimen  to  my  understanding, 
and  resolved,  instead  of  rejecting  all  established 
opinions  which  I  could  not  prove,  to  tolerate 
though  not  adopt  all  which  I  could  not  confute. 
I  forbore  to  heat  my  imagination  with  needless 
controversies,  to  discuss  questions  confessedly 
uncertain,  and  refrained  Steadily  from  gratifying 
my  vanity  by  the  support  of  falsehood. 

By  this  method  I  am  at  length  recovered  from 
my  argumental  delirium,  and  find  myself  in  the 
state  of  one  awakened  from  the  confusion  and  tu- 
mult of  a  feverish  dream.  I  rejoice  in  the  new 
possession  of  evidence  and  reality,  and  step  on 
from  truth  to  truth  with  confidence  and  quiet 
I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

PERTINAX. 


No.  96.]       SATURDAY,  FEB.  16,  1751. 

Qitod  si  Platonis  miisa  pkrsonat  verum, 
Qworf  quisque  disr.it,  immemor  rccordatur. 

BOETHIUS 

Truth  in  Platonic  ornaments  bedeck'd 
Inforccd  we  love,  unheeding  recollect. 

IT  is  reported  of  the  Persians,  by  an  ancient 
writer,  that  the  sum  of  their  education  consisted 
in  teaching  youth  to  ride,  to  shoot  with  the  bow, 
and  to  speak  truth: 

The  bow  and  the  horse  were  easily  mastered, 
but  it  would  have  been  happy  if  we  had  been 
informed  by  what  arts  veracity  was  cultivated, 
and  by  what  preservatives  a  Persian  mind  was 
secured  against  the  temptations  to  falsehood. 

There  are,  indeed,  in  the  present  corruption  of 
mankind,  many  incitements  to  forsake  truth,  the 
need  of  palliating  our  own  faults,  and  the  con- 
venience of  imposing  on  the  ignorance  or  credu- 
lity of  others,  so  frequently  occur;  so  many  im- 
mediate evils  are  to  be  avoided,  and  so  many 
present  gratifications  obtained,  by  craft  and  de- 
lusion, that  very  few  of  those  who  arc  much  en- 
tangled in  life,  have  spirit  and  constancy  sutfi- 
sient  to  support  them  in  the  steady  practice  of 
open  veracity. 

In  order  that  all  men  may  be  taught  to  speak 


No.  96.J  THE  RAMBLER. 

truth,  it  is  necessary  that  all  likewise  shouk 
learn  to  hear  it ;  for  no  species  of  falsehood  is 
more  frequent  than  flattery,  to  which  the  cow- 
ard is  betrayed  by  fear,  the  dependant  by  inte- 
rest, and  the  friend  by  tenderness.  Those  who 
are  neither  servile  nor  timorous,  are  yet  desirous 
to  bestow  pleasure ;  and  while  unjust  demands 
of  praise  continue  to  be  made,  there  will  always 
be  some  whom  hope,  fear,  or  kindness,  will  dis- 
pose to  pay  them. 

The  guilt  of  falsehood  is  very  widely  extended, 
and  many  whom  their  conscience  can  scarcely 
charge  with  stooping  to  a  lie,  have  vitiated  the 
morals  of  others  by  their  vanity,  and  patronised 
the  vice  which  they  believe  themselves  to  abhor. 

Truth  is,  indeed,  not  often  welcome  for  its  own 
sake ;  it  is  generally  unpleasing  because  contrary 
to  our  wishes  and  opposite  to  our  practice :  and 
as  our  attention  naturally  follows  our  interests, 
we  hear  unwillingly  what  we  are  afraid  to  know, 
and  soon  forget  what  we  have  no  inclination  to 
impress  upon  our  memories. 

For  this  reason  many  arts  of  instruction  have 
been  invented,  by  which  the  reluctance  against 
truth  may  be  overcome ;  and  as  physic  is  given 
to  children  in  confections,  precepts  have  been 
hidden  under  a  thousand  appearances,  that  man- 
kind may  be  bribed  by  pleasure  to  escape  de- 
struction. 

While  the  world  was  yet  in  its  infancy,  Truth 
carne  among  mortals  from  above,  and  Falsehood 
from  below.  Truth  was  the  daughter  of  Jupi- 
ter and  wisdom ;  Falsehood  was  the  progeny  of 
Folly  impregnated  by  the  wind.  They  advanced 
with  equal  confidence  to  seize  the  dominion  of 
the  new  creation  :  and,  as  their  enmity  and  their 
force  were  well  known  to  the  celestials,  all  the 
eyes  ofheaven  were  turned  upon  the  contest. 

Truth  seemed  conscious  of  superior  power  and 
juster  claim,  and  therefore  came  on  towering  and 
majestic,  unassisted  and  alone  ;  Reason  indeed 
always  attended  her,  but  appeared  her  follower, 
rather  than  companion.  Her  march  was  slow 
and  stately,  but  her  motion  was  perpetually  pro- 
gressive, and  when  once  she  had  grounded  her 
foot,  neither  gods  nor  men  could  force  her  to 
retire. 

Falsehood  always  endeavoured  to  copy  the 
mien  and  attitudes  of  Truth,  and  was  very  suc- 
cessful in  the  arts  of  mimicry.  She  was  sur- 
rounded, animated,  and  supported,  by  innume- 
rable legions  of  appetites  and  passions  ;  but, 
like  other  feeble  commanders,  was  obliged  often 
to  receive  law  from  her  allies.  Her  motions  were 
sudden,  irregular,  and  violent ;  for  she  had  no 
steadiness  nor  constancy.  She  often  gained 
conquests  by  hasty  incursions,  which  she  never 
hoped  to  keep  by  her  own  strength,  bui  main- 
tained by  the  help  of  the  passions,  whom  she  ge- 
nerally found  resolute  and  faithful. 

It  sometimes  happened  that  the  antagonists 
met  in  full  opposition.  In  these  encounters, 
Falsehood  always  invested  her  head  with  clouds, 
and  commanded  Fraud  to  place  ambushes  about 
her.  In  her  left  hand  she  bore  the  shield  of  Im- 
pudence, and  the  quiver  of  Sophistry  rattled  on 
her  shoulder.  All  the  passions  attended  at  her 
call ;  Vanity  clapped  her  wings  before,  and  Ob- 
stinacy supported  her  behind.  Thus  guarded 
and  assisted,  she  sometimes  advanced  against 
Truth,  and  sometimes  waited  the  attack  ;  but 
always  endeavoured  to  skirmish  at  a  distance, 


153 

perpetually  shifted  her  ground,  and  let  fly  her 
arrows  in  different  directions ;  for  she  certainly 
found  that  her  strength  failed,  whenever  the  eye 
of  Truth  darted  full  upon  her. 

Truth  had  the  awtul  aspect  though  not  the 
thunder  of  her  father,  and  when  the  long  conti- 
nuance of  the  contest  brought  them  near  to  one 
another,  Falsehood  let  the  arms  of  Sophistry  fall 
from  her  grasp,  and  holding  up  the  shield  of  Im- 
pudence with  both  her  hands,  sheltered  herself 
amongst  the  passions. 

Truth,  though  she  was  often  wounded,  always 
recovered  in  a  short  time  ;  but  it  was  common 
for  the  slightest  hurt,  received  by  Falsehood,  to 
spread  its  malignity  to  the  neighbouring  parts, 
and  to  burst  open  again  when  it  seemed  to  have 
been  cured. 

Falsehood,  in  a  short  time,  found  by  experi- 
ence that  her  superiority  consisted  only  in  the 
celerity  of  her  course,  and  the  changes  of  her 
posture.  She  therefore  ordered  Suspicion  to  beat 
the  ground  before  her,  and  avoided  with  great 
care  to  cross  the  way  of  Truth,  who  as  she  never 
varied  her  point,  but  moved  constantly  upon  the 
same  line,  was  easily  escaped  by  the  oblique  and 
desultory  movements,  the  quick  retreats,  and  ac- 
tive doubles  which  Falsehood  always  practised, 
when  the  enemy  began  to  raise  terror  by  her  ap- 
proach. 

By  this  procedure  Falsehood  every  hour  en 
croached  upon  the  world  and  extended  her  em- 
pire through  all  climes  and  regions.  Wherever 
she  carried  her  victories  she  left  the  passions  in 
full  authority  behind  her ;  who  were  so  well 
pleased  with  command,  that  they  held  out  with 
great  obstinacy  when  Truth  came  to  seize  their 
posts,  and  never  failed  to  retard  her  progress, 
though  they  could  not  always  stop  it ;  they  yield- 
ed at  last  with  great  reluctance,  frequent  rallies, 
and  sullen  submission  ;  and  always  inclined  to 
revolt  when  Truth  ceased  to  awe  them  by  her 
immediate  presence. 

Truth,  who,  when  she  first  descended  from 
the  heavenly  palaces,  expected  to  have  been  re- 
ceived by  universal  acclamation,  cherished  with 
kindness,  heard  with  obedience  and  invited  to 
spread  her  influence  from  province  to  province, 
now  found,  that,  wherever  she  came,  she  must 
force  her  passage.  Every  intellect  was  preclud- 
ed by  Prejudice,  and  every  heart  preoccupied  by 
Passion.  She  indeed  advanced,  but  she  advanced 
slowly  ;  and  often  lost  the  conquests  which  she 
left  behind  her,  by  sudden  insurrections  of  the 
appetites,  that  shook  off  their  allegiance,  and 
ranged  themselves  again  under  the  banner  of 
ler  enemy. 

Truth,  however,  did  not  grow  weaker  by  the 
struggle,  for  her  vigour  was  unconquerable ;  yet 
she  was  provoked  to  see  herself  thus  baffled  and 
mpeded  by  an  enemy,  whom  she  looked  on  with 
contempt,  and  who  had  no  advantage  but  such 
as  she  owed  to  inconstancy,  weakness  and  arti- 
ice.  She,  therefore,  in  the  anger  of  disappoint- 
ment, called  upon  her  father  Jupiter  to  restablish 
icr  in  the  skies,  and  leave  mankind  to  the  disor 
dcr  and  misery  which  they  deserved,  by  submit- 
ing  willingly  to  the  usurpation  of  Falsehood. 

Jupiter  compassionated  the  world  too  much  to 
jrant  her  request,  yet  was  willing  to  ease  her 
labours  and  mitigate  her  vexation.  He  com- 
manded her  to  consult  the  Muses  by  what  me- 
thods she  might  obtain  an  easier  reception,  and 


.54 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  97. 


re'-en  without  the  toil  of  incessant  war.  It  was 
then  discovered  that  she  obstructed  her  own  pro- 
gress by  the  severity  of  her  aspect,  and  the  so- 
femnity  of  her  dictates  ;  and  that  men  would 
never  willingly  admit  her,  till  they  ceased  to  fear 
her,  since,  by  giving  themselves  up  to  Falsehood, 
they  seldom  made  any  sacrifice  of  their  ease  or 
pleasure,  because  she  took  the  shape  that  was 
most  engaging,  and  always  suffered  herself  to 
be  dressed  and  painted  by  Desire.  The  Muses 
wove,  in  the  loom  of  Pallas,  a  loose  and  change- 
able robe,  like  that  in  which  Falsehood  captivated 
her  admirers ;  with  this  they  invested  Truth,  and 
named  her  Fiction.  She  now  went  out  again  to 
conquer  with  more  success  ;  for  when  she  de- 
manded entrance  of  the  Passions,  they  often  mis- 
took her  for  Falsehood,  and  delivered  up  their 
charge:  but  when  she  had  once  taken  posses- 
sion, she  was  soon  disrobed  by  Reason,  and 
shone  out,  in  her  original  form,  with  native  efful- 
gence and  resistless  dignity. 


No.  97.]       TUESDAY,  FEB.  19,  1751. 

Fttcundn  culpa,  secula  nuptias 
Primum  inguinavtre,  et  genus,  et  domoi. 
Hocfonte  derlvata  clades 

In  patriam  populumque  fluxit.  HOR. 

Fruitful  of  crimes,  this  age  first  stain'd 

Their  hapless  offspring,  and  profaned 

The  nuptial  bed ;  from  whence  the  woes, 

Which  various  and  unnumber'd  rose 

From  this  polluted  fountain  head, 

O'er  Rome  and  o'er  the  nations  spread.       FRANCIS. 

THE  reader  is  indebted  for  this  day's  entertain- 
ment to  an  author  from  whom  the  age  has  re- 
ceived greater  favours,  who  has  enlarged  the 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  taught  the  pas- 
sions to  move  at  the  command  of  virtue* 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 
SIR, 

WHEN  the  "  Spectator"  was  first  published  in 
single  papers,  it  gave  me  so  much  pleasure,  that 
it  is  one  of  the  favourite  amusements  of  my  age 
to  recollect  it ;  and  when  I  reflect  on  the  foibles 
of  those  times,  as  described  in  that  useful  work, 
and  compare  them  with  the  vices  now  reigning 
among  us.  I  cannot  but  wish  that  you  would  oftener 
take  cognizance  of  the  manners  of  the  better  half 
of  the  human  species,  that  if  your  precepts  and 
observations  be  carried  down  to  posterity,  the 
Spectators  may  show  to  the  rising  generation 
what  were  the  fashionable  follies  of  their  grand- 
mothers, the  "  Rambler"  of  their  mothers,  and 
that  from  both  they  may  draw  instruction  and 
warning. 

When  I  read  those  Spectators  which  took  no- 
tice of  the  misbehaviour  of  young  women  at 
church,  by  which  they  vainly  hope  to  attract  ad- 
mirers, I  used  to  pronounce  such  forward  young 
women  Seekers,  in  order  to  distinguish  them  by 
a  mark  of  infamy  from  those  who  had  patience 
and  decency  to  stay  till  they  were  sought. 

But  I  have  lived  to  see  such  a  change  in  the 
manners  of  women,  that  I  would  now  be  willing 
to  compound  with  them  for  that  name,  although 
I  then  thought  it  disgraceful  enough,  if  they 
would  deserve  no  worse ;  since  now  they  are  too 
generally  given  up  to  negligence  of  domestic  bu- 
siness, to  idle  amusements,  and  to  wicked  rackets, 
without  any  settled  view  at  all  but  of  squandering 
time. 


In  the  time  of  the  "  Spectator,"  excepting 
sometimes  in  appearance  in  the  ring,  sometimes 
at  a  good  and  chosen  play,  sometimes  on  a  visit 
at  the  house  of  a  grave  relation,  the  young  ladies 
contented  themselves  to  be  found  employed  in 
domestic  duties  ;  for  then  routs,  drums,  balls,  as- 
semblies, and  such-like  markets  for  women,  were 
not  known. 

Modesty  and  diffidence,  gentleness  and  meek- 
ness, were  looked  upon  as  the  appropriate  virtues 
and  characteristic  graces  of  the  sex.  And  if  a 
forward  spirit  pushed  itself  into  notice,  it  was  ex- 
posed in  print  as  it  deserved. 

The  churches  were  almost  the  only  places 
where  single  women  were  to  be  seen  by  stran- 
gers. Men  went  thither  expecting  to  see  them, 
and  perhaps  too  much  for  that  only  purpose. 

But  some  good  often  resulted,  however  impro- 
per might  be  their  motives.  Both  sexes  were  in 
the  way  of  their  duty.  The  man  must  be  aban- 
doned, indeed,  who  loves  not  goodness  in  ano- 
ther ;  nor  were  the  young  fellows  of  that  age  so 
wholly  lost  to  a  sense  of  right,  as  pride  and  con- 
ceit have  since  made  them  afiect  to  be.  When 
therefore  they  saw  a  fair-one,  whose  decent  be- 
haviour and  cheerful  piety  showed  her  earnest  in 
her  first  duties,  they  had  the  less  doubt,  judging 
politically  only,  that  she  would  have  a  conscien- 
tious regard  to  her  second. 

With  what  ardour  have  I  seen  watched  for,  the 
rising  of  a  kneeling  beauty  ;  and  what  additional 
charms  has  devotion  given  to  her  recommunicat- 
ed  features ! 

The  men  were  often  the  better  for  what  they 
heard.  Even  a  Saul  was  once  found  prophesying 
among  the  prophets  whom  he  had  sent  out  to  de- 
stroy. To  a  man  thus  put  into  good  humour  by 
a  pleasing  object,  religion  itself  looked  more  amia- 
ble. The  Men  Seekers  of  the  Spectator's  time 
loved  the  holy  place  for  the  object's  sake,  and 
loved  the  object  for  her  suitable  behaviour  in  it. 

Reverence  mingled  with  their  love,  and  they 
thought  that  a  young  lady  of  such  good  princi- 
ples must  be  addressed  only  by  the  man  who  at 
least  made  a  show  of  good  principles,  whether 
his  heart  was  yet  quite  right  or  not. 

Nor  did  the  young  lady's  behaviour,  at  any 
time  of  the  service,  lessen  this  reverence.  Her 
eyes  were  her  own,  her  ears  the  preacher's.  Wo- 
men are  always  most  observed  when  they  seem 
themselves  least  to  observe,  or  to  lay  out  for  ob- 
servation. The  eye  of  a  respectful  lover  loves 
rather  to  receive  confidence  from  the  withdrawn 
eye  of  the  fair-one,  than  to  find  itself  obliged  to 
retreat. 

When  a  young  gentleman's  affection  was  thus 
laudably  engaged,he  pursued  its  natural  dictates  ; 
keeping  then  was  a  rare,  at  least  a  secret  and 
scandalous  vice,  and  a  wife  was  the  summit  of 
his  wishes.  Rejection  was  now  dreaded,  and 
pre-engagement  apprehended.  A  woman  whom 
he  loved,  he  was  ready  to  think  must  be  admired 
by  all  the  world.  His  fears,  his  uncertainties, 
increased  his  love. 

Every  inquiry  lie  made  into  the  lady's  domes- 
tic  excellence,  which,  when  a  wife  is  to  be  cho- 
sen, will  surely  not  be  neglected,  confirmed  him 
in  his  choice.  He  opens  his  heart  to  a  common 
friend,  and  honestly  discovers  the  state  of  his  for- 
tune. His  friend  applies  to  those  of  the  young 
lady,  whose  parents,  if  they  approve  of  his  pro- 
posals, disclose  them  to  their  daughter. 


JSo.  97.1 


THE  RAMBLER. 


155 


She  perhaps  is  not  an  absolute  stranger  to  the 
passion  of  the  young  gentleman.  His  eyes,  his 
assiduities,  his  constant  attendance  at  a  church, 
whither,  till  oflate,  he  used  seldom  to  come,  and 
a  thousand  little  observances  that  he  paid  her, 
had  very  probably  first  forced  her  to  regard,  and 
then  inclined  her  to  favour  him. 

That  a  young  lady  should  be  in  love,  and  the 
love  of  the  young  gentleman  undeclared,  is  a  he- 
terodoxy which  prudence,  and  even  policy,  must 
not  allow.  But,  thus  applied  to,  she  is  all  resig- 
nation to  her  parents.  Charming  resignation, 
which  inclination  opposes  not. 

Her  relations  applaud  her  for  her  duty;  friends 
meet ;  points  are  adjusted  ;  delightful  perturba- 
tions, and  hopes,  and  a  few  lover's  Tears,  fill  up 
the  tedious  space  till  an  interview  is  granted ;  for 
the  young  lady  had  not  made  herself  cheap  at  pub- 
lic places. 

The  time  of  interview  arrives.  She  is  mo- 
destly reserved;  he  is  not  confident.  He  declares 
his  passion;  the  consciousness  of  her  own  worth, 
and  his  application  to  her  parents,  take  from  her 
any  doubt  of  his  sincerity ;  and  she  owns  herself 
obliged  to  him  for  his  good  opinion.  The  in- 
quiries of  her  friends  into  his  character,  have 
taught  her  that  his  good  opinion  deserves  to  be 
valued. 

She  tacitly  allows  of  his  future  visits;  he  re- 
news them  ;  the  regard  of  each  for  the  other  is 
confirmed ;  and  when  he  presses  for  the  favour 
of  her  hand,  he  receives  a  declaration  of  an  en- 
tire acquiescence  with  her  duty,  and  a  modest  ac- 
knowledgement of  esteem  for  him. 

He  applies  to  her  parents  therefore  for  a  near 
day;  and  thinks  himself  under  obligation  to  them 
for  the  cheerful  and  affectionate  manner  with 
which  they  receive  his  agreeable  application. 

With  this  prospect  of  future  happiness,  the 
marriage  is  celebrated.  Gratulations  pour  in 
from  every  quarter.  Parents  and  relations  on 
both  sides,  brought  acquainted  in  the  course  of 
the  courtship,  can  receive  the  happy  couple  with 
countenances  illumined,  and  joyful  hearts. 

The  brothers,  the  sisters,  the  friends  of  one 
family,  are  the  brothers,  the  sisters,  the  friends 
of  the  other.  The  two  families,  thus  made  one, 
are  the  world  to  the  young  couple. 

Their  home  is  the  place  of  their  principal  de- 
light, nor  do  they  ever  occasionally  quit  it  but 
they  find  the  pleasure  of  returning  to  it  aug- 
mented in  proportion  to  the  time  of  their  absence 
from  it. 

Oh,  Mr.  Rambler .  forgive  the  talkativeness, 
of  an  old  man  !  When  I  courted  and  married  my 
Lactitia,  then  a  blooming  beauty,  every  thing 
passed  just  so!  But  how  is  the  case  now?  The 
ladies,  maidens,  wives,  and  "widows,  are  engross- 
ed by  places  of  open  resort  and  general  entertain- 
ment, which  fill  every  quarter  of  the  metropolis, 
and  being  constantly  frequented,  make  home  irk- 
some Breakfasting-places,  dining-places,  routs, 
drums,  concerts,  balls,  plays,  operas,  masque- 
rade for  the  evening,  and  even  for  all  night;  and 
lately,  public  sales  of  the  goods  of  broken  house- 
keepers, which  the  general  dissoluteness  of  man- 
ners has  contributed  to  make  very  frequent,  come 
in  as  another  seasonable  relief  to  these  modern 
time-killers. 

In  the  summer  there  are  in  every  country- 
town  assemblies ;  Tunbridge,  Bath,  Cheltenham, 
Scarborough  !  What  expense  of  dress  and  equi- 


page is  required  to  qualify  the  frequenters  for 
such  emulous  appearance.     , 

By  the  natural  infection  of  example,  the  lowest 
people  have  places  of  sixpenny  resort,  and  gam- 
ing-tables for  pence,  Thus  servants  are  now  in 
duced  to  fraud  and  dishonesty,  to  support  extra- 
vagance, and  supply  their  losses. 

As  to  the  ladies  who  frequent  those  public 
places,  they  are  not  ashamed  to  show  their  face* 
wherever  men  dare  go,  nor  blush  to  try  who  shall 
stare  most  impudently,  or  who  shall  laugh  loud- 
est on  the  public  walks. 

The  men  who  would  make  good  husbands,  if 
they  visit  those  places,  are  frighted  at  wedlock, 
and  resolved  to  live  single,  except  they  are  bought 
at  a  very  high  price.  They  can  be  spectators 
of  all  that  passes,  and  if  they  please,  more  than 
spectators,  at  the  expense  of  others.  The  com- 
panion of  an  evening,  and  the  companion  for  life, 
require  very  different  qualifications. 

Two  thousand  pounds  in  the  last  age,  with  a 
domestic  wife,  would  go  farther  than  ten  thou- 
sand in  this.  Yet  settlements  are  expected,  that 
often,  to  a  mercantile  man  especially,  sink  a  for- 
tune into  uselessness :  and  pin-money  is  stipu- 
lated for,  which  makes  a  wife  independent,  and 
destroys  love,  by  putting  it  out  of  a  man's  power 
to  lay  any  obligation  upon  her,  that  might  en- 
gage gratitude,  and  kindle  affection.  When  to 
all  this  the  card-tables  are  added,  how  can  a  pru 
dent  man  think  of  marrying  ? 

And  when  the  worthy  men  know  not  where  to 
find  wives,  must  not  the  sex  be  left  to  the  fop- 
lings,  the  coxcombs,  the  libertines  of  the  age, 
whom  they  help  to  make  such  ?  And  need  even 
these  wretches  marry  to  enjoy  the  conversation 
of  those  who  render  their  company  so  cheap  ? 

And  what,  after  all,  is  the  benefit  which  the 
gay  coquette  obtains  by  her  flutters  ?  As  she  is 
approachable  by  every  man  without  requiring, 
I  will  not  say  incense  or  adoration,  but  even  com- 
mon complaisance,  every  fop  treats  her  as  upon 
the  level,  looks  upon  her  light  airs  as  invitations, 
and  is  on  the  watch  to  take  the  advantage :  she 
has  companions,  indeed,  but  no  lovers ;  for  love 
is  respectful  and  timorous ;  and  where  among  all 
her  followers  will  she  find  a  husband  ? 

Set,  dear  Sir,  before  the  youthful,  the  gay,  the 
inconsiderate,  the  contempt  as  well  as  the  danger 
to  which  they  are  exposed.  At  one  time  or  other, 
women  not  utterly  thoughtless,  will  be  convinced 
of  the  justice  of  your  censure,  and  the  charity  of 
your  instruction. 

But  should  your  expostulations  and  reproofs 
have  no  effect  upon  those  who  are  far  gone  in 
fashionable  folly,  they  may  be  retailed  from  their 
mouths  to  their  nieces,  (marriage  will  not  often 
have  entitled  these  to  daughters.)  when  they, 
the  meteors  of  a  day,  find  themselves  elbowed 
off"  the  stage  of  vanity  by  other  flutterers ;  for 
the  most  admired  women  cannot  have  many 
Tunbridge,  many  Bath  seasons  to  blaze  in  ; 
since  even  fine  faces,  often  seen,  are  less  regard- 
ed than  new  faces,  the  proper  punishment  of 
showy  girls,  for  rendering  themselves  so  impoli- 
ticly cheap.  I  am,  Sir, 

Your  sincere  admirer,  &c.* 


*  This  paper  was  written  by  Richardson,  the  author  of 
"  Clarissa,"  "  Pamela,"  &c.  and  although  mean  end  hack- 
neyed in  style  and  sentiment,  was  the  only  paf  er  which 
had  a  great  sale  during  the  publication  of  the  "  '.ambler," 
in  its  original  form. 


156 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  98. 


No.  98.J         SATURDAY,  FEB.  23.  1751. 

Qua  nee  Sarmentue  iniquat 

Casaris  ad  mtnsas,  nee  vilis  Galba  tulisset.        Juv- 
Which  not  Sarmentus  brook'd  at  Ctesar's  board, 
Nor  grov'liug  Galba  from  his  haughty  lord. 

ELPHINSTON. 

TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  RAMBLER. 

MR.  RAMBLER, 

You  have  often  endeavoured  to  impress  upon 
your  readers  an  observation  of  more  truth  than 
novelty,  that  life  passes  for  the  most  part,  in 
petty  transactions ;  that  our  hours  glide  away 
in  trifling  amusements  and  slight  gratifications  ; 
and  that  there  very  seldom  emerges  any  occasion 
that  can  call  forth  great  virtue  or  great  abilities. 

It  very  commonly  happens  that  speculation 
has  no  influence  on  conduct.  Just  conclusions, 
and  cogent  arguments,  formed  by  laborious  stu- 
dy, and  diligent  inquiry,  are  often  reposited  in 
the  treasuries  of  memory,  as  gold  in  the  miser's 
chest,  useless  alike  to  others  and  himself.  As 
some  are  not  richer  for  the  extent  of  their  pos- 
sessions, others  are  not  wiser  for  the  multitude 
of  their  ideas. 

You  have  truly  described  the  state  of  human 
beings,  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  you  have 
accommodated  your  precepts  io  your  descrip- 
tion; whether  you  have  not  generally  consi- 
dered your  readers  as  influenced  by  the  tragic 
passions,  and  susceptible  of  pain  or  pleasure  only 
from  powerful  agents,  and  from  great  events. 

To  an  author  who  writes  not  for  the  improve- 
ment of  a  single  art,  or  the  establishment  of  a 
controverted  doctrine,  but  equally  intends  the 
advantage,  and  equally  courts  the  perusal  of  all 
the  classes  of  mankind,  nothing  can  justly  seem 
unworthy  of  regard,  by  which  the  pleasure  of 
conversation  may  be  increased,  and  the  daily 
satisfaction  of  familiar  life  secured  from  interrup- 
tion and  disgust. 

For  this  reason  you  would  not  have  injured 
your  reputation,  if  you  had  sometimes  descended 
to  the  minuter  duties  of  social  beings,  and  en- 
forced the  observance  of  tho?e  little  civilities  and 
ceremonious  delicacies,  which,  inconsiderable  as 
they  may  appear  to  the  man  of  science,  and  diffi- 
cult as  they  may  prove  to  be  detailed  with  dig- 
nity, yet  contribute  to  the  regulation  of  the  world, 
by  facilitating  the  intercourse  between  one  man 
and  another,  and  of  which  the  French  have  suffi- 
ciently testified  their  esteem,  by  terming  the 
knowledge  and  practice  of  them  Scaroir  vivre, 
the  art  of  living. 

Politeness  :$  one  of  those  advantages  which 
we  never  estimate  rightly  but  by  the  inconveni- 
ence of  its  loss.  Its  influence  upon  the  man- 
ners is  constant  and  uniform,  so  that,  like  an 
equal  motion,  it  escapes  perception.  The  cir- 
cumstances of  every  action  are  so  adjusted  to 
each  other,  that  we  do  not  see  where  any  error 
could  have  been  committed,  and  rather  acqui- 
esce in  its  propriety  than  admire  its  exactness. 

But  as  sickness  shows  us  the  value  of  ease,  a 
Iktle  familiarity  with  those  who  v/ere  never 
taught  to  endeavour  the  gratification  of  others, 
but  regulate  their  behaviour  merely  by  their  own 
will,  will  soon  evince  the  necessity  of  established 
modes  and  formalities  to  the  happiness  and 
quiet  of  common  life. 

Wisdom  and  virtue  are  by  no  means  suffi- 
<  ient,  without  the  supplemental  laws  of  good- 


breeding,  to  secure  freedom  from  degenerating 
to  rudeness,  or  self-esteem  from  swelling  into 
insolence  ;  a  thousand  incivilities  may  be  com- 
mitted, and  a  thousand  offices  neglected,  with- 
out any  remorse  of  conscience,  or  reproach  from 
reason. 

The  true  effect  of  genuine  politeness  seems  to 
be  rather  ease  than  pleasure.  The  power  of 
delighting  must  be  conferred  by  nature,  and  can- 
not be  delivered  by  precept,  or  obtained  by  imi- 
tation :  but  though  it  be  the  privilege  of  a  very 
small  number  to  ravage  and  to  charm,  every 
man  may  hope  by  rules  and  caution  not  to  give 
pain,  and  may,  therefore,  by  the  help  of  good- 
breeding,  enjoy  the  kindness  of  mankind,  though 
he  should  have  no  claim  to  higher  distinctions. 

The  universal  axiom  in  which  all  complai- 
sance is  included,  and  from  which  flow  all  the 
formalities  which  custom  has  established  in  ci- 
vilized nations  is,  That  no  man  shall  give  any  pre- 
ference to  himself,  A  rule  so  comprehensive  and 
certain,  that,  perhaps,  it  is  not  easy  for  the  mind 
to  imagine  an  incivility,  without  supposing  it  to 
be  broken. 

There  are,  indeed,  in  every  place,  some  parti- 
cular modes  of  the  ceremonial  part  of  good- 
breeding,  which  being  arbitrary  and  accidental, 
can  be  learned  only  by  habitude  and  conversa- 
tion ;  such  are  the  forms  of  salutation,  the  dif- 
ferent gradations,  of  reverence,  and  all  the  adjust- 
ments of  place  and  precedence.  These,  however, 
may  be  often  violated  without  offence,  if  it  be 
sufficiently  evident,  that  neither  malice  nor  pride 
contributed  to  the  failure ;  but  will  not  atone, 
however  rigidly  observed,  for  the  tumour  of  in 
solence,  or  petulance  of  contempt. 

I  have,  indeed,  not  found  among  any  part  ol 
mankind,  less  real  and  rational  complaisance, 
than  among  those  who  have  passed  their  time  in 
paying  and  receiving  visits,  in  frequenting  public 
entertainments,  in  studying  the  exact  measures 
of  ceremony,  and  in  watching  all  the  variations 
of  fashionable  courtesy. 

They  know,  indeed,  at  what  hour  they  may 
beat  the  door  of  an  acquaintance,  how  many 
steps  they  must  attend  him  towards  the  gate,  and 
what  interval  should  pass  before  his  visit  is  re- 
turned ;  but  seldom  extend  their  care  beyond  the 
exterior  and  unessential  parts  of  civility,  nor  re- 
fuse their  own  vanity  any  gratification,  howevei 
expensive  to  the  quiet  of  another. 

Trypherus  is  a  man  remarkable  for  splendoui 
and  expense  ;  a  man,  that  having  been  originally 
placed  by  his  fortune  and  rank  in  the  first  class 
of  the  community,  has  acquired  that  air  of  dig 
nity,  and  that  readiness  in  the  exchange  of  com 
pliments,  which  courts,  balls,  and  levees,  easily 
confer. 

But  Trypherus,  without  any  settled  purposes 
of  malignity,  partly  by  his  ignorance  of  human 
nature,  and  partly  by  the  habit  of  contemplating 
with  great  satisfaction  his  own  grandeur  and 
riches,  is  hourly  giving  disgust  to  those  whom 
chance  or  expectation  subject  to  his  vanity. 

To  a  man  whose  fortune  confines  him  to  a 
small  house,  he  declaims  upon  the  pleasure  of 
spacious  apartments,  and  the  convenience  of 
changing  his  lodging-room  in  different  parts  of 
the  year ;  tells  him  that  he  hates  confinement ; 
and  concludes,  that  if  his  chamber  was  less,  he 
should  never  wake  without  thinking  of  a  prison 

To  Eucretas,  a  man  of  birth  eoual  to  himself. 


No   99.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


157 


hut  of  much  less  estate  he  showed  his  services 
of  plate,  and  remarked  that  such  things  were, 
indeed,  nothing  better  than  costly  trifles,  but  that 
no  man  must  pretend  to  the  rank  of  a  gentleman 
without  them  ;  and  that  for  his  part,  if  his  estate 
was  smaller,  he  should  not  think  of  enjoying  but 
increasing  it,  and  would  inquire  out  a  trade  for 
his  eldest  son. 

He  has,  in  imitation  of  some  more  acute  ob- 
server than  himself,  collected  a  great  many  shifts 
and  artifices  by  which  poverty  is  concealed  ;  and 
among  the  ladies  of  small  fortune,  never  fails  to 
talk  of  frippery  and  slight  silks,  and  the  conve- 
nience of  a  general  mourning. 

I  have  been  insulted  a  thousand  times  with  a 
catalogue  of  his  pictures,  his  jewels,  and  his  ra- 
rities, which,  though  he  knows  the  humble  neat- 
ness of  my  habitation,  he  seldom  fails  to  conclude 
by  a  declaration,  that  wherever  he  sees  a  house 
meanly  furnished,  he  despises  the  owner's  taste, 
or  pities  his  poverty. 

This,  Mr.  Rambler,  is  the  practice  of  Tryphe- 
rus,  by  which  he  has  become  the  terror  of  all  who 
are  less  wealthy  than  himself,  and  has  raised  in- 
numerable enemies  without  rivalry,  and  without 
malevolence. 

Yet  though  all  are  not  equally  culpable  with 
Trypherus,  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  find  any  man 
who  doos  not  frequently,  like  him,  indulge  his 
own  pride  by  forcing  others  injo  a  comparison 
with  himself  when  he  knows  the  advantage  is  on 
his  side,  without  considering  that  unnecessarily 
to  obtrude  unpleasing  ideas,  is  a  species  of  op- 
pression ;  and  that  it  is  little  more  criminal  to 
deprive  another  of  some  real  advantage,  than  to 
interrupt  that  foigetfulness  of  its  absence  which 
is  the  next  happiness  to  actual  possession. 

I  am,  &c.  EDTROPHTS. 


JNo.  99.]      TUESDAY,  FEB.  26,  1751. 

Scilicet  ingeniis  aliqua  est  concordiajunctis, 

Et  servat  studii  f&dern  quisque  sui, 
Rusticus  agricolam,  miles  J 'era  bella  gerentem, 

Rectorcm  dubia  navita  puppis  amat.  OVID. 

Congenial  passions  souls  together  bind, 
And  every  calling  mingles  with  its  kind ; 
Soldier  unites  with  soldier,  swain  with  swain, 
The  mariner  with  him  that  roves  the  main. 

F.  LEWIS. 

LT  has  been  ordained  by  Providence,  for  the 
conservation  of  order  in  the  immense  variety  of 
nature,  and  for  the  regular  propagation  of  the  se- 
veral classes  of  life  with  which  the  elements  are 
peopled,  that  every  creature  should  be  drawn  by 
some  secret  attraction  to  those  of  his  ovyn  kind  ; 
and  that  not  only  the  gentle  and  domestic  ani- 
mals which  naturally  unite  into  companies,  or 
cohabit  by  pairs,  should  continue  faithful  to  their 
species  ;  but  even  those  ravenous  and  ferocious 
savages  which  Aristotle  observes  never  to  be 
gregarious,  should  range  mountains  and  deserts 
in  search  of  one  another,  rather  than  pollute  the 
world  with  a  monstrous  birth. 

As  the  perpetuity  and  distinction  of  the  lower 
tribes  of  the  creation  require  that  they  should  be 
determined  to  proper  mates  by  some  uniform  mo- 
tive of  choice,  or  some  cogent  principle  of  in- 
stinct ;  k  is  necessary,  likewise,  that  man,  whose 
wider  capacity  demands  more  gratifications,  and 
who  feels  in  himself  innumerable  wants,  which  a 
life  of  solitude  cannot  supply,  and  innumerable 
powers  to  which  it  cannot  give  employment, 


should  be  led  to  suitable  companions  by  particular 
influence  ;  and,  among  many  beings  of  the  same 
nature  with  himself,  he  may  select  some  for  inti- 
macy and  tenderness,  and  improve  the  condition 
of  his  existence,  by  superadding  friendship  to 
humanity,  and  the  love  of  individuals  to  that  of 
the  species. 

Other  animals  are  so  formed  that  they  seem 
to  contribute  very  little  to  the  happiness  of  each 
other,  and  know  neither  joy,  nor  grief,  nor  love, 
nor  hatred,  but  as  they  are  urged  by  some  desire 
immediately  subservient  either  to  the  support  of 
their  own  lives,  or  to  the  continuation  of  their 
race  ;  they  therefore  seldom  appear  to  regard 
any  of  the  minuter  discriminations  which  distin- 
guish creatures  of  the  same  kind  from  one  ano- 
ther. 

But  if  man  were  to  feel  no  incentives  to  kind- 
ness, more  than  his  general  tendency  to  conge- 
nial nature,  Babylon  or  London,  with  all  their 
multitudes,  would  have  to  him  the  desolation  of 
a  wilderness,  his  affections,  not  compressed  into 
a  narrower  compass,  would  vanish,  like  elemental 
fire  in  boundless  evaporation ;  he  would  languish  , 
in  perpetual  insensibility ;  and  though  he  might, 
perhaps,  in  the  first  vigour  of  youth,  amuse  him- 
self with  the  fresh  enjoyments  of  life,  yet,  when 
curiosity  should  cease,  and  alacrity  subside,  he 
would  abandon  himself  to  the  fluctuations  of 
chance,  without  expecting  help  against  any  ca- 
lamity, or  feeling  any  wish  for  the  happiness  of 
others. 

To  love  all  men  is  our  duty,  so  far  as  it  in 
eludes  a  general  habit  of  benevolence,  and  readi- 
ness of  occasional  kindness ;  but  to  love  all  equal- 
ly is  impossible ;  at  least  impossible  without  the 
extinction  of  those  passions  which  now  produce 
all  our  pains  and  all  our  pleasures ;  without  the 
disuse,  if  not  the  abolition,  of  some  of  our  facul- 
ties, and  the  suppression  of  all  our  hopes  and 
fears  in  apathy  and  indifference. 

The  necessities  of  our  condition  require  a  thou- 
sand offices  of  tenderness,  which  mere  regard  for 
the  species  will  never  dictate.  Every  man  has 
frequent  grievances  which  only  the  solicitude  of 
friendship  will  discover  and  remedy,  and  which 
would  remain  for  ever  unheeded  in  the  mighty 
heap  of  human  calamity,  were  it  only  surveyed  by 
the  eye  of  general  benevolence,  equally  attentive 
to  every  misery. 

The  great  community  of  mankind  is,  there- 
fore necessarily  broken  into  smaller  independ- 
ent societies ;  these  form  distinct  interests,  which 
are  too  frequently  opposed  to  each  other,  and 
which  they  who  have  entered  into  the  league  of 
particular  governments  falsely  think  it  virtue  to 
promote,  however  destructive  to  the  happiness 
of  the  rest  of  the  worlu. 

Such  unions  are  again  separated  into  subordi- 
nate classes  and  combinations,  and  social  life  is 
perpetually  branched  out  into  minuter  subdi- 
visions, till  it  terminates  in  the  last  ramifications 
of  private  friendship. 

That  friendship  may  at  once  be  fond  and  last- 
ing, it  has  been  already  observed  in  these  papers, 
that  a  conformity  of  inclinations  is  necessary.  No 
man  can  have  much  kindness  for  him  by  whom 
he  does  not  believe  himself  esteemed,  and  no- 
thing so  evidently  proves  esteem  as  imitation. 

That  benevolence  is  always  strongest  which 
arises  from  participation  of  the  same  pleasures, 
since  we  are  naturally  most  willing  to  revive  in 


158 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  100. 


our  minds  the  memory  of  persons,  with  whom 
the  idea  of  enjoyment  is  connected. 

It  is  commonly,  therefore,  to  little  purpose  that 
any  one  endeavours  to  ingratiate  himself  with 
such  as  he  cannot  accompany  in  their  amuse- 
ments and  diversions.  Men  have  been  known 
to  rise  to  favour  and  to  fortune,  only  by  being 
skilful  in  the  sports  with  which  their  patron  hap- 
pened to  be  delighted,  by  concurring  with  his 
taste  for  some  particular  species  of  curiosities,  by 
relishing  the  same  wine,  or  applauding  the  same 
cookery. 

Even  those  whom  wisdom  or  virtue  have 
placed  above  regard  to  such  petty  recommenda- 
tions, must  nevertheless  be  gained  by  similitude 
of  manners.  The  highest  and  noblest  enjoy- 
ment of  familiar  life,  the  communication  of  know- 
ledge and  reciprocation  of  sentiments,  must 
always  presuppose  a  disposition  to  the  same  in- 
quiry, and  delight  in  the  same  discoveries. 

With  what  satisfaction  could  the  politician  lay 
his  schemes  for  the  reformation  of  laws,  or  his 
comparison  of  different  forms  of  government,  be- 
fore the  chymist,  who  has  never  accustomed  his 
thoughts  to  any  other  object  than  salt  and  sul- 
phur ?  or  how  could  the  astronomer,  in  explain- 
ing his  calculations  and  conjectures,  endure  the 
coldness  of  a  grammarian,  who  would  lose  sight 
of  Jupiter  and  all  his  satellites,  for  a  happy  ety- 
mology of  an  obscure  word,  or  a  better  explica- 
tion of  a  controverted  line  ? 

Every  man  loves  merit  of  the  same  kind  with 
his  own,  when  it  is  not  likely  to  hinder  his  ad- 
vancement or  his  reputation;  for  he  not  only 
best  understands  the  worth  of  those  qualities 
which  ne  labours  to  cultivate,  or  the  usefulness 
of  the  art  which  he  practises  with  success,  but 
always  feels  a  reflected  pleasure  from  the  praises 
which,  though  given  to  another,  belong  equally 
to  himself. 

There  is  indeed  no  need  of  research  and  re- 
finement to  discover  that  men  must  generally  se- 
lect their  companions  from  their  own  state  of  life, 
since  there  are  not  many  minds  furnished  for 
great  variety  of  conversation,  or  adapted  to  mul- 
tiplicity of  intellectual  entertainments. 

The  sailor,  the  academic,  the  lawyer,  the  me- 
chanic, and  the  courtier,  have  all  a  cast  or  look 
peculiar  to  their  own  fraternity,  have  fixed  their  at- 
tention upon  the  same  events,  have  been  engaged 
in  affairs  of  the  same  soil.,  and  make  use  of  allu- 
sions and  illustrations  which  themselves  only  can 
understand. 

To  be  infected  with  the  jargon  of  a  particular 
profession,  and  to  know  only  the  language  of  a 
single  rank  of  mortals,  is  indeed  sufficiently  de- 
spicable. But  as  limits  must  be  always  set  to 
the  excursions  of  the  human  mind,  there  will  be 
some  study  which  every  man  more  zealously  pro- 
secutes, some  darling  subject  on  which  he  is 
principally  pleased  to  converse  ;  and  he  that  can 
most  inform  or  best  understand  him,  will  cer- 
tainly be  welcomed  with  particular  regard. 

Such  partiality  is  not  wholly  to  be  avoided,  nor 
is  it  culpable,  unless  suffered  so  far  to  predomi- 
nate as  to  produce  aversion  from  every  other 
kind  of  excellence,  and  to  shade  the  lustre  of  dis- 
similar virtues.  Those,  therefore,  whom  the  lot 
of  life  has  conjoined,  should  endeavour  constantly 
to  approach  towards  the  inclination  of  each  other, 
invigorate  every  motion  of  concurrent  desire,  and 
fan  every  spark  of  kindred  curiosity, 


It  has  been  justly  observed,  that  discord  gene- 
rally operates  in  little  things ;  it  is  inflamed  to 
its  utmost  vehemence  by  contrariety  of  taste, 
oftener  than  of  principles ;  and  might  therefore 
commonly  be  avoided  by  innocent  conformity, 
which,  if  it  was  not-  at  first  the  motive,  ought 
always  to  be  the  consequence,  of  indissoluble 


No.  100.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  2,  175L 

Omne  vafer  intium  ridcnti  Flaccns  amico 
Tangit,  et  admissus  circumpracordia  ludit. 

PERSIL'S 

Horace,  with  sly  insinuating  grace, 
Laugh'd  at  his  friend,  and  look'd  him  in  the  face ; 
Would  raise  a  blush  where  secret  vice  lie  found, 
And  tickle  while  he  gently  probed  the  wound. 
With  seeming  innocence  the  crowd  beguiled, 
But  made  the  desperate  passes  when  he  smiled. 

DEYDES 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

As  very  many  well-disposed  persons,  by  the  un 
avoidable  necessity  of  their  affairs,  are  so  unfor- 
tunate as  to  be  totally  buried  in  the  country, 
where  they  labour  under  the  most  deplorable  ig 
norance  of  what  is  transacting  among  the  polite 
part  of  mankind,  I  cannot  help  thinking,  that, 
as  a  public  writer,  you  should  fake  the  case  of 
these  truly  compassionable  objects  under  your 
consideration. 

These  unhappy  languishers  in  obscurity  should 
be  furnished  with  such  accounts  of  the  employ- 
ments of  people  of  the  world,  as  may  engage 
them  in  their  several  remote  corners  to  a  lauda 
ble  imitation ;  or,  at  least  so  far  inform  and  pre 
pare  them,  that  if  by  any  joyful  change  of  situa- 
tion they  should  be  suddenly  transported  into 
the  gay  scene,  they  may  not  gape,  and  wonder, 
and  stare,  and  be  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  behave 
and  make  a  proper  appearance  in  it. 

It  is  inconceivable  how  much  the  welfare  of 
all  the  country  towns  in  the  kingdom  might  be 
promoted,  if  you  would  use  your  charitable  en- 
deavours to  raise  in  them  a  noble  emulation  of 
the  manners  and  customs  of  higher  life. 

For  this  purpose  you  should  give  a  very  cleat 
and  ample  description  of  the  whole  set  of  polite 
acquirements  ;  a  complete  history  of  forms,  fa 
shions,    frolics,    of    routs,    drums,    hurricanes, 
balls,  assemblies,  ridottos,    masquerades,  auc 
tions,  plays,  operas,  puppet-shows,   and  bear 
gardens ;  of  all  those  delights  which  profitably 
engage  the  attention  of  the  most  sublime  cha- 
racters, and  by  which  they  have  brought  to  such 
amazing  perfection  the  whole  art  and  mystery 
of  passing  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  and 
year  after  year,  without  the  heavy  assistance  of 
any  one  thing  that  formal  creatures  are  pleased 
to  call  useful  and  necessary. 

In  giving  due  instructions  through  what  steps 
to  attain  this  summit  of  human  excellence,  you 
may  add  such  irresistible  arguments  in  its  fa- 
vour, as  must  convince  numbers,  who  in  other 
instances  do  not  seem  to  want  natural  under 
standing,  of  the  unaccountable  error  of  supposing 
they  were  sent  into  the  world  for  any  other  pur 
pose  but  to  flutter,  sport,  and  shine.  For,  after 
all,  nothing  can  be  clearer  than  that  an  ever- 
lasting round  of  diversion,  and  the  more  lively 


No.  101.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


159 


and  hurrying  the  better,  is  the  most  important 
end  of  human  life. 

It  is  really  prodigious,  so  much  as  the  world  is 
improved,  that  there  should  in  these  days  be  per- 
sons so  ignorant  and  stupid  as  to  think  it  neces- 
sary to  misspend  their  time,  and  trouble  their 
heads  about  any  thing  else  than  pursuing  the 
present  fancy  ;  for  what  else  is  worth  living 
for? 

It  is  time  enough  surely  to  think  of  conse- 
quences when  they  come ;  and  as  for  the  anti- 
quated notions  of  duty,  they  are  not  to  be  met 
with  in  any  French  Novel,  or  any  book  one  ever 
looks  into,  but  derived  almost  wholly  from  the 
writings  of  authors,  who  lived  a  vast  many  ages 
ago ;  and  who,  as  they  were  totally  without  any 
idea  of  those  accomplishments,  which  now  cha- 
racterise people  of  distinction,  have  been  for  some 
time  sinking  apace  into  utter  contempt.  It  does 
not  appear  that  even  their  most  zealous  admirers, 
for  some  partisans  of  his  own  sort  every  writer 
will  have,  can  pretend  to  say  they  were  ever  at 
one  ridotto. 

In  the  important  article  of  diversions,  the  cere- 
monial of  visits,  the  ecstatic  delight  of  unfriendly 
intimacies,  and  unmeaning  civilities,  they  are  ab- 
solutely silent.  Blunt  truth,  and  downright  ho- 
nesty, plain  clothes,  staying  at  home,  hard  work, 
few  words,  and  those  unenlivened  with  censure 
or  double  meaning,  are  what  they  recommend  as 
the  ornaments  and  pleasures  of  life.  Little  oaths, 
polite  dissimulation,  tea-table  scandal,  delightful 
indolence,  the  glitter  of  finery,  the  triumph  of 
precedence,  the  enchantments  of  flattery,  they 
seem  to  have  had  no  notion  of,  and  I  cannot  but 
laugh  to  think  what  a  figure  they  would  have 
made  in  a  drawing-room,  and  how  frighted  they 
would  have  looked  at  a  gaming-table. 

The  noble  zeal  of  patriotism  that  disdains 
authority,  and  tramples  on  laws  for  sport,  was 
absolutely  the  aversion  of  these  tame  wretches. 

Indeed  one  cannot  discover  any  one  thing  they 
pretend  to  teach  people,  but  to  be  wise  and  good ; 
acquirements  infinitely  below  the  consideration 
of  persons  of  taste  and  spirit,  who  know  how  to 
spend  their  time  to  so  much  better  purpose. 

Among  other  admirable  improvements,  pray, 
Mr.  Rambler,  do  not  forget  to  enlarge  on  the 
very  extensive  benefit  of  playing  at  cards  on  Sun- 
days ;  a  practice  of  such  infinite  use,  that  we  may 
modestly  expect  to  see  it  prevail  universally  in 
all  parts  of  this  kingdom. 

To  persons  of  fashion,  the  advantage  is  obvi- 
ous ;  because,  as  for  some  strange  reason  or 
other,  which  no  fine  gentleman  or  fine  lady 
has  yet  been  able  to  penetrate,  there  is  neither 
play,  nor  masquerade,  nor  bottled  conjurer,  nor 
any  other  thing  worth  living  for,  to  be  had  on  a 
Sunday  ;  if  it  were  not  for  the  charitable  assist- 
ance of  whist  or  bragg,  the  genteel  part  of  man- 
kind must,  one  day  in  seven,  necessarily  suffer  a 
total  extinction  of  being. 

Nor  are  the  persons  of  high  rank  the  only  gain- 
ers by  so  salutary  a  custom,  which  extends  its 
good  influence,  in  some  degree,  to  the  lower  or- 
ders of  people  ;  but  were  it  quite  general,  how 
much  better  and  happier  would  the  world  be  than 
it  is  even  now  ? 

It  is  hard  upon  poor  creatures,  be  they  ever  so 
mean,  to  deny  them  those  enjoyments  and  liber- 
ties which  are  equally  open  for  all.  Yet  if  serv- 
ants were  taught  to  go  to  church  on  this  dav, 


spend  some  part  of  it  in  reading  or  receiving  in- 
struction in  a  family  way,  and  the  rest  in  mere 
friendly  conversation,  the  poor  wretches  would 
infallibly  take  it  into  their  heads,  that  they  were 
obliged  to  be  sober,  modest,  diligent,  and"  faith- 
ful to  their  masters  and  mistresses. 

Now  surely  no  one  of  common  prudence  or 
humanity  would  wish  their  domestics  infected 
with  such  strange  and  primitive  notions,  or  laid 
under  such  unmerciful  restraints:  all  which  may, 
in  a  great  measure,  be  prevented  by  the  preva- 
lence of  the  good-humoured  fashion,  that  I  would 
have  you  recommend.  For  when  the  lower  kind 
of  people  see  their  betters,  with  a  truly  laudable 
spirit,  insulting  and  flying  in  the  face  of  those 
rude,  ill-bred  dictators,  piety  and  the  laws,  they 
are  thereby  excitfd  and  admoni-shed,  as  far  as 
actions  can  admonish  and  excite,  and  taught  that 
they  too  have  an  equal  right  of  setting  them  at 
defiance  in  such  instances  as  their  particular  ne- 
cessities and  inclinations  may  require ;  and  thua 
is  the  liberty  of  the  whole  human  species  mighti- 
ly improved  and  enlarged. 

In  short,  Mr.  Rambler,  by  a  Taithful  represent- 
ation of  the  numberless  benefits  of  a  modish  life, 
you  will  have  done  yourpart  in  promoting  what 
every  body  seems  to  confess  the  true  purpose  of 
human  existence,  perpetual  dissipation. 

By  encouraging  people  to  employ  their  whole 
attention  on  trifles,  and  make  amusement  their 
sole  study,  you  will  teach  them  how  to  avoid 
many  very  uneasy  reflections. 

All  the  soft  feelings  of  humanity,  the  sympa- 
thies of  friendship,  all  natural  temptations  to  the 
care  of  a  family,  and  solicitude  about  the  good 
or  ill  of  others,  with  the  vvhole  train  of  domestic 
and  social  affections,  which  create  such  daily 
anxieties  and  embarrassments,  will  be  happily 
stifled  and  suppressed  in  a  round  of  perpetual 
delights  ;  and  all  serious  thoughts,  but  particu- 
larly that  of  hereafter,  be  banished  out  of  the 
world ;  a  most  perplexing  apprehension,  but 
luckily  a  most  groundless  one  too,  as  it  is  so 
very  clear  a  case,  that  nobody  ever  dies. 
I  am,  &c. 

CHARIESSA.* 


No.  101.]    TUESDAY,  MARCH  5,  1751. 

Mellajubes  Hyllaa  tilri  vel  Hymettia.  nasci, 
Et  thy  ma  Cecropia  Corsica  ponit  api.        MAkT. 

Alas  !  dear  Sir,  you  try  in  vain, 
Impossibilities  to  gain  ; 
No  bee  from  Corsica's  rank  juice, 
Hybloean  honey  can  produce. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 
SIR, 

HAVING  by  several  years  of  continual  study 
treasured  in  my  mind  a  great  number  of  princi- 
ples and  ide&s,  and  obtained  by  frequent  ex- 
ercise the  power  of  applying  them  with  pro- 
priety, and  combining  them  with  readiness,  I 
resolved  to  quit  the  university,  where  I  consider- 
ed myself  as  a  gem  hidden  in  the  mine,  and  to 
mingle  in  the  crowd  of  public  life.  I  was  na- 
turally attracted  by  the  company  of  those  who 


*  Written  by  Mrs.  Carter  of  Deal,  the  only  survivor  oj 
the  writers  of  that  age. — C. 


160 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  101 


were  of  the  same  age  with  myself;  and,  finding 
that  my  academical  gravity  contributed  very  iittle 
to  my  reputation,  applied  my  faculties  to  jocula- 
rity and  burlesque.  Thus,  in  a  short  time,  I  had 
heated  my  imagination  to  such  a  state  of  activity 
and  ebullition,  that  upon  every  occasion  it  fumed 
away  in  bursts  of  wit,  and  evaporations  of  gay  e- 
ty.  I  became  on  a  sudden  the  idol  of  the  coffee- 
house, was  in  one  winter  solicited  to  accept  the 
presidentship  of  five  clubs;  was  dragged  by  vio- 
lence to  every  new  play,  and  quoted  in  every 
controversy  upon  theatrical  merit ;  was  in  every 
public  place  surrounded  by  a  multitude  of  hum- 
ble auditors,  who  retailed  in  other  places  of  re- 
sort my  maxims  and  my  jests,  and  was  boasted 
as  their  intimate  and  companion  by  many,  who 
had  no  other  pretensions  to  my  acquaintance, 
than  that  they  had  drank  chocolate  in  the  same 
room. 

You  will  not  wonder,  Mr.  Rambler,  that  I 
mention  my  success  with  some  appearance  of 
triumph  and  elevation.  Perhaps  no  kind  of  su- 
periority is  more  nattering  or  alluring  than  that 
which  is  conferred  by  the  powers  of  conversa- 
tion, by  extemporaneous  sprightliness  of  fancy, 
copiousness  of  language,  and  fertility  of  senti- 
ment. In  other  exertions  of  genius,  the  greater 
part  of  the  praise  is  unknown  and  unenjoyed ; 
the  writer,  indeed,  spreads  his  reputation  to  a 
wider  extent,  but  receives  little  pleasure  or  ad- 
vantage from  the  diffusion  of  his  name,  and  only 
obtains  a  kind  of  nominal  sovereignty  over  re- 
gions which  pay  no  tribute.  The  colloquial  wit 
has  always  his  own  radiance  reflected  on  him- 
self, and  enjoys  all  the  pleasure  which  he  be- 
stows ;  he  finds  his  power  confessed  by  every 
one  that  approaches  him,  sees  friendship  kin- 
dling with  rapture,  anil  attention  swelling  into 
praise. 

The  desire  which  every  man  feels  of  import- 
ance and  esteem,  is  so  much  gratified  by  finding 
an  assembly,  at  his  entrance,  brightened  with 
gladness  and  hushed  with  expectation,  that  the 
recollection  of  such  distinctions  can  scarcely  fail 
to  be  pleasing  whensoever  it  is  innocent  And 
my  conscience  does  not  reproach  me  with  any 
mean  or  criminal  effects  of  vanity;  since  I  al- 
ways employed  my  influence  on  the  side  of  vir- 
tue, and  never  sacrificed  my  understanding  or 
my  religion  to  the  pleasure  of  applause. 

There  were  many  whom  either  the  desire  of 
enjoying  my  pleasantry,  or  the  pride  of  being 
thought  to  enjoy  it,  brought  often  into  my  com- 

Eany :  but  1  was  caressed  in  a  particular  manner 
y  Demochares,  a  gentleman  of  large  estate,  and 
a  liberal  disposition.  My  fortune  being  by  no 
means  exuberant,  inclined  rne  to  be  pleased  with 
a  friend  who  was  willing  to  be  entertained  at  his 
own  charge.  I  became  by  daily  invitations  ha- 
bituated to  his  table,  and,  as  he  believed  my  ac- 
quaintance necessary  to  the  character  of  ele- 
gance, which  he  was  desirous  of  establishing,  I 
lived  in  all  the  luxury  of  affluence,  without  ex- 
pense, or  dependence,  and  passed  my  life  in  a 
perpetual  reciprocation  of  pleasure,  with  men 
brought  together  by  similitude  of  accomplish- 
ments, or  desire  of  improvement. 

But  all  power  has  its  sphere  of  activity,  be- 
yond which  it  produces  no  effect.  Demochares 
being  called  by  his  affairs  into  the  country,  ima- 
gined that  he  should  increase  his  popularity  by 
roming  among  his  neighbours  accompanied  by 


a  man  whose  abilities  were  so  generally  allowed. 
The  report  presently  spread  through  half  the 
country  that  Demochares  was  arrived,  and  had 
brought  with  him  the  celebrated  Hilarius,  by 
whom  such  merriment  would  be  excited,  as  had 
never  been  enjoyed  or  conceived  before.  I  knew, 
indeed,  the  purpose  for  which  I  was  invited, 
and,  as  men  do  not  look  diligently  out  for  pos- 
sible miscarriages,  was  pleased  to  find  myselt 
courted  upon  principles  of  interest,  and  consi- 
dered as  capable  of  reconciling  factions,  com- 
posing feuds,  and  uniting  a  whole  province  in 
social  happiness. 

After  a  few  days  spent  in  adjusting  his  domes- 
tic regulations,  Demochares  invited  all  the  gen- 
tlemen of  his  neighbourhood  to  dinner,  and  did 
not  forget  to  hint  how  much  my  presence  was 
expected  to  heighten  the  pleasure  of  the  feast 
He  informed  me  what  prejudices  my  reputation 
had  raised  in  my  favour,  and  represented  the  sa- 
tisfaction with  which  he  should  see  me  kindle  up 
the  blaze  of  merriment,  and  should  remark  the 
various  effects  that  my  fire  would  have  upon  such 
diversity  of  matter. 

This  declaration,  b'y  which  he  intended  to 
quicken  my  vivacity,  filled  me  with  solicitude.  I 
felt  an  ambition  of  shining  which  I  never  knew 
before ;  and  was  therefore  embarrassed  with  an 
unusual  fear  of  disgrace.  I  passed  the  night  in 
planning  out  to  myself  the  conversation  of  the 
coming  day;  recollected  all  my  topics  of  raillery, 
proposed  proper  subjects  of  ridicule,  prepared 
smart  replies  to  a  thousand  questions,  accommo- 
dated answers  to  imaginary  repartees,  and  form- 
ed a  magazine  of  remarks,  apophthegms,  tales, 
and  illustrations. 

The  morning  broke  at  last  in  the  midst  of 
these  busy  meditations.  I  rose  with  the  palpita- 
tions of  a  champion  on  the  day  of  combat ;  and, 
notwithstanding  all  my  efforts,  found  my  spirits 
sunk  under  the  weight  of  expectation.  The 
company  soon  after  began  to  drop  in,  and  every 
one,  at  his  entrance,  was  introduced  to  Hilarius. 
What  conception  the  inhabitants  of  this  region 
had  formed  of  a  wit,  I  cannot  yet  discover ;  but 
observed  that  they  all  seemed,  after  the  regular 
exchange  of  compliments,  to  turn  away  disap- 
pointed ;  and  that  while  we  waited  for  dinner, 
they  cast  their  eyes  first  upon  me  and  then  upon 
each  other,  like  a  theatrical  assembly  waiting  for 
a  show. 

From  the  uneasiness  of  this  situation,  I  was 
relieved  by  the  dinner;  and  as  every  attention 
was  taken  up  by  the  business  of  the  hour,  I 
sunk  quietly  to  a  level  with  the  rest,  of  the  com- 
pany. But  no  sooner  were  the  dishes  removed, 
than,  instead  of  cheerful  confidence  and  familiar 
prattle,  a  universal  silence  again  showed  their 
expectation  of  some  unusual  performance.  My 
friend  endeavoured  to  rouse  them  by  healths  and 
questions,  but  they  answered  him  with  great 
brevity,  and  immediately  relapsed  into  their  for- 
mer taciturnity. 

I  had  waited  in  hope  of  some  opportunity  to 
divert  them,  but  could  find  no  pass  opened  for  a 
single  sally ;  and  who  can  be  merry  without  an 
object  of  mirth  ?  After  a  few  faint  e'ffprts,  which 
produced  neither  applause  nor  opposition,  I  was 
content  to  mingle  with  the  mass,  to  put  round  the 
glass  in  silence,  and  solace  myself  with  my  own 
contemplations. 

My  friend  looked    round   him :    the  gucsta 


No.  102.1 


THE  RAMBLER. 


161 


stared  at  one  another :  and  if  now  and  then  a 
few  syllables  were  uttered  with  timidity  and 
hesitation,  there  was  none  ready  to  make  any 
reply.  All  our  faculties  were  frozen,  and  every 
minute  took  away  from  our  capacity  of  pleasing, 
and  disposition  to  be  pleased.  Thug  passed  the 
hours  to  which  so  much  happiness  was  decreed; 
the  hours  which  had,  by  a  kind  of  open  procla- 
mation, been  devoted  to  wit,  to  mirth,  and  to 
Hilarius. 

At  last  the  night  came  on,  and  the  necessity  of 
parting  freed  us  from  the  persecutions  of  each 
other.  1  heard  them  as  they  walked  along  the 
court,  murmuring  at  the  loss  of  the  day,  and  in- 
quiring whether  any  man  would  pay  a  second 
visit  to  a  house  haunted  by  a  wit  ? 

Demochares,  whose  benevolence  is  greater 
than  his  penetration,  having  flattered  his  hopes 
with  the  secondary  honour  which  he  was  to  gain 
by  my  sprightliness  and  elegance,  and  the  aflec- 
tion  with  which  he  should  be  followed  for  a  per- 
petual banquet  of  gayety,  was  not  able  to  con- 
ceal his  vexation  and  resentment,  nor  would  ea- 
sily be  convinced,  that  1  had  not  sacrificed  his  in- 
terest to  sullenness  and  caprice,  and  studiously 
endeavoured  to  disgust  his  guests,  and  suppress- 
ed my  powers  of  delighting,  in  obstinate  and 
premeditated  silence.  I  am  informed  that  the 
reproach  of  their  ill  reception  is  divided  by  the 
gentlemen  of  the  country  between  us;  some  be- 
ing of  opinion  that  my  friend  is  deluded  by  an 
impostor,  who,  though  he  has  found  some  art  of 
gaining  his  favour,  is  afraid  to  speak  before  men 
of  more  penetration ;  and  others  concluding,  that 
I  think  only  London  the  proper  theatre  of  my 
abilities,  and  disdain  to  exert  my  genius  for  the 
praise  of  rustics. 

I  believe,  Mr.  Rambler,  that  it  has  sometimes 
happened  to  others,  who  have  the  good  or  ill 
fortune  to  be  celebrated  for  wits,  to  fall  under 
the  same  censures  upon  the  like  occasions.  I 
hope,  therefore,  that  you  will  prevent  any  mis- 
representations of  such  failures,  by  remarking, 
that  invention  is  not  wholly  at  the  command 
of  its  possessor;  that  the  power  of  pleasing  is 
very  often  obstructed  by  the  desire ;  that  all 
expectation  lessens  surprise,  yet  some  surprise 
is  necessary  to  gayety ;  and  that  those  who  de- 
sire to  partake  of  the  pleasure  of  wit  must  con- 
tribute to  its  production,  since  the  mind  stag- 
nates without  external  ventilation,  and  that  effer- 
vescence of  the  fancy,  which  flashes  into  tran- 
sport, can  be  raised  only  by  the  infusion  of  dis- 
similar ideas. 


Vo.  102.]      SATURDAY,  MARCH  9,  1751. 

Ipsa  quoque  assidu/i  labuntur  tempora  motu 
Non  secus  acjlumen  :  nequt  enim  consistere  flumen, 
lYec  levis  hora  potcst ;  sed  ut  undo,  impellitur  undo, 
Urgeturque  prior  veniente,  urgetque  prior em, 
Tempora  sicfugiuntpariter,pariterque  sequuntur. 

OVID. 

With  constant  motion  as  the  moments  glide, 

Behold  in  running  life  the  rolling  tide, 

For  none  can  stem  by  art,  or  stop  by  power, 

The  flowing  ocean,  or  the  fleeting  hour  ; 

But  wave  by  wave  pursii'd  arrives  on  shore, 

And  each  impell'd  behind  impels  before: 

So  time  on  time  revolving  we  descry; 

So  minutes  follow,  and  so  minutes  fly.          ELPHINSTON. 

"LiFE,"  says  Seneca,  "is  a  voyage,  in  the  pro- 
gress of  which  we  are  perpetually  changing  our 


scenes:  we  first  leave  childhood  behind  us,  then 
youth,  then  the  years  of  ripened  manhood,  then 
the  better  and  more  pleasing  part  of  old  age." 
The  perusal  of  this  passage  having  excited  in 
me  a  train  of  reflections  on  the  state  of  man, 
the  incessant  fluctuation  of  his  wishes,  the  gra- 
dual change  of  his  disposition  to  all  external 
objects,  and  the  thoughtlessness  with  which  he 
floats  along  the  stream  of  time,  I  sunk  into  a 
slumber  amidst  my  meditations,  and,  on  a  sud- 
den, found  my  ears  filled  with  the  tumult  of 
labour,  the  shouts  of  alacrity,  the  shrieks  of 
alarm,  the  whistle  of  winds,  and  the  dash  of 
waters. 

My  astonishment  for  a  time  repressed  my  cu- 
riosity ;  but  soon  recovering  myself  so  far  as  to 
inquire  whither  we  were  going,  and  what  was 
the  cause  of  such  clamour  and  confusion,  I  was 
told  that  we  were  launching  out  into  the  ocean 
of  life;  that  we  had  already  passed  the  streights 
of  infancy,  in  which  multitudes  had  perished, 
some  by  the  weakness  and  fragility  of  their  ves 
sels,  and  more  by  the  folly,  perverseness,  or  ne- 
gligence, of  those  who  undertook  to  steer  them  ; 
and  that  we  were  now  on  the  main  sea,  aban- 
doned to  the  winds  and  billows,  without  any 
other  means  of  security  than  the  care  of  the  pi- 
lot, whom  it  was  always  in  our  power  to  choose 
among  great  numbers  that  offered  their  direction 
and  assistance. 

I  then  looked  round  with  anxious  eagerness  ; 
and  first  turning  my  eyes  behind  me,  saw  a 
stream  flowing  through  flowery  islands,  which 
every  one  that  sailed  along  seemed  to  behold 
with  pleasure:  but  no  sooner  touched,  than  the 
current,  which,  though  not  noisy  or  turbulent, 
was  yet  irresistible,  bore  him  away.  Beyond 
these  islands  all  was  darkness,  nor  could  any  of 
the  passengers  describe  the  shore  at  which  he 
first  embarked; 

Before  me,  and  on  each  side,  was  an  expanse 
of  waters  violently  agitated,  and  covered  with 
so  thick  a  mist,  that  the  most  perspicacious  eye 
could  see  but  a  little  way.  It  appeared  to  be 
full  of  rocks  and  whirlpools,  for  many  sunk  un- 
expectedly while  they  were  courting  the  gale 
with  full  sails,  and  insulting  those  whom  they 
had  left  behind.  So  numerous,  indeed,  were 
the  dangers,  and  so  thick  the  darkness,  that  no 
caution  could  confer  security.  Yet  there  were 
many,  who,  by  false  intelligence,  betrayed  their 
followers  into  whirlpools,  or  by  violence  pushed 
those  whom  they  found  in  their  way  against  the 
rocks. 

The  current  was  invariable  and  insurmount- 
able ;  but  though  it  was  impossible  to  sail  against 
it,  or  to  return  to  the  place  that  was  once  passed, 
yet  it  was  not  so  violent  as  to  allow  no  oppor- 
tunities for  dexterity  or  courage,  since,  though 
none  could  retreat  back  from  danger,  yet  they 
might  often  avoid  it  by  oblique  direction. 

It  was,  however,  not  very  common  to  steer 
with  much  care  or  prudence;  for  by  some  uni- 
versal infatuation,  every  man  appeared  to  think 
himself  safe,  though  he  saw  his  consorts  every 
moment  sinking  round  him  ;  and  no  sooner  had 
the  waves  closed  over  them,  than  their  fate  and 
their  misconduct  were  forgotten;  the  voyage 
was  pursued  with  the  same  jocund  confidence ; 
every  man  congratulated  himself  upon  the  sound- 
ness of  his  vessel,  and  believed  himself  able  to 
stem  the  whirlpool  in  which  his  friend  was  swal 


162 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  10a 


lowed,  or  glide  over  the  rocks  on  which  he  was 
dashed  •  nor  was  it  often  observed  that  the  sight 
of  a  wreck  made  any  man  change  his  course  ; 
if  he  turned  aside  for  a  moment,  lie  soon  forgot 
the  rudder,  and  left  himself  again  to  the  disposal 
of  chance. 

This  negligence  did  not  proceed  from  mdit- 
ference  or  from  weariness  of  their  present  con- 
dition ;  for  not  one  of  those  who  thus  rushed 
upon  destruction,  failed,  when  he  was  sinking, 
to  call  loudly  upon  his  associates  for  that  help 
which  could  not  now  be  given  him  ;  and  many 
spent  their  last  moments  in  cautioning  others 
against  the  folly  by  which  they  were  intercepted 
in  the  midst  of  their  course.  Their  benevolence 
was  sometimes  praised,  but  their  admonitions 
were  unregarded. 

The  vessels  in  which  we  had  embarked  being 
confessedly  unequal  to  the  turbulence  of  the 
stream  of  life,  were  visibly  impaired  in  the  course 
of  the  voyage  ;  so  that  every  passenger  was  cer- 
tain, that  how  long  soever  he  might,  by  favour- 
able accidents,  or  by  incessant  vigilance,  be  pre- 
served, he  must  sink  at  last. 

This  necessity  of  perishing  might  have  been 
expected  to  sadden  the  gay,  and  intimidate  the 
daring,  at  least  to  keep  the  melancholy  and  ti- 
morous in  perpetual  torments,  and  hinder  them 
from  any  enjoyment  of  the  varieties  and  gratifi- 
cations which  nature  offered  them  as  the  solace 
of  their  labours ;  yet  in  effect,  none  seemed  less 
to  expect  destruction  than  those  to  whom  it  was 
most  dreadful ;  they  all  had  the  art  of  conceal- 
ing their  danger  from  themselves ;  and  those 
who  knew  their  inability  to  bear  the  sight  of  the 
terrors  that  embarrassed  their  way,  took  care 
never  to  look  forward,  but  found  some  amuse- 
ment for  the  present  moment,  and  generally 
entertained  themselves  by  playing  with  Hope, 
who  was  the  constant  associate  ofthe  voyage  of 
life. 

Yet  all  that  Hope  ventured  to  promise,  even 
to  those  whom  she  favoured  most,  was,  not  that 
they  should  escape,  but  that  they  should  sink 
last ;  and  with  this  promise  every  one  was  satis- 
fied, though  he  laughed  at  the  rest  for  seeming 
to  believe  it  Hope,  indeed,  apparently  mocked 
the  credulity  of  her  companions ;  for,  in  propor- 
tion as  their  vessels  grew  leaky,  she  redoubled 
her  assurances  of  safety  ;  and  none  were  more 
busy  in  making  provisions  for  a  long  voyage, 
than  they  whom  all  but  themselves  saw  likely  to 
perish  soon  by  irreparable  decay. 

In  the  midst  ofthe  current  of  life  was  the  gulf 
of  Intemperance,  a  dreadful  whirlpool,  interspersed 
with  rocks,  of  which  the  pointed  crags  were  con- 
cealed under  water,  and  the  tops  covered  with 
herbage,  on  which  Ease  spread  couches  of  re- 
pose, and  with  shades,  where  Pleasure  warbled 
the  song  of  invitation.  Within  sight  of  these 
rocks  all  who  sailed  on  the  ocean  of  life  must 
necessarily  pass.  Reason,  indeed,  was  always 
at  hand  to  steer  the  passengers  through  a  nar- 
row outlet  by  which  they  might  escape;  but 
very  few  could,  by  her  entreaties  or  remon- 
strances, be  induced  to  put  the  rudder  into  her 
hand,  without  stipulating  that  she  should  ap- 
proach so  near  unto  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  that 
they  might  solace  themselves  with  a  short  enjoy- 
ment of  that  delicious  region,  after  which  they 
always  determined  to  pursue  their  course  with- 
out any  other  deviation. 


Reason  was  too  often  prevailed  upon  so  far 
by  these  promises,  as  to  venture  her  charge  with- 
in the  eddy  of  the  gulf  of  Intemperance,  where 
indeed,  the  circumvolution  was  weak,  but  yet 
interrupted  the  course  of  the  vessel,  and  drew  it, 
by  insensible  rotations,  towards  the  centre.  She 
then  repented  her  temerity,  and  with  all  her  force 
endeavoured  to  retreat ;  but  the  draught  of  the 
gulf  was  generally  too  strong  to  be  overcome  ; 
and  the  passenger,  having  danced  in  circles  with 
a  pleasing  and  giddy  velocity,  was  at  last  over- 
whelmed and  lost.  Those  few  whom  Reason 
was  able  to  extricate,  generally  suffered  so 
many  shocks  upon  the  points  which  shot  out 
from  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  that  they  were  un- 
able to  continue  their  course  with  the  same 
strength  and  facility  as  before,  but  floated  along 
timorously  and  feebly,  endangered  by  every 
breeze,  and  shattered  by  every  ruffle  of  the  wa- 
ter, till  they  sunk,  by  slow  degrees,  after  long 
struggles,  and  innumerable  expedients,  always 
repining  at  their  own  folly,  and  warning  others 
against  the  first  approach  of  the  gulf  of  Intem- 
perance. 

There  were  artists  who  professed  to  repair  the 
breaches  and  stop  the  leaks  ofthe  vessels  which 
had  been  shattered  on  the  rocks  of  Pleasure. 
Many  appeared  to  have  great  confidence  in 
their  skill,  and  some,  indeed,  were  preserved 
by  it  from  sinking,  who  had  received  only  a 
single  blow ;  but  I  'remarked  that  few  vessels 
lasted  long  which  had  been  much  repaired,  nor 
was  it  found  that  the  artists  themselves  continued 
afloat  longer  than  those  who  had  least  of  their 
assistance. 

The  only  advantage  which  in  the  voyage  of 
life,  the  cautious  had  above  the  negligent,  was, 
that  they  sunk  later,  and  more  suddenly!  for 
they  passed  forward  till  they  had  sometimes 
seen  all  those  in  whose  company  they  had  is- 
sued from  the  streights  of  infancy,  perish  in  the 
way,  and  at  last  were  overset  by  a  cross  breeze, 
without  the  toil  of  resistance,  or  the  anguish  of 
expectation.  But  such  as  had  often  fallen 
against  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  commonly  sub- 
sided by  sensible  degrees,  contended  long  with 
the  encroaching  waters,  and  harassed  themselves 
by  labours  that  scarce  Hope  herself  could  flatter 
with  success. 

As  I  was  looking  upon  the  various  fate  of  the 
multitude  about  me,  I  was  suddenly  alarmed 
with  an  admonition  from  some  unknown 
Power :  "  Gaze  not  idly  upon  others,  when 
thou  thyself  art  sinking.  Whence  is  this 
thoughtless  tranquillity,  when  thou  and  they 
are  equally  endangered?"  I  looked,  and  seeing 
the  gulf  of  Intemperance  before  me,  started  and 
awaked. 


No.  103.]      TUESDAY,  MARCH  12,  1751. 

Scire  volunt  secrcta  damns,  atque  inde  timeri.     JUT. 

They  search  the  secrets  of  the  house,  and  so 

Are  worshipped  there,  and  fear'd  for  what  they  know? 

DRYDEN. 

CURIOSITY  is  one  of  the  permanent  and  certain 
characteristics  of  a  vigorous  intellect.  Every  ad- 
vance into  knowledge  opens  new  prospects,  and 
produces  new  incitements  to  further  progress. 
All  the  attainments  possible  in  our  present  state 


No.  103.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


IGc 


are  evidently  inadequate  to  our  capacities  of  en- 
joyment ;  conquest  serves  no  purpose  but  that  of 
kindling  ambition,  discovery  has  no  effect  but  of 
raising  expectation  ;  the  gratification  of  one  de- 
sire encourages  another;  and,  after  all  our  la- 
bours, studies,  and  inquiries,  we  are  continually 
at  the  same  distance  from  the  completion  of  our 
schemes,  have  still  some  wish  importunate  to  be 
satisfied,  and  some  faculty  restless  and  turbulent 
for  want  of  its  enjoyment. 

The  desire  of  knowledge,  though  often  ani- 
mated by  extrinsic  and  adventitious  motives, 
seems  on  many  occasions  to  operate  without 
subordination  to  any  other  principle ;  we  are 
eager  to  see  and  hear,  without  intention  of  re- 
ferring our  observations  to  a  further  end ;  we 
climb  a  mountain  for  a  prospect  of  the  plain ; 
we  run  to  the  strand  in  a  storm,  that  we  may 
contemplate  the  agitation  of  the  water;  we 
range  from  city  to  city,  though  we  profess  nei- 
ther architecture  nor  fortification  ;  we  cross  seas 
only  to  view  nature  in  nakedness,  or  magnifi- 
cence in  ruins;  we  are  equally  allured  by  no- 
velty of  every  kind,  by  a  desert  or  a  palace,  a 
cataract  or  a  cavern,  by  every  thing  rude  and 
every  thing  polished,  every  thing  great  and 
every  thing  little  ;  we  do  not  see  a  thicket  but 
with  some  temptation  to  enter  it,  nor  remark  an 
insect  flying  before  us  but  with  an  inclination  to 
pursue  it. 

This  passion  is,  perhaps,  regularly  heightened 
in  proportion  as  the  powers  of  the  mind  are  ele- 
vated and  enlarged.  Lucan  therefore  introduces 
Caisar  speaking  with  dignity  suitable  to  the 
grandeur  of  his  designs  and  the  extent  of  his 
capacity,  when  he  declares  to  the  high-priest  of 
Egypt,  that  he  has  no  desire  equally  powerful 
with  that  of  finding  the  origin  of  the  Nile,  and 
that  he  would  quit  all  the  projects  of  the  civil 
war  for  a  sight  of  those  fountains  which  had 
been  so  long  concealed.  And  Homer,  when  he 
would  furnish  the  Sirens  with  a  temptation,  to 
which  his  hero,  renowned  for  wisdom,  might 
yield  without  disgrace,  makes  them  declare, 
that  none  ever  departed  from  them  but  with  in- 
crease of  knowledge. 

There  is,  indeed,  scarce  any  kind  of  ideal  ac- 
quirement which  may  not  be  applied  to  some  use, 
or  which  may  not  at  least  gratify  pride  with  oc- 
casional superiority;  but  whoever  attends  the 
motions  of  his  own  mind  will  find,  that  upon  the 
first  appearance  of  an  object,  or  the  first  start  of 
a  question,  his  inclination  to  a  nearer  view,  or 
more  accurate  discussion,  precedes  all  thoughts 
of  profit,  or  of  competition  ;  and  that  his  desires 
take  wing  by  instantaneous  impulse,  though  their 
flight  may  be  invigorated,  or  their  efforts  renew- 
ed, by  subsequent  considerations.  The  gratifi- 
cation of  curiosity  rather  frees  us  from  uneasi- 
ness than  confers  pleasure  ;  we  are  more  pained 
by  ignorance  than  delighted  by  instruction.  Cu- 
riosity is  the  thirst  of  the  soul ;  it  inflames  and 
torments  us,  and  makes  us  taste  every  thing  with 
joy,  however,  otherwise  insipid,  by  which  it  may 
be  quenched. 

It  is  evident  that  the  earliest  searchers  after 
knowledge  must  have  proposed  knowledge  only 
as  their  reward  ;  and  that  science,  though  per- 
haps the  nursling  of  interest,  was  the  daughter 
of  curiosity :  for  who  can  believe  that  they  who 
first  watched  the  course  of  the  stars,  foresaw  the 
use  of  their  discoveries  to  the  facilitation  of  com- 


'merce,  or  the  mensuration  of  time?  They  were 
delighted  with  the  splendour  of  the  nocturnal 
skies,  they  found  that  the  lights  changed  their 
places  ;  what  they  admired  they  were  anxious  to 
understand,  and  in  time  traced  their  revolutions. 

There  are  indeed,  beings  in  the  form  of  men, 
who  appear  satisfied  with  their  intellectual  pos- 
sessions, and  seem  to  live  without  desire  of  en- 
larging their  conceptions ;  before  whom  the 
world  passes  without  notice,  and  who  are  equally 
unmoved  by  nature  or  art. 

This  negligence  is  sometimes  only  the  tempo- 
rary effect  of  a  predominant  passion  ;  a  lover 
finds  no  inclination  to  travel  any  path,  but  that 
which  leads  to  the  habitation  of  his  mistress  ;  a 
trader  can  pay  little  attention  to  common  occur- 
rences, when  his  fortune  is  endangered  by  a 
storm.  It  is  frequently  the  consequence  of  a 
total  immersion  in  sensuality ;  corporeal  plea- 
sures may  be  indulged  till  the  memory  of  every 
other  kind  of  happiness  is  obliterated ;  the  mind, 
long  habituated  to  a  lethargic  and  quiescent  state, 
is  unwilling  to  wake  to  the  toil  of  thinking ;  and 
though  she  may  sometimes  be  disturbed  by  the 
obtrusion  of  new  ideas,  shrinks  back  again  to 
ignorance  and  rest. 

But,  indeed,  if  we  except  them  to  whom  the 
continual  task  of  procuring  the  supports  of  life 
denies  all  opportunities  of  deviation  from  their 
own  narrow  track,  the  number  of  such  as  live 
without  the  ardour  of  inquiry  is  very  small, 
though  many  content  themselves  with  cheap 
amusements,  and  waste  their  lives  in  researches 
of  no  importance. 

There  is  no  snare  more  dangerous  to  busy  and 
excursive  minds,  than  the  cobwebs  of  petty  in- 
quisitiveness,  which  entangle  them  in  trivial 
employments  and  minute  studies,  and  detain 
them  in  a  middle  state,  between  the  tediousness 
of  total  inactivity,  and  the  fatigue  of  laborious 
efforts,  enchant  them  at  once  with  ease  and  no- 
velty, and  vitiate  them  with  the  luxury  of  learn- 
ing The  necessity  of  doing  something,  and  the 
fear  of  undertaking  much,  sinks  the  historian  to 
a  genealogist,  the  philosopher  to  a  journalist  ot 
the  weather,  and  the  mathematician  to  a  con- 
structor of  dials. 

It  is  happy  when  those  who  cannot  content 
themselves  to  be  idle,  nor  resolve  to  be  industri- 
ous, are  at  least  Employed  without  injury  to 
others  ;  but  it  seldom  happens  that  we  can  con- 
tain ourselves  long  in  a  neutral  state,  or  forbear 
to  sink  into  vice,  when  we  are  no  longer  soaring 
towards  virtue. 

Nugaculus  was  distinguished  in  his  earlier 
years  by  an  uncommon  liveliness  of  imagination, 
quickness  of  sagacity,  and  extent  of  knowledge 
When  he  entered  into  life,  he  applied  himsel. 
with  particular  inquisitiveness  to  examine  the 
various  motives  of  human  actions,  the  compli- 
cated influence  of  mingled  affections,  the  differ- 
ent modifications  of  interest  and  ambition,  and 
the  various  causes  of  miscarriage  and  success 
both  in  public  and  private  affairs. 

Though  his  friends  did  not  discover  to  what 
purpose  all  these  observations  were  collected,  or 
how  Nugaculus  would  much  improve  his  virtue 
or  his  fortune  by  an  incessant  attention  to  changes 
of  countenance,  bursts  of  inconsideration,  sallies 
of  passion,  and  all  the  other  casualities  by  which 
he  used  to  trace  a  character,  yet  they  could  not 
deny  the  study  of  human  nature  to  be  worthy  of 


164 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  104 


a  wise  man ;  they  therefore  flattered  his  vanity, 
applauded  his  discoveries,  and  listened  with  sub- 
missive modesty  to  his  lectures  on  the  uncertain- 
ty of  inclination,  the  weakness  of  resolves,  and  the 
instability  of  temper,  to  his  account  of  the  various 
motives  which  agitate  the  mind,  and  his  ridicule 
of  the  modern  dream  of  a  ruling  passion. 

Such  was  the  first  incitement  of  Nugaculus  to 
a  close  inspection  into  the  conduct  of  mankind. 
He  had  no  interest  in  view,  and  therefore  no  de- 
sign of  supplantation ;  he  had  no  malevolence, 
and  therefore  detected  faults  without  any  inten- 
tion to  expose  them ;  but  having  once  found  the 
art  of  engaging  his  attention  upon  others,  he  had 
no  inclination  to  call  it  back  to  himself,  but  has 
passed  his  time  in  keeping  a  watchful  eye  upon 
every  rising  character,  and  lived  upon  a  small 
estate  without  any  thought  of  increasing  it. 

He  is,  by  continual  application,  become  a  ge- 
neral master  of  secret  history,  and  can  give  an 
account  of  the  intrigues,  private  marriages,  com- 
petitions, and  stratagems  of  half  a  century.  He 
knows  the  mortgages  upon  every  man's  estate, 
the  terms  upon  which  every  spendthrift  raises 
his  money,  the  real  and  reputed  fortune  of  every 
lady,  the  jointure  stipulated  by  every  contract, 
and  the  expectations  of  every  family  from  maid- 
en aunts  and  childless  acquaintances.  He  can 
relate  the  economy  of  every  house,  knows  how 
much  one  man's  cellar  is  robbed  by  his  butler, 
and  the  land  of  another  underlet  by  his  steward; 
he  can  tell  where  the  manor-house  is  falling, 
though  large  sums  are  yearly  paid  for  repairs ; 
and  where  the  tenants  are  felling  woods  without 
the  consent  of  the  owner. 

To  obtain  all  this  intelligence,  he  is  inadvert- 
ently guilty  of  a  thousand  acts  of  treachery.  He 
sees  no  man's  servant  without  draining  him  of  his 
trust ;  he  enters  no  family  without  flattering  the 
children  into  discoveries ;  he  is  a  perpetual  spy 
upon  the  doors  of  his  neighbours;  and  knows,  by 
long  experience,  at  whatever  distance,  the  looks 
of  a  creditor,  a  borrower,  a  lover,  and  a  pimp. 

Nugaculus  is  not  ill-natured,  and  therefore  his 
industry  has  not  hitherto  been  very  mischievous 
to  others,  or  dangerous  to  himself:  but  since  he 
cannot  enjoy  this  knowledge  but  by  discovering 
it,  and,  if  he  had  no  other  motive  to  loquacity,  is 
obliged  to  traffic  like  the  chymists,  and  purchase 
one  secret  with  another ;  he*  is  every  day  more 
hated  as  he  is  more  known  ;  for  he  is  considered 
by  great  numbers  as  one  that  has  their  fame  and 
their  happiness  in  his  power,  and  no  man  can 
much  love  him  of  whom  he  lives  in  fear. 

Thus  has  an  intention,  innocent  at  first,  if  not 
laudable,  the  intention  of  regulating  his  own  be- 
haviour by  the  experience  of  others,  by  an  acci- 
dental declension  to  minuteness,  betrayed  Nuga- 
culus, not  only  to  a  foolish,  but  vicious  waste  of  a 
life  which  might  have  been  honourably  passed  in 
public  services,  or  domestic  virtues.  He  has  lost 
his  original  intention,  and  given  up  his  mind  to 
employments  that  engross,  but  do  not  improve  it. 


No.  104.]      SATURDAY,  MARCH  16,  1751. 

ffikil  est  quod  credere  de  ae 

ffon  poisit jw. 

None  e'er  rejects  hyperboles  of  praise. 

THE  apparent  insufficiency  of  every  individual  to 
his  own  happiness  qr  safety,  compels  us  to  seek 


from  one  another  assistance  and  support.  The 
necessity  of  joint  efforts  for  the  execution  of  any 
great  or  extensive  design,  the  variety  of  powers 
disseminated  in  the  species,  and  the  proportion 
between  the  defects  and  excellences  of  different 
persons,  demand  an  interchange  of  help,  and 
communication  of  intelligence,  and  by  frequent 
reciprocations  of  beneficence  unite  mankind  in 
society  and  friendship. 

If  it  can  be  imagined  that  there  ever  was  a 
time  when  the  inhabitants  of  any  country  were 
in  a  state  of  equality,  without  distinction  of  rank, 
or  peculiarity  of  possessions,  it  is  reasonable  to 
believe  that  every  man  was  then  loved  in  pro- 
portion as  he  could  contribute  by  his  strength 
or  his  skill  to  the  supply  of  natural  wants  ;  there 
was  then  little  room  for  peevish  dislike,  or  ca- 
pricious favour ;  the  affection  admitted  into  the 
heart  was  rather  esteem  than  tenderness ;  and 
kindness  was  only  purchased  by  benefits.  But 
when  by  force  or  policy,  by  wisdom  or  by  for- 
tune, property  and  superiority  were  introduced 
and  established,  so  that  many  were  condemned 
to  labour  for  the  support  of  a  few,  then  they 
whose  passions  swelled  above  their  wants,  na- 
turally laid  out  their  superfluities  upon  pleasure  , 
and  those  who  could  not  gain  friendship  by  ne- 
cessary offices,  endeavoured  to  promote  their 
interest  by  luxurious  gratifications,  and  to  create 
needs,  which  they  might  be  courted  to  supply 

The  desires  of  mankind  are  much  more  nume 
rous  than  their  attainments,  and  the  capacity  of 
imagination  much  larger  than  the  actual  enjoy- 
ment. Multitudes  are  therefore  unsatisfied  with 
their  allotment ;  and  he  that  hopes  to  improve 
his  condition  by  the  favour  of  another,  and  either 
finds  no  room  for  the  exertion  of  great  qualities, 
or  perceives  himself  excelled  by  his  rivals,  will, 
by  other  expedients,  endeavour  to  become  agree- 
able where  he  cannot  be  important,  and  learn,  by 
degrees,  to  number  the  art  of  pleasing  among 
the  most  useful  studies,  and  most  valuable  ac- 
quisitions. 

This  art,  like  others,  is  cultivated  in  propor- 
tion to  its  usefulness,  and  will  always  flourish 
most  where  it  is  most  rewarded ;  for  this  reason 
we  find  it  practised  with  great  assiduity  under 
absolute  governments,  where  honours  and  riches 
are  in  the  hands  of  one  man,  whom  all  endea- 
vour to  propitiate,  and  who  soon  becomes  so 
much  accustomed  to  compliance  and  officious- 
ness,  as  not  easily  to  find,  in  the  most  delicate 
address,  that  novelty  which  is  necessary  to  pro- 
cure attention. 

It  is  discovered  by  a  very  few  experiments, 
that  no  man  is  much  pleased  with  a  companion, 
who  does  not  increase,  in  some  respect,  his  fond- 
ness of  himself;  and  therefore,  he  that  wishes 
rather  to  be  led  forward  to  prosperity  by  the  gen- 
tle hand  of  favour,  than  to  force  his  way  by  la- 
bour and  merit,  must  consider  with  more  care 
how  to  display  his  patron's  excellences  than  his 
own  ;  that  whenever  he  approaches,  he  may  fill 
the  imagination  with  pleasing  dreams,  and  chase 
away  disgust  and  weariness  by  a  perpetual  suc- 
cession of  delightful  images. 

This  may,  indeed,  sometimes  be  effected  by 
turning  the  attention  upon  advantages  which  are 
really  possessed,  or  upon  prospects  which  reason 
spreads  before  hope ;  for  whoever  can  deserve 
or  require  to  be  courted,  has  generally,  either 
from  nature  or  from  fortune,  gifts,  which  he  may 


No.  105.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


165 


review  with  satisfaction,  and  of  which,  when  he 
is  artfully  recalled  to  the  contemplation,  he  will 
seldom  be  displeased. 

But  those  who  have  once  degraded  their  un- 
derstanding to  an  application  only  to  the  pas- 
sions, and  who  have  learned  to  derive  hope  from 
any  other  sources  than  industry  and  virtue,  sel- 
dom retain  dignity  and  magnanimity  sufficient  to 
defend  them  against  the  constant  recurrence  of 
temptation  to  falsehood.  He  that  is  too  desirous 
to  be  loved,  will  soon  learn  to  flatter,  and  when 
he  has  exhausted  all  the  variations  of  honest 
praise,  and  can  delight  no  longer  with  the  civi- 
lity of  truth,  he  will  invent  new  topics  of  pane- 
gyric, and  break  out  into  raptures  at  virtues  and 
beauties  conferred  by  himself. 

The  drudgeries  of  dependence  would,  indeed, 
be  aggravated  by  hopelessness  of  success,  if  no 
indulgence  was  allowed  to  adulation.  He  that 
will  obstinately  confine  his  patrorj  to  hear  only 
the  commendations  which  he  deserves,  will  soon 
be  forced  to  give  way  to  others,  that  regale  him 
with  more  compass  of  music.  The  greatest 
human  virtue  bears  no  proportion  to  human 
vanity.  We  always  think  ourselves  better  than 
we  are,  and  are  generally  desirous  that  others 
should  think  us  still  better  than  we  think  our- 
selves. To  praise  us  for  actions  or  dispositions 
which  deserve  praise,  is  not  to  confer  a  benefit, 
but  to  pay  a  tribute.  We  have  always  pretenr 
sions  to  fame,  which,  in  our  own  hearts,  we 
know  to  be  disputable,  and  which  we  are  desir- 
ous to  strengthen  by  a  new  suffrage  ;  we  have 
always  hopes  which  we  suspect  to  be  fallacious, 
and  of  which  we  eagerly  snatch  at  every  con- 
firmation. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  proper  to  make  the  first  ap- 
proaches under  the  conduct  of  truth,  and  to  se- 
cure credit  to  future  encomiums,  by  such  praise 
as  may  be  ratified  by  the  conscience ;  but  the 
mind  once  habituated  to  the  lusciousness  of  eu- 
logy, becomes,  in  a  short  time,  nice  and  fastidi- 
ous, and  like  a  vitiated  palate,  is  incessantly  call- 
ing for  higher  gratifications. 

It  is  scarcely  credible  to  what  degree  discern- 
ment may  be  dazzled  by  the  mist  of  pride,  and 
wisdom  infatuated  by  the  intoxication  of  flattery; 
or  how  low  the  genius  may  descend  by  succes- 
sive gradations  of  servility,  and  how  swiftly  it 
may  fall  down  the  precipice  of  falsehood.  No 
man  can,  indeed,  observe,  without  indignation, 
on  what  names,  both  of  ancient  and  modern 
times,  the  utmost  exuberance  of  praise  has  been 
lavished,  and  by  what  hands  ithas  been  bestowed. 
It  has  never  yet  been  found,  that  the  tyrant,  the 
plunderer,  the  oppressor,  the  most  hateful  of  the 
hateful,  the  most  profligate  of  the  profligate,  have 
been  denied  any  celebrations  which  they  were 
willing  to  purchase,  or  that  wickedness  and  folly 
have  not  found  correspondent  flatterers  through 
all  their  subordinations,  except  when  they  have 
been  associated  with  avarice  or  poverty,  and 
have  wanted  either  inclination  or  ability  to  hire  a 
panegyrist. 

As  there  is  no  character  so  deformed  as  to 
fright  away  from  it  the  prostitutes  of  praise, 
there  is  no  degree  of  encomiastic  veneration 
which  pride  has  refused.  The  emperors  of  Rome 
suffered  themselves  to  be  worshipped  in  their 
lives  with  altars  and  sacrifices ;  and  in  an  age 
more  enlightened,  the  terms  peculiar  to  the 
praise  and  worship  of  the  Supreme  Being,  have 


been  applied  to  wretches  whom  it  was  the  re- 
proach of  humanity  to  number  among  men;  and 
whom  nothing  but  riches  or  power  hindered 
those  that  read  or  wrote  their  deification,  from 
hunting  into  the  toils  of  justice,  as  distuibers  of 
the  peace  of  nature. 

There  are,  indeed,  many  among  the  poetical 
flatterers,  who  must  be  resigned  to  infamy  with- 
out vindications,  and  whom  we  must  confess  to 
have  deserted  the  cause  of  virtue  for  pay :  they 
have  committed,  against  full  conviction,  the 
crime  of  obliterating  the  distinctions  between 
good  and  evil,  and,  instead  of  opposing  the  en- 
croachments of  vice,  have  incited  her  progress, 
and  celebrated  her  conquests.  But  there  is  a 
lower  class  of  sycophants,  whose  understanding 
has  not  made  them  capable  of  equal  guilt.  Every 
man  of  high  rank  is  surrounded  with  numbers, 
who  have  no  other  rule  of  thought  or  action,  than 
his  maxims  and  his  conduct ;  whom  the  honour 
of  being  numbered  among  his  acquaintance  re- 
conciles to  all  his  vices,  and  all  his  absurdities  ; 
and  who  easily  persuade  themselves  to  esteem 
him,  by  whose  regard  they  consider  themselves 
as  distinguished  and  exalted. 

It  is  dangerous  for  mean  minds  to  venture 
themselves  within  the  sphere  of  greatness.  Stu- 
pidity is  soon  blinded  by  the^plendour  of  wealth, 
and  cowardice  is  easily  fettered  in  the  shackles 
of  dependance.  To  solicit  patronage,  is,  at  least, 
in  the  event,  to  set  virtue  to  sale.  None  can  be 
pleased  without  praise,  and  few  can  be  praised 
without  falsehood  ;  few  can  be  assiduous  with- 
out servility,  and  none  can  be  servile  without 
corruption. 


No.  105.]      TUESDAY,  MARCH  19, 1751. 

Animorum 

bnpulsu,  et  caeca  ma^naq'ue  cupidine  ducti.         JUT 

Vain  man  runs  headlong,  to  caprice  resigned 
Impell'd  by  passion,  and  with  folly  blind. 

I  WAS  lately  considering,  among  other  objects  of 
speculation,  the  new  attempt  of  a  universal  re- 
gister, an  office  in  which  every  man  may  lodge  an 
account  of  his  superfluities  and  wants,  of  what- 
ever he  desires  to  purchase  or  to  sell.  My  ima- 
gination soon  presented  to  me  the  latitude  to 
which  this  design  may  be  extended  by  integrity 
and  industry,  and  the  advantages  which  may  be 
justly  hoped  from  a  general  mart  of  intelligence, 
when  once  its  reputation  shall  be  so  established, 
that  neither  reproach  nor  fraud  shall  be  feared 
from  it;  when  an  application  to  it  shall  not  be 
censured  as  the  last  resource  of  desperation,  nor 
its  informations  suspected  as  the  fortuitous  sug- 
gestions of  men  obliged  not  to  appear  ignorant. 
A  place  where  every  exuberance  may  be  dis- 
charged, and  every  deficiency  supplied  ;  where 
every  lawful  passion  may  find  its  gratifications, 
and  every  honest  curiosity  receive  satisfaction ; 
where  the  stock  of  a  nation,  pecuniary  and  in- 
tellectual may  be  brought  together,  and  where 
all  conditions  of  humanity  may  hope  to  find  re- 
lief, pleasure,  and  accommodation;  must  equally 
deserve  the  attention  of  the  merchant  and  philo- 
sopher, of  him  who  mingles  in  the  tumult  of  bu- 
siness,  and  him  who  only  lives  to  amuse  himself 
with  the  various  employments  and  pursuits  oi 


106 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  105 


others.  Nor  will  it  be  an  uninstructing  school  to 
the  greatest  masters  of  method  and  despatch,  if 
such  multiplicity  can  be  preserved  from  embar- 
rassment, and  such  tumult  from  inaccuracy. 

NVhile  1  was  concerting  this  splendid  project, 
and  filling  my  thoughts  with  its  regulations,  its 
conveniences,  its  variety,  and  its  consequences, 
I  sunk  gradually  into  slumber:  but  the  same 
images,  though  less  distinct,  still  continued  to 
float  upon  my  fancy.  I  perceived  myself  at  the 
gate  of  an  immense  edifice,  where  innumerable 
multitudes  were  passing  without  confusion : 
every  face  on  which  I  fixed  my  eyes,  seemed 
settled  in  the  contemplation  of  some  important 
purpose,  and  every  foot  was  hastened  by  eager- 
ness and  expectation.  I  followed  the  crowd 
without  knowing  whither  I  should  be  drawn, 
and  remained  a  while  in  the  unpleasing  state  of 
an  idler,  where  all  other  beings  were  busy,  giv- 
ing place  every  moment  to  those  who  had  more 
importance  in  their  looks.  Ashamed  to  stand 
ignorant,  and  afraid  to  ask  questions,  at  last  I 
saw  a  lady  sweeping  by  me,  whom,  by  the  quick- 
ness of  her  eyes,  the  agility  of  her  steps,  and  a 
mixture  of  levity  and  impatience,  I  knew  to  be 
my  long-loved  protectress,  Curiosity.  "  Great 
goddess,"  said  I,  "  may  thy  votary  be  permitted 
to  implore  thy  favonr;  if  thou  hast  been  my  di- 
rectress from  the  first  dawn  of  reason ;  if  I  have 
followed  thee  through  the  maze  of  life  with  inva- 
riable fidelity;  if  I  have  turned  to  every  new  call, 
and  quitted  at  thy  nod  one  pursuit  for  another  ; 
if  I  have  never  stopped  at  the  invitations  of  for- 
tune, nor  forgotten  thy  authority  in  the  bowers 
of  pleasure ;  inform  me  now  whither  Chance  has 
conducted  me." 

"  Thou  art  now,"  replied  the  smiling  power, 
"  in  the  presence  of  Justice  and  of  Truth,  whom 
the  father  of  gods  and  men  has  sent  down  to 
register  the  demands  and  pretensions  of  man- 
kind, that  the  world  may  at  last  be  reduced  to 
order,  and  that  none  may  complain  hereafter  of 
being  doomed  to  tasks  for  which  they  are  un- 
qualified, of  possessing  faculties  for  which  they 
cannot  find  employment,  or  virtues  that  languish 
unobserved  for  want  of  opportunities  to  exert 
them,  of  being  encumbered  with  superfluities 
which  they  would  willingly  resign,  or  of  wast- 
ing away  in  desires  which  ought  to  be  satisfied. 
Justice  is  now  to  examine  every  man's  wishes, 
and  Truth  is  to  record  them ;  let  us  approach, 
and  observe  the  progress  of  this  great  trans- 
action." 

She  then  moved  forward,  and  Truth,  who 
knew  her  among  the  most  faithful  of  her  fol- 
lowers, beckoned  her  to  advance,  till  we  were 
placed  near  the  seat  of  Justice.  The  first  who 
required  the  assistance  of  the  office,  came  for- 
ward with  a  slow  pace,  and  tumour  of  dignity, 
and  shaking  a  weighty  purse  in  his  hand,  de- 
manded to  be  registered  by  Truth,  as  the  Mae- 
cenas of  the  present  age,  the  chief  en courager  of 
literary  merit,  to  whom  men  of  learning  and 
wit  might  apply  in  any  exigence  or  distress  with 
certainty  of  succour.  Justice  very  mildly  in- 
quired, whether  he  had  calculated  the  expense 
of  such  a  declaration  ?  Whether  he  had  been 
informed  what  number  of  petitioners  would 
swarm  about  him?  Whether  he  could  distin- 
guish idleness  and  negligence  from  calamity,  os- 
tentation from  knowledge,  or  vivacity  from  wit  ? 
To  these  questions  he  seemed  not  well  provided 


with  a  reply,  but  repeated  his  desire  to  be  record- 
ed a  patron.  Justice  then  offered  to  register  his 
proposal  on  these  conditions,  that  he  should 
never  suffer  himself  to  be  flattered ;  that  he 
should  never  delay  an  audience  when  he  had 
nothing  to  do;  and  that  he  should  never  en- 
courage followers  without  intending  to  reward 
them.  These  terms  were  too  hard  to  be  accept- 
ed ;  for  what,  said  he,  is  the  end  of  patronage, 
but  the  pleasure  of  reading  dedications,  holding 
multitudes  in  suspense,  and  enjoying  their 
hopes,  their  fears,  and  their  anxiety,  flattering 
them  to  assiduity,  and,  at  last,  dismissing  them 
for  impatience  ?  Justice  heard  his  confession, 
and  ordered  his  name  to  be  posted  upon  the 
gate  among  cheats  and  robbers,  and  public 
nuisances,  which  all  were  by  that  notice  warned 
to  avoid. 

Another  required  to  be  made  known  as  the 
discoverer  of  a  new  art  of  education,  by  which 
languages  and  sciences  might  be  taught  to  all 
capacities,  and  all  inclinations,  without  fear  of 
punishment,  pain  of  confinement,  loss  of  any  part 
of  the  gay  mein  of  ignorance,  or  any  obstruction 
of  the  necessary  progress  in  dress,  dancing,  or 
cards. 

Justice  and  Truth  did  not  trouble  this  great 
adept  with  many  inquiries ;  but  finding  his  ad- 
dress awkward  and  his  speech  barbarous,  or 
dered  him  to  be  registered  as  a  tall  fellow  who 
wanted  employment,  and  might  serve  in  any 
post  where  the  knowledge  of  reading  and  writing 
was  not  required. 

A  man  of  a  very  grave  and  philosophic  aspect, 
required  notice  to  be  given  of  his  intention  to  set 
out,  a  certain  day,  on  a  submarine  voyage,  and 
of  his  willingness  to  take  in  passengers  for  no 
more  than  double  the  price  at  which  they  might 
sail  above  water.  His  desire  was  granted,  and 
he  retired  to  a  convenient  stand,  in  expectation 
of  filling  his  ship,  and  growing  rich  in  a  short 
time  by  the  secrecy,  safety,  and  expedition  of 
the  passage. 

Another  desired  to  advertise  the  curious,  that 
he  had,  for  the  advancement  of  true  knowledge, 
contrived  an  optical  instrument,  by  which  those 
who  laid  out  their  industry  on  memorials  of  the 
changes  of  the  wind,  might  observe  the  direction 
of  the  weathercocks  on  tha  hitherside  of  the 
lunar  world. 

Another  wished  to  be  known  as  the  author  of 
an  invention,  by  which  cities  or  kingdoms  might 
be  made  •warm  in  winter  by  a  single  fire,  a  ket- 
tle, and  pipe.  Another  had  a  vehicle  by  which  a 
man  might  bid  defiance  to  floods,  and  continue 
floating  in  an  inundation,  without  any  inconve- 
nience, till  the  water  should  subside.  Justice 
considered  these  projects  as  of  no  importance 
but  to  their  authors,  and  therefore  scarcely  con- 
descended to  examine  them  ;  but  Truth  refused 
to  admit  them  into  the  register. 

Twenty  different  pretenders  came  in  one  hour 
to  give  notice  of  a  universal  medicine,  by  which 
all  diseases  might  be  cured  or  prevented,  and  life 
protracted  beyond  the  age  of  Nestor.  But.  Jus- 
tice informed  them,  that  one  universal  medicine 
was  sufficient,  and  she  should  delay  the  notifica- 
tion till  she  saw  who  could  longest  preserve  his 
own  life. 

A  thousand  other  claims  and  offers  were  exhi 
bited  and  examined.  I  remarked,  among  this 
mighty  multitude,  that,  of  intellectual  advan- 


No.  106.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


167 


tages,  many  had  great  exuberance,  and  few  con- 
fessed any  want ;  of  every  art  there  were  a  hun- 
dred professors  for  a  single  pupil ;  but  of  other 
attainments,  such  as  riches,  honours,  and  prefer- 
ments, I  found  none  that  had  too  much,  but 
thousands  and  ten  thousands  that  thought  them- 
selves entitled  to  a  larger  dividend. 

It  often  happened,  that  old  misers,  and  women 
married  at  the  close  of  life,  advertised  their  want 
of  children  ;  nor  was  it  uncommon  for  those  who 
had  a  numerous  offspring,  to  give  notice  of  a  son 
or  daughter  to  be  spared ;  but,  though  appear- 
ances promised  well  on  both  sides,  the  bargain 
seldom  succeeded  ;  for  they  soon  lost  their  incli- 
nation to  adopted  children,  and  proclaimed  their 
intentions  to  promote  some  scheme  of  public 
charity ;  a  thousand  proposals  were  immediately 
made,  among  which  they  hesitated  till  death 
precluded  the  decision. 

As  I  stood  looking  on  this  scene  of  confusion, 
Truth  condescended  to  ask  me,  what  was  my 
business  at  her  office  ?  I  was  struck  with  the 
unexpected  question,  and  awaked  by  my  efforts 
to  answer  it. 


No.  106.]      SATURDAY,  MARCH  23,  1751. 

Opinionum  commenta  delct  dies,  nature  judicia  con 
Jirmat.  Cic. 

Time  obliterates  the  fictions  of  opinion,  and  confirms  the 
decisions  of  nature. 

IT  is  necessary  to  the  success  of  flattery,  that  it 
be  accommodated  to  particular  circumstances  or 
characters,  and  enter  the  heart  on  that  side  where 
the  passions  stand  ready  to  receive  it  A  lady 
seldom  listens  with  attention  to  any  praise  but 
that  of  her  beauty ;  a  merchant  always  expects 
to  hear  of  his  influence  at  the  bank,  his  import- 
ance on  the  exchange,  the  height  of  his  credit, 
and  the  extent  of  his  traffic :  and  the  author  will 
scarcely  be  pleased  without  lamentations  of  the 
neglect  of  learning,  the  conspiracies  against  ge- 
nius, and  the  slow  progress  of  merit,  or  some 
praises  of  the  magnanimity  of  those  who  encoun- 
ter poverty  and  contempt  in  the  cause  of  know- 
ledge, and  trust  for  the  reward  of  their  labours  to 
the  judgment  and  gratitude  of  posterity. 

An  assurance  of  unfading  laurels,  and  immor- 
tal reputation  is  the  settled  reciprocation  of 
civility  between  amicable  writers.  To  raise 
monuments  more  durable  than  brass,  and  more  con- 
spicuous than  pyramids,  has  been  long  the  com- 
mon boast  of  literature  ;  but  among  the  innume- 
rable architects  that  erect  columns  to  themselves, 
for  the  greater  part,  either  for  want  of  durable 
materials,  or  of  art  to  dispose  them,  see  their 
edifices  perish  as  they  are  towering  to  comple- 
tion, and  those  few  that  for  a  while  attract  the 
eye  of  mankind,  are  generally  weak  in  the  foun- 
dation, and  soon  sink  by  the  saps  of  time. 

No  place  affords  a  more  striking  conviction  of 
the  vanity  of  human  hopes,  than  a  public  library ; 
for  who  can  see  the  wall  crowded  on  every  side 
by  mighty  volumes,  the  works  of  laborious  me- 
ditation and  accurate  inquiry,  now  scarcely 
known  but  by  the  catalogue,  and  preserved  only 
to  increase  the  pomp  of  learning,  without  con- 
sidering how  many  hours  have  been  wasted  in 
vain  endeavours,  how  often  imagination  has  an- 
ticipated the  praises  of  futurity,  how  many  statues 


have  risen  to  the  eye  of  vanity,  how  many  ideal 
converts  have  elevated  zeal,  how  often  wit  has 
exulted  in  the  eternal  infamy  of  his  antagonists, 
and  dogmatism  has  delighted  in  the  gradual  ad- 
vances of  his  authority,  the  immutability  of  his 
decrees,  and  the  perpetuity  of  his  power? 

Non  unquam  dedit 

Documentafors  major  a,  quam  fragili  loco 
Slarent  superbi. 

Instilling  chance  ne'er  call'd  with  louder  voice 
On  swelling  mortal?  to  be  proud  no  more. 

Of  the  innumerable  authors  whose  perform- 
ances are  thus  treasured  up  in  magnificent  ob- 
scurity, most  are  forgotten,  because  they  never 
deserved  to  be  remembered,and  owed  the  honours 
which  they  once  obtained,  not  to  judgment  or  to 
genius,  to  labour  or  to  art,  but  to  the  prejudice  of 
faction,  the  stratagem  of  intrigue,  or  the  servility 
of  adulation. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  to  find  men 
whose  works  are  now  totally  neglected,  men- 
tioned with  praises  by  their  contemporaries,  as 
the  oracles  of  their  age,  and  the  legislators  of 
science.  Curiosity  is  naturally  excited,  their 
volumes  after  long  inquiry  are  found,  but  seldom 
reward  the  labour  of  the  search.  Every  period 
of  time  has  produced  these  bubbles  of  artificial 
fame,  which  are  kept  up  awhile  by  the  breath  of 
fashion,  and  then  break  at  once,  and  are  annihi- 
lated. The  learned  often  bewail  the  loss  of  an- 
cient writers  whose  characters  have  survived 
their  works  ;  but,  perhaps,  if  we  could  now  re- 
trieve them,  we  should  find  them  only  the 
Granvilles,  Montagues,  Stepneys,  and  Sheffields 
of  their  time,  and  wonder  by  what  infatuation 
or  caprice  they  could  be  raised  to  notice. 

It  cannot,  however,  be  denied  that  many  have 
sunk  into  oblivion,  whom  it  were  unjust  to  num- 
ber with  this  despicable  class.  Various  kinds  of 
literary  fame  seem  destined  to  various  measures 
of  duration.  Some  spread  into  exuberance  with 
a  very  speedy  growth,  but  soon  wither  and  de- 
cay; some  rise  more  slowly,  but  last  long. 
Parnassus  has  its  flowers  of  transient  fragrance, 
as  well  as  its  oaks  of  towering  height,  and  its 
laurels  of  eternal  verdure. 

Among  those  whose  reputation  is  exhausted 
in  a  short  time  by  its  own  luxuriance,  are  the 
writers  who  take  advantage  of  present  incidents 
or  characters  which  strongly  interest  the  pas- 
sions, and  engage  universal  attention.  It  is  not 
difficult  to  obtain  readers,  when  we  discuss  a 
question  which  every  one  is  desirous  to  under 
stand,  which  is  debated  in  every  assembly,  and 
has  divided  the  nation  into  parties ;  or  when  we 
display  the  faults  or  virtues  of  him  whose  public 
conduct  has  made  almost  every  man  his  enemy 
or  his  friend.  To  the  quick  circulation  of  such 
productions  all  the  motives  of  interest  and  vanity 
concur;  the  disputant  enlarges  his  knowledge, 
the  zealot  animates  his  passion,  and  every  man 
is  desirous  to  inform  himself  concerning  affairs 
so  vehemently  agitated  and  variously  repre- 
sented. 

It  is  scarcely  to  be  imagined,  through  how 
many  subordinations  of  interest  the  ardour  of 
party  is  diffused  ;  and  what  multitudes  fancy 
themselves  affected  by  every  satire  or  panegyric 
on  a  man  of  eminence.  Whoever  has,  at  any 
time,  taken  occasion  to  mention  him  with  praise 
or  blame,  whoever  happens  to  love  or  hate  anv 


168 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  107 


oi  his  adherents,  as  he  wishes  to  confirm  his 
opinion,  and  to  strengthen  his  party,  will  dili- 
gently peruse  every  paper  from  which  he  can 
hi.Mi-'for  sentiments  like  his  own.  An  object, 
however  small  in  itself,  if  placed  near  to  the  eye, 
will  engross  all  the  rays  of  light;  and  a  transac- 
tion however  trivial,  swells  into  importance 
when  it  presses  immediately  on  our  attention. 
He  that  shall  peruse  the  political  pamphlets  of 
any  past  reign,  will  wonder  why  they  were  so 
eagerly  read,  or  so  loudly  praised.  Many  of 
the  performances  which  had  power  to  inflame 
factions,  and  fill  a  kingdom  with  confusion,  have 
now  very  little  effect  upon  a  frigid  critic ;  and 
the  time  is  coming,  when  the  compositions  of 
later  hirelings  shall  lie  equally  despised.  In 
proportion  as  those  who  write  on  temporary  sub- 
jects are  exalted  above  their  merit  at  first,  they 
are  afterwards  depressed  below  it ;  rior  can  the 
brightest  elegance  of  diction,-or  m'ost  artful  sub- 
tility  of  reasoning,  hope  for  much  esteem  from 
those  whose  regard  is  no  longer  quickened  by 
curiosity  or  pride. 

It  is,  indeed,  the  fate  of  controvertists,  even 
when  they  contend  for  philosophical  or  theologi- 
cal truth,  to  be  soon  laid  aside  and  slighted. 
Either  the  question  is  decided,  and  there  is  no 
more  place  for  doubt  and  opposition :  or  man- 
kind despair  of  understanding  it,  and  grow  weary 
of  disturbance,  content  themselves  with  quiet 
ignorance,  and  refuse  to  be  harassed  with  labours 
which  they  have  no  hopes  of  recompensing  with 
knowledge. 

The  authors  of  new  discoveries  rriay  surely 
expect  to  be  reckoned  among  those  whose  writ- 
ings are  secure  of  veneration:  yet  it  often  happens 
that  the  general  reception  of  a  doctrine  obscures 
the  books  in  which  it  was  delivered.  When  any 
tenet  is  generally  received  and  adopted  as  an  in- 
controvertible principle,  we  seldom  look  back  to 
the  arguments  upon  which  it  was  first  esta- 
blished or  can  bear  that  tediousness  of  deduction, 
and  multiplicity  of  evidence,  by  which  its  author 
was  forced  to  reconcile  it  to  prejudice,  and  fortify 
it  in  the  weakness  of  novelty  against  obstinacy 
and  envy. 

It  is  well  known  how  much  of  our  philosophy 
is  derived  from  Boyle's  discovery  of  the  qualities 
of  the  air ;  yet  of  those  who  now  adopt  or  en- 
large his  theory,  very  few  have  read  the  detail  of 
his  experiments.  His  name  is,  indeed,  reve- 
renced ;  but  his  works  are  neglected :  we  are 
contented  to  know,  that  he  conquered  his  oppo- 
nents, without  inquiring  what  cavils  were  pro- 
duced against  him,  or  by  what  proofs  they  were 
confuted. 

Some  writers  apply  themselves  to  studies 
boundless  and  inexhaustible,  as  experiments  and 
natural  philosophy.  These  are  always  lost  in 
successive  compilations,  as  new  advances  are 
made,  and  former  observations  become  more 
familiar.  Others  spend  their  lives  in  remarks 
on  language,  or  explanations  of  antiquities,  and 
only  afford  materials  for  lexicographers  and 
commentators,  who  are  themselves  overwhelmed 
by  subsequent  collectors,  that  equally  destroy 
the  memory  of  their  predecessors  by  amplifica- 
tion, transposition,  or  contraction.  Every  new 
system  of  nature  gives  birth  to  a  swarm  of  expo- 
sitors, whose  business  is  to  explain  and  illus- 
trate it,  and  who  can  hope  to  exist  no  longer 


than  the  founder  of  their  aect  preserves  his  repu- 
tation. 

There  are,  indeed,  few  kinds  of  composition 
from  which  an  author,  however  learned  or  in- 
genious, can  hope  a  long  continuance  of  fame.' 
He  who  has  carefully  studied  human  nature, 
and  can  well  describe  it,  may  with  most  reason 
flatter  his  arrfbition.  Bacon,  among  all  his  pre- 
tensions to  the  regard  of  posterity,  seems  to  have 
pleased  himself  chiefly  with  his  Essays,  which 
come  home  to  men's  business  and  bosoms,  and  of 
which,  therefore,  he  declares  his  expectation, 
that  they  will  live  as  long  as  books  last.  It  may, 
however,  satisfy  an  honest  and  benevolent  mind 
to  have  been  useful,  though  less  conspicuous ; 
nor  will  he  that  extends  his  hope  to  higher 
rewards  be  so  much  anxious  to  obtain  praise, 
as  to  discharge  the  duty  which  Providence  as 
signs  him. 


No.  107.]     TUESDAY,  MARCH  26,  1751. 

Mternis  igilur  contfndere  versibus  ambo 
Ctcpere :  alttrnos  Musa  mcminisse  vulebant. 

VIRC 

On  themes  alternate  now  the  swains  recite  ; 
The  Muses  in  alternate  themes  delight. 

ELPHINSTON 

AMONG  the  various  censures,  which  the  una- 
voidable comparison  of  my  performances  with 
those  of  my  predecessors  has  produced,  there  is 
none  more  general  than  that  of  uniformity. 
Many  of  my  readers  remark  the  want  of  those 
changes  of  colours,  which  formerly  fed  the  at 
tention  with  unexhausted  novelty,and  of  that  in 
termixture  of  subjects,  or  alternation  of  manner, 
by  which  other  writers  relieved  weariness,  and 
awakened  expectation. 

I  have,  indeed,  hitherto  avoided  the  practice 
of  uniting  gay  and  solemn  subjects  in  the  same 
paper,  because  it  seems  absurd,  for  an  author  to 
counteract  himself,  to  press  at  once  with  equa^ 
force  upon  both  parts  of  the  intellectual  balance, 
or  give  medicines,  which,  like  the  double  poison 
of  Dryderi,  destroy  the  force  of  one  another.  I 
have  endeavoured  sometimes  to  divert,  and  some- 
times to  elevate  ;  but  have  imagined  it  a  useless 
attempt  to  disturb  merriment  by  solemnity,  or 
interrupt  seriousness  by  drollery.  Yet  I  shall 
this  day  publish  two  letters  of  very  different  ten- 
dency, which  I  hope,  like  tragi-comedy,  may 
chance  to  please  even  when  they  are  not  criu 
cally  approved. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

DEAR  SIR, 

THOUGH,  as  my  mamma  tells  me,  I  am  too 
young  to  talk  at  the  table,  I  have  great  pleasure 
in  listening  to  the  conversation  of  learned  men, 
especially  when  they  discourse  of  things  which  I 
do  not  understand  ;  and  have,  therefore,  been  of 
late  particularly  delighted  with  many  disputes 
about  the  alteration  of  the  style,  which,  they  say,  is 
to  be  made  by  act  of  parliament. 

One  day  when  my  mamma  was  gone  out  of 
the  room,  I  asked  a  very  great  scholar  what  the 
style  was  ?  He  told  me,  he  was  afraid  I  should 
hardly  understand  him  when  he  informed  me, 
that  it  was  the  stated  and  established  method  of 


No.  107.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


169 


computing  time.  It  was  not,  indeed,  likely  that 
I  should  understand  him ;  for  I  never  yet  knew 
time  computed  in  my  life,  nor  can  imagine  why 
we  should  be  at  so  much  trouble  to  count  what 
we  cannot  keep.  He  did  not  tell  me  whether 
we  are  to  count  the  time  past,  or  the  time  to 
come ;  but  I  have  considered  them  both  by  my- 
self, and  think  it  as  foolish  to  count  time  that  is 
gone,  as  money  that  is  spent;  and  as  for  the 
tiiiie  which  is  to  come,  it  only  seems  farther  off 
by  counting ;  and,  therefore,  when  any  pleasure 
is  promised  me,  I  always  think  of  the  time  as  lit- 
tle as  I  can. 

I  have  since  listened  very  attentively  to  every 
one  that  talked  upon  this  subject,  of  whom  the 
greater  part  seem  not  to  understand  it  better 
than  myself;  for  though  they  often  hint  how 
much  the  nation  has  been  mistaken,  and  rejoice 
that  we  are  at  last  growing  wiser  than  our  an- 
cestors, I  have  never  been  able  to  discover  from 
them,  that  any  body  has  died  sooner  or  been 
married  later  for  counting  time  wrong;  and, 
therefore,  I  began  to  fancy  that  there  was  a  great 
bustle  with  little  consequence. 

At  last  two  friends  of  my  papa,  Mr.  Cycle  and 
Mr.  Starlight,  being,  it  seems,  both  of  high  learn- 
ing, and  able  to  make  an  almanack,  began  to 
talk  about  the  new  style.  Sweet  Mr.  Starlight — 
I  am  sure  I  shall  love  his  name  as  long  as  I  live; 
for  he  told  Cycle  roundly,  with  a  fierce  look,  that 
we  should  never  be  right  without  a  year  of  confu- 
sion. Dear  Mr.  Rambler,  did  you  ever  hear  any 
thing  so  charming?  a  whole  year  of  confusion  ! 
When  there  has  been  a  rout  at  mamma's,  I  have 
thought  one  night  of  confusion  worth  a  thousand 
nights  of  rest ;  and  if  I  can  but  see  a  year  of  con- 
fusion, a  whole  year,  of  cards  in  one  room,  and 
dancings  in  another,  here  a  feast,  and  there  a 
masquerade,  and  plays,  and  coaches,  and  hur- 
ries, and  messages,  and  milliners,  and  raps  at 
the  door,  and  visits,  and  frolics,  and  new  fashions, 
I  shall  not  care  what  they  do  with  the  rest  of  the 
time,  nor  whether  they  count  it  by  the  old  style 
or  the  new ;  for  I  am  resolved  to  break  loose 
from  the  nursery  in  the  tumult,  and  play  my  part 
among  the  rest ;  and  it  will  be  strange  if  I  can- 
not get  a  husband  and  a  chariot  in  the  year  of 
confusion. 

Cycle,  who  is  neither  so  young  nor  so  hand- 
some as  Starlight,  very  gravely  maintained,  that 
all  the  perplexity  may  be  avoided  by  leaping 
over  eleven  days  in  the  reckoning :  and,  indeed, 
if  it  should  come  only  to  this,  I  think  the  new 
style  is  a  delightful  thing ;  for  my  mamma  says 
I  shall  go  to  court  when  I  am  sixteen,  and  if  they 
can  but  contrive  often  to  leap  over  eleven  days 
together,  the  months  of  restraint  will  soon  be  at 
an  end.  It  is  strange,  that  with  all  the  plots  that 
have  been  laid  against  time,  they  could  never 
kill  it  by  act  of  parliament,  before.  Dear  Sir,  if 
you  have  any  vote  or  interest,  get  them  but  for 
once  to  destroy  eleven  months,  and  then  I  shall 
be  as  old  as  some  married  ladies.  But  this  is 
desired  only  if  you  think  they  wiil  not  comply 
with  Mr.  Starlight's  scheme ;  for  nothing  surely 
could  please  me  like  a  year  of  confusion,  when  I 
shall  no  longer  be  fixed  this  hour  to  my  pen,  and 
the  next  to  my  needle,  or  wait  at  home  for  the 
dancing-master  one  day,  and  the  next  for  the 
music-master,  but  run  from  ball  to  ball,  and  from 
drum  to  drum ;  and  spend  all  my  time  without 
W 


tasks,  and  without  account,  and  go  out  without 
telling  whither,  and  come  home  without  regard 
to  prescribed  hours,  or  family-rules. 
I  am,  Sir, 

Your  humble  Servant, 

PROPERANTU. 

MR.  RAMBLER, 

I  WAS  seized  this  morning  with  an  unusual 
pensiveness,  and  finding  that  books  only  served 
to  heighten  it,  took  a  ramble  into  the  fields,  in 
hopes  of  relief  and  invigoration  from  the  keen- 
ness of  the  air  and  brightness  of  the  sun. 

As  I  wandered  wrapt  up  in  thought,  my  eyes 
were  struck  with  the  hospital  for  the  reception  of 
deserted  infants,  which  I  surveyed  with  pleasure, 
till,  by  a  natural  train  of  sentiment,  I  began  to 
reflect  on  the  fate  of  the  mothers.  For  to  what 
shelter  can  they  fly  ?  Only  to  the  arms  of  their 
betrayer,  which  perhaps  are  now  no  longer  open 
to  receive  them ;  and  then  how  quick  must  be 
the  transition  from  deluded  virtue  to  shameless 
guilt,  and  from  shameless  guilt  to  hopeless 
wretchedness ! 

The  anguish  that  I  felt  left  me  no  rest,  till  I 
had,  by  your  means,  addressed  myself  to  the 
public  on  behalf  of  those  forlorn  creatures,  the 
women  of  the  town,  whose  misery  here  might 
satisfy  the  most  rigorous  censor;  and  whose 
participation  of  our  common  nature  might  surely 
induce  us  to  endeavour,  at  least,  their  preserva 
tion  from  eternal  punishment. 

These  were  all  once,  if  not  virtuous,  at  least 
innocent ;  and  might  still  have  continued  blame- 
less and  easy  ;  but  for  the  arts  and  insinuations 
of  those  whose  rank,  fortune,  or  education,  fur- 
nished them  with  means  to  corrupt  or  to  delude 
them.  Let  the  libertine  reflect  a  moment  on  the 
situation  of  that  woman,  who,  being  forsaken  by 
her  betrayer,  is  reduced  to  the  necessity  of 
turning  prostitute  for  bread,  and  judge  of  the 
enormity  of  his  guilt  by  the  evils  which  it  pro- 
duces. 

It  cannot  be  doubted  but  that  numbers  follow 
this  dreadful  course  of  life,  with  shame,  horror, 
and  regret ;  but  where  can  they  hope  for  refuge  ? 
"  The  world  is  not  their  friend,  nor  the  world's 
law."  Their  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans,  are 
criminal  in  the  eye  of  their  tyrants,  the  bully  and 
the  bawd,  who  fatten  on  their  misery,  and  threat- 
en them  with  want  or  a  gaol,  if  they  show  the 
least  design  of  escaping  from  their  bondage. 

"  To  wipe  all  tears  from  off  all  faces,"  is  a 
task  too  hard  for  mortals  ;  but  to  alleviate  mis- 
fortunes is  often  within  the  most  limited  power , 
yet  the  opportunities  which  every  day  affords  of 
relieving  the  most  wretched  of  human  beings  are 
overlooked  and  neglected,  with  equal  disregard 
of  policy  and  goodness. 

There  are  places,  indeed,  set  apart,  to  which 
these  unhappy  creatures  may  resort,  when  the 
diseases  of  incontinence  seize  upon  them ;  but  if 
they  obtain  a  cure,  to  what  are  they  reduced  ? 
Either  to  return  with  the  small  remains  of  beauty 
to  their  former  guilt,  or  perish  in  the  streets  with 
nakedness  and  hunger. 

How  frequently  have  the  gay  and  thoughtless, 
in  their  evening  frolics,  seen  a  band  of  these 
miserable  females,  covered  with  rags,  shivering 
with  cold,  and  pining  with  hunger ;  and  without 
either  pitying  their  calamities,  or  reflecting  upon 


170 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  108 


the  cruelty  of  those  who  perhaps  first  seduced 
them  by  caresses  of  fondness,  or  magnificence 
of  promises,  go  on  to  reduce  others  to  the  same 
wretchedness  by  the  same  means? 

To  stop  the  increase  of  this  deplorable  multi- 
tude, is  undoubtedly  the  first  and  most  pressing 
consideration.  To  prevent  evil  is  the  great  end 
of  government,  the  end  for  which  vigilance  and 
severity  are  properly  employed.  But  surely 
those  whom  passion  or  interest  have  already 
depraved,  have  some  claim  to  compassion,  from 
beings  equally  frail  and  fallible  with  themselves. 
Nor  will  they  long  groan  in  their  present  afflic- 
tions, if  none  were  to  refuse  them  relief,  but  those 
that  owe  their  exemption  from  the  same  distress 
only  to  their  wisdom  and  their  virtue. 
I  am,  &c. 

AMICUS. 


No.  108.]       SATURDAY,  MARCH  30,  1751. 

Sapere  aude, 

Tncipe.  Vivendi  reete  qvi  prorogat  horam, 
Rvsticus  ezpectat  durn  defluat  nmnis :  at  ille 
Labitur,  et  labetur  in  omne  volubiha  tsvum. 

HOR. 

Begin,  be  bold,  and  venture  to  be  wise : 

He  who  defers  this  work  from  day  to  day, 

Does  on  a  river's  bank  expecting  stay, 

Till  the  whole  stream,  which  stopp'd  him,  should  be 

gone, 
That  runs,  and  as  it  runs,  for  ever  will  run  on. 

COWLEY. 

AN  ancient  poet  unreasonably  discontented  at 
the  present  state  of  things,  which  the  system  of 
opinions  obliged  him  to  represent  in  its  worst 
fonn,  has  observed  of  the  earth,  "  that  its  greater 
part  is  covered  by  the  uninhabitable  ocean ;  that 
of  the  rest  some  is  encumbered  with  naked 
mountains,  and  some  lost  under  barren  sands; 
some  scorched  with  unintermitted  heat,  and  some 
petrified  with  perpetual  frost ;  so  that  only  a  few 
regions  remain  for  the  production  of  fruits,  the 
pasture  of  cattle,  and  the  accommodation  of 
man." 

The  same  observation  may  be  transferred  to 
the  time  allotted  us  in  our  present  state.  When 
we  have  deducted  all  that  is  absorbed  in  sleep, 
all  that  is  inevitably  appropriated  to  the  demands 
of  nature,  or  irresistibly  engrossed  by  the  tyranny 
of  custom ;  all  that  passes  in  regulating  the  su- 
perficial decorations  of  life,  or  is  given  up  in  the 
reciprocations  of  civility  to  the  disposal  of  others ; 
all  that  is  torn  from  us  by  the  violence  of  disease, 
or  stolen  imperceptibly  away  by  lassitude  and 
languor  ;  we  shall  find  that  part  of  our  duration 
very  small  of  which  we  can  truly  call  ourselves 
masters,  or  which  we  can  spend  wholly  at  our 
own  choice.  Many  of  our  hours  are  lost  in  a 
rotation  of  petty  cares,  in  a  constant  recurrence 
of  the  same  employments ;  many  of  our  provi- 
sions for  ease  or  happiness  are  always  exhausted 
by  the  present  day  ;  and  a  great  part  of  our  ex- 
istence serves  no  other  purpose,  than  that  of 
enabling  us  to  enjoy  the  rest. 

Of  the  few  moments  which  are  left  in  our  dis- 
posal, it  may  reasonably  be  expected,  that  we 
should  be  so  frugal,  as  to  let  none  of  them  slip 
from  us  without  some  equivalent :  and  perhaps 
it  might  be  found,  that  as  the  earth,  however 


straitened  by  rocks  and  waters,  is  capable  of  pro- 
ducing more  than  all  its  inhabitants  are  able  to 
consume,  our  lives,  though  much  contracted  by 
ncidental  distraction,  would  yet  afford  us  a  large 
space  vacant  to  the  exercise  of  reason  and  vir 
tue  ;  that  we  want  not  time,  but  diligence,  for 
great  performances;  and  that  we  squander  much 
of  our  allowance,  even  while  we  think  it  sparing 
and  insufficient. 

This  natural  and  necessary  comminution  of 
our  lives,  perhaps,  often  makes  us  insensible  oi 
the  negligence  with  which  we  suffer  them  to  slide 
away.  We  never  consider  ourselves  as  pos- 
sessed at  once  of  time  sufficient  for  any  great 
design,  and  therefore  indulge  ourselves  in  for- 
tuitous amusements.  We  think  it  unnecessary 
to  take  an  account  of  a  few  supernumerary  mo- 
ments, which,  however  employed,  could  have 
produced  little  advantage,  and  which  were  ex- 
posed to  a  thousand  chances  of  disturbance  and 
interruption. 

It  is  observable  that,  either  by  nature,  or  by 
habit,  our  faculties  are  fitted  to  images  of  a  cer- 
tain extent,  to  which  we  adjust  great  things  by 
division,  and  little  things  by  accumulation.  Of 
extensive  surfaces  we  can  only  take  a  survey,  as 
the  parts  succeed  one  another ;  and  atoms  we 
cannot  perceive  till  they  are  united  into  masses. 
Thus  we  break  the  vast  periods  of  time  into  cen- 
turies and  years;  and  thus,  if  we  would  know 
the  amount  of  moments,  we  must  agglomerate 
them  into  days  and  weeks. 

The  proverbial  oracles  of  our  parsimonious 
ancestors  have  informed  us,  that  the  fatal  waste 
of  fortune  is  bysmall  expenses,  bythe  profusions 
of  sums  too  little  singly  to  alarm  our  caution, 
and  which  we  never  suffer  ourselves  to  consider 
together.  Of  the  same  kind  is  the  prodigality  of 
life  ;  he  that  hopes  to  look  back  hereafter  with 
satisfaction  upon  past  years,  must  learn  to  know 
the  present  value  of  single  minutes,  and  endea- 
vour to  let  no  particle  of  time  fall  useless  to  th<> 
ground. 

It  is  usual  for  those  who  are  advised  to  the 
attainment  of  any  new  qualification,  tolook  upon 
themselves  as  required  to  change  the  general 
course  of  their  conduct,  to  dismiss  business,  and 
exclude  pleasure,  and  to  devote  their  days  and 
nights  to  a  particular  attention.  But  all  com- 
mon degrees  of  excellence  are  attainable  at  a 
lower  price;  he  that  should  steadily  and  reso- 
lutely assign  to  any  science  or  language  chose 
interstitial  vacancies  which  intervene  in  the  most 
crowded  variety  of  diversion  or  employment, 
would  find  every  day  new  irradiations  of  know- 
ledge, and  discover  how  much  more, is  to  be 
hoped  from  frequency  and  perseverance,  than 
from  violent  efforts  and  sudden  desires  ;  efforts 
which  are  soon  remitted  when  they  encounter 
difficulty,  and  desires,  which  if  they  are  indulged 
too  often,  will  shake  off  the  authority  of  reason, 
and  range  capriciously  from  one  object  to  an- 
other. 

The  disposition  to  defer  every  important  de- 
sign to  a  time  of  leisure,  and  a  state  of  settled 
uniformity,  proceeds  generally  from  a  false  esti- 
mate of  the  human  powers.  If  we  except  those 
gigantic  and  stupendous  intelligences  who  are 
said  to  grasp  a  system  by  intuition,  and  bound 
forward  from  one  series  of  conclusions  to  an- 
other, without  regular  steps  through  intermediate 


No.  109.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

propositions,  the  most  successful  students  make 
their  advances  in  knowledge  by  short  flights,  be- 
tween each  of  which  the  mind  may  lie  at  rest. 
For  every  single  act  of  progression  a  short  time 
is  sufficient;  and  it  is  only  necessary,  that 
whenever  that  time  is  afforded,  it  be  well  em- 
ployed. 

Few  minds  will  be  long  confined  to  severe 
laborious  meditation ;  and  when  a  successful  at- 
tack on  knowledge  has  been  made,  the  student 
recreates  himself  with  the  contemplation  of  his 
conquests,  and  forbears  another  incursion,  till 
the  new-acquired  truth  has  become  familiar,  and 
his  curiosity  calls  upon  him  for  fresh  gratifica- 
tions. Whether  the  time  of  intermission  is  spent 
in  company,  or  in  solitude,  in  necessary  business, 
or  in  voluntary  levities,  the  understanding  is 
equally  abstracted  from  the  object  of  inquiry, 
but  perhaps  if  it  be  detained  by  occupations  less 
pleasing,  it  returns  again  to  study  with  greater 
alacrity,  than  when  it  is  glutted  with  ideal  plea- 
sures, and  surfeited  with  intemperance  of  appli- 
cation. He  that  will  not  suffer  himself  to  be 
discouraged  by  fancied  impossibilities,  may 
sometimes  find  his  abilities  invigorated  by  the 
necessity  of  exerting  them  in  short  intervals,  as 
the  force  of  a  current  is  increased  by  the  con- 
traction of  its  channel. 

From  some  cause  like  this  it  has  probably 
preceded,  that  among  those  who  have  contri- 
buted to  the advancementof  learning,many have 
risen  to  eminence  in  opposition  to  all  the  obsta- 
cles which  external  circumstances  could  place  in 
their  way,  amidst  the  tumult  of  business,  the 
distresses  of  poverty,  or  the  dissipations  of  a 
wandering  and  unsettled  state.  A  great  part 
of  the  life  of  Erasmus  was  one  continual  pere- 
grination; ill  supplied  with  the  gifts  of  fortune, 
and  led  from  city  to  city,  and  from  kingdom  to 
kingdom,  by  the  hopes  of  patrons  and  prefer- 
ment, hopes  which  always  flattered  and  always 
deceived  him;  he  yet  found  means,  by  unshaken 
constancy,  and  a  vigilant  improvement  of  those 
hours,  which,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  restless 
activity,  will  remain  unengaged,  to  write  more 
than  another  in  the  same  condition  would  have 
hoped  to  read.  Compelled  by  want  to  attend- 
ance and  solicitation,  and  so  much  versed  in 
common  life,  that  he  has  transmitted  to  us  the 
most  perfect  delineation  of  the  manners  of  his 
age,  he  joined  to  his  knowledge  of  the  world, 
such  application  to  books,  that  he  will  stand  for 
ever  in  the  first  rank  of  literary  heroes.  How 
this  proficiency  was  obtained  he  sufficiently  dis- 
covers, by  informing  us,  that  the  "  Praise  of  Fol- 
ly," one  "of  his  most  celebrated  performances, 
was  composed  by  him  on  his  road  to  Italy ;  ne 
Mum  illud  tempus  quo  equofuit  insidendum,  ittite- 
ratis  fabulis  tereretur,  lest  the  hours  which  he  was 
obliged  to  spend  on  horseback  should  be  tattled 
away  without  regard  to  literature. 

An  Italian  philosopher  expressed  in  his  motto, 
that  time  was  his  estate;  an  estate,  indeed,  which 
will  produce  nothing  without  cultivation,  but  will 
always  abundantly  repay  the  labours  of  indus- 
try, and  satisfy  the  most  extensive  desires,  if  no 
part  of  it  be  suffered  to  lie  waste  by  negligence, 
to  be  overrun  with  lioxious  plants,  or  laid  out  for 
show  rather  than  for  use. 


171 
No.  109.]         TUESDAY,  APRIL  2,  1751. 

Gratumest,  quodpatriacivem  populoque  deditti 
Si  facia,  ut  pattite  sit  idoneus,  utilis  agris, 
Utilis  et  bellorum,  et  pacis  rebus  agendis. 
Plurimum  enim    intererit   quibits  artibut,  et  quibut 

hunc  tu 
Moribus  institnas.  juv. 

Grateful  the  gift !  a  member  to  the  state, 

If  you  that  member  useful  shall  create ; 

Train'd  both  to  war,  and,  when  the  war  shall  cease, 

As  fond,  as  fit  t'  improve  the  arts  of  peace. 

For  much  it  boots  which  way  you  train  your  boy, 

The  hopeful  object  of  your  future  joy. 

ELPH1NSTOW. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 

THOUGH  you  seem  to  have  taken  a  view  suffi- 
ciently extensive  of  the  miseries  of  life,  and  have 
employed  much  of  your  speculation  on  mournful 
subjects,  you  have  not  yet  exhausted  the  whole 
stock  of  human  infelicity.  There  is  still  a  spe- 
cies of  wretchedness  which  escapes  your  ob- 
servation, though  it  might  supply  you  with  many 
sage  remarks,  and  salutary  cautions. 

I  cannot  but  imagine  the  start  of  attention 
awakened  by  this  welcome  hint ;  and  at  this  in- 
stant see  the  Rambler  snuffing  his  candle,  rub- 
bing his  spectacles,  stirring  his  fire,  locking  out 
interruption,  and  settling  himself  in  his  easy 
chair,  that  he  may  enjoy  a  new  calamity  without 
disturbance.  For,  whether  it  be  that  continued 
sickness  or  misfortune  has  acquainted  you  only 
with  the  bitterness  of  being ;  or  that  you  imagine 
none  but  yourself  able  to  discover  what  I  sup. 
pose  has  been  seen  and  felt  by  all  the  inhabitants 
of  the  world ;  whether  you  intend  your  writings 
as  antidotal  to  the  levity  and  merriment  with 
which  your  rivals  endeavour  to  attract  the  favour 
of  the  public  ;  or  fancy  that  you  have  some  par- 
ticular powers  of  dolorous  declamation,  and 
warble  out  your  groans  with  uncommon  elegance 
or  energy ;  it  is  certain  that,  whatever  be  your 
subject,  melancholy  for  the  most  part  bursts  in 
upon  your  speculations,  your  gayety  is  quickly 
overcast,  and,  though  your  readers  may  be  flat- 
tered with  hopes  of  pleasantry,  they  arc  seldom 
dismissed  but  with  heavy  hearts. 

That  I  may  therefore  gratify  you  with  an  imi- 
tation of  your  own  syllables  of  sadness,  I  will 
inform  you,  that  I  was  condemned  by  some  dis- 
astrous influence  to  be  an  only  son,  born  to  tne 
apparent  prospect  of  a  large  fortune,  and  allotted 
to  my  parents  at  that  time  of  life,  when  satiety 
of  common  diversions  allows  the  mind  to  indulge 
parental  affection  with  greater  intenseness.  My 
birth  was  celebrated  by  the  tenants  with  feasts, 
and  dances,  and  bagpipes:  congratulations  were 
sent  from  every  family  within  ten  miles  round  ; 
and  my  parents  discovered  in  my  first  cries  such 
tokens  of  future  virtue  and  understanding,  that 
they  declared  themselves  determined  to  devote 
the  remaining  part  of  life  to  my  happiness  and 
the  increase  of  their  estate. 

The  abilities  of  my  father  and  mother  were  not 
perceptibly  unequal,  and  education  had  given 
neither  much  advantage  over  the  other.  They 
had  both  kept  good  company,  rattled  in  chariots, 
glittered  in  playhouses,  and  danced  at  court,  and 
were  both  expert  in  the  games  that  were  in  their 
time  called  in  as  auxiliaries  against  the  intrusion 
of  thought. 


172 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  109 


When  the: 


between  two  per- 

?»  iu:il  bucitp  10  »%••«..  —  | j    ^          .  .         *    , 

eons  associated  for  life,  the  dejection  which  the 
husband,  if  he  be  not  completely  stupid,  must 
always  suffer  for  want  of  superiority,  sinks  him 
to  submissiveness.  My  mamma  therefore  go- 
verned the  family  without  control;  and  except 
that  my  father  still  retained  some  authority  in  the 
stables,  and  now  and  then,  after  a  supernumerary 
bottle,  broke  a  looking-glass  or  China  dish  to 
prove  his  sovereignty,  the  whole  course  of  the 
year  was  regulated  by  her  direction,  the  servants 
received  from  her  all  their  orders,  and  the  te- 
nants were  continued  or  dismissed  at  her  dis- 
cretion. 

She  therefore  thought  herself  entitled  to  the 
superintendence  of  her  son's  education ;  and 
when  my  father  at  the  instigation  of  the  parson, 
faintly  proposed  that  I  should  be  sent  to  school, 
very  positively  told  him,  that  she  should  not  suf- 
fer so  fine  a  child  to  be  ruined ;  that  she  never 
knew  any  boys  at  a  grammar-school  that  could 
come  into  a  room  without  blushing,  or  sit  at  the 
table  without  some  awkward  uneasiness ;  that 
they  were  always  putting  themselves  into  dan- 
ger by  boisterous  plays,  or  vitiating  their  be- 
haviour with  mean  company;  and  that,  for  her 
part,  she  would  rather  follow  me  to  the  grave, 
than  see  me  tear  my  clothes,  and  hang  down 
my  head,  and  sneak  about  with  dirty  shoes  and 
blotted  fingers,  my  hair  unpovvdered,  and  my 
hat  uncocked. 

My  father,  who  had  no  other  end  in  his  pro- 
posal than  to  appear  wise  and  manly,  soon  ac- 
quiesced, since  I  was  not  to  live  by  my  learn- 
ing ;  for  indeed  he  had  known  very  few  students 
that  had  not  some  stiffness  in  their  manner. 
They  therefore  agreed  that  a  domestic  tutor 
should  be  procured,  and  hired  an  honest  gentle- 
man of  mean  conversation  and  narrow  senti- 
ments, but  whom,  having  passed  the  common 
forms  of  literary  education,  they  implicitly  con- 
cluded qualified  to  teach  all  that  was  to  be  learn- 
ed from  a  scholar.  He  thought  himself  suffi- 
ciently exalted  by  being  placed  at  the  same  table 
with  his  pupil,  and  had  no  other  view  than  to 
perpetuate  his  felicity  by  the  utmost  flexibility 
of  submission,  to  all  my  mother's  opinions  and 
caprices,  He  frequently  took  away  my  book, 
lest  I  should  mope  with  too  much  application, 
charged  me  never  to  write  without  turning  up 
my  rufHes,  and  generally  brushed  my  coat  be- 
fore he  dismissed  me  into  the  parlour. 

He  had  no  occasion  to  complain  of  too  bur- 
densome an  employment ;  for  my  mother  very 
judiciously  considered,  that  I  was  not  likely  to 
grow  politer  in  his  company,  and  suffered  me 
not  to  pass  any  more  time  in  his  apartment  than 
my  lesson  required.  When  I  was  summoned  to 
my  task,  she  enjoined  me  not  to  get  any  of  my 
tutors  ways,  who  was  seldom  mentioned  before 
me  but  for  practices  to  be  avoided.  I  was  every 
moment  admonished  not  to  lean  on  my  chair, 
cross  my  legs,  or  swing  my  hands  like  my  tutor: 
and  once  my  mother  very  seriously  deliberatec 
upon  his  total  dismission,  because  I  began,  she 
said,  to  learn  his  manner  of  sticking  on  my  hat, 
and  had  his  bend  in  my  shoulders,  and  his  totter 
in  my  gait. 

Such,  however,  was  her  care,  that  I  escapee 
all  these  depravities;  and  when  I  was  only 
twelve  years  old,  had  rid  myself  of  every  ap- 
pearance of  childish  diffidence.  I  was  celebratec 


round  the  country  for  the  petulance  of  my  re- 
marks, and  the  quickness  of  my  replies  ;  and 
many  a  scholar,  five  years  older  than  myself, 
lave  I  dashed  into  confusion  by  the  steadiness 
of  my  countenance,  silenced  by  my  readiness  of 
repartee,  and  tortured  with  envy  by  the  address 
with  which  I  picked  up  a  fan,  presented  a  snuff 
box,  or  received  an  empty  tea  cup. 

At  fourteen  I  was  completely  skilled  in  all  the 
niceties  of  dress,  and  I  could  not  only  enumerate 
all  the  variety  of  silks,  and  distinguish  the  pro- 
duct of  a  French  loom,  but  dart  my  eye  through 
a  numerous  company,  and  observe  every  devia- 
tion from  the  reigning  mode.  I  was  universally 
skilful  in  all  the  changes  of  expensive  finery ; 
but  as  every  one,  they  say,  has  something  to 
which  he  is  particularly  born,  was  eminently 
knowing  in  Brussels  lace. 

The  next  year  saw  me  advanced  to  the  trust 
and  power  of  adjusting  the  ceremonial  of  an  as- 
sembly. All  received  their  partners  from  my 
hand;,  and  to  me  every  stranger  applied  for  in- 
troduction. My  heart  now  disdained  the  in- 
structions of  a  tutor,  who  was  rewarded  with  a 
small  annuity  for  life,  and  left  me  qualified,  in 
my  own  opinion,  to  govern  myself. 

In  a  short  time  I  came  to  London,  and  as  my 
father  was  well  known  among  the  higher  classes 
of  life,  soon  obtained  admission  to  the  most 
splendid  assemblies  and  most  crowded  card-ta- 
bles. Here  I  found  myself  universally  caressed 
and  applauded  :  the  ladies  praised  the  fancy  ol 
my  clothes,  the  beauty  of  my  form,  and  the  soft- 
ness of  my  voice ;  endeavoured  in  every  place  to 
force  themselves  to  my  notice  ;  and  invited  by  a 
thousand  oblique  solicitations,  my  attendance  to 
the  playhouse,  and  my  salutations  in  the  park. 
I  was  now  happy  to  the  utmost  extent  of  my 
conception ;  I  passed  every  morning  in  dress, 
every  afternoon  in  visits,  and  every  nightin  some 
select  assemblies,  where  neither  care  nor  know- 
ledge were  suffered  to  molest  us. 

After  a  few  years,  however,  theee  delights  be- 
came familiar,  and  I  had  leisure  to  look  round 
me  with  more  attention.  I  then  found  that  my 
flatterers  had  very  little  power  to  relieve  the 
languor  of  satiety,  or  recreate  weariness,  by  va- 
ried amusement ;  and  therefore  endeavoured  to 
enlarge  the  sphere  of  my  pleasures,  and  to  try 
what  satisfaction  might  be  found  in  the  society 
of  men.  I  will  not  deny  the  mortification  with 
which  I  perceived,  that  every  man  whose  name  I 
had  heard  mentioned  with  respect,  received  me 
with  a  kind  of  tenderness,  nearly  bordering  on 
compassion ;  and  that  those  whose  reputation 
was  not  well  established,  thought  it  necessary  to 
justify  their  understandings,  by  treating  me  with 
contempt.  One  of  these  witlings  elevated  his 
crest,  by  asking  me  in  a  full  coffee-house  the 
price  of  patches  ;  and  another  whispered  that  he 
wondered  why  Miss  Frisk  did  not  keep  me  that 
afternoon  to  watch  her  squirrel. 

When  I  found  myself  thus  hunted  from  all 
masculine  conversation  by  those  who  were  them- 
selves barely  admitted,  I  returned  to  the  ladies, 
and  resolved  to  dedicate  my  life  to  their  service 
and  their  pleasure.  But  I  find  that  I  have  now 
lost  my  charms.  Of  those  with  whom  I  entered 
the  gay  world,  some  are  married,  some  have  re- 
tired, and  some  have  so  much  changed  their 
opinion,  that  they  scarcely  pay  any  regard  to  my 
civilities,  if  there  is  any  other  man  in  the  place 


No.  11C.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

The  new  flight  of  beauties  to  whom  I  have  made 
my  addresses,  suffer  me  to  pay  the  treat,  anc 
then  titter  with  boys.  So  that  I  now  find  mysell 
welcome  only  to  a  few  grave  ladies,  who  unac- 
quainted with  all  that  gives  either  use  or  dignity 
to  life,  are  content  to  pass  their  hours  between 
their  bed  and  their  cards,  without  esteem  from 
the  old,  or  reverence  from  the  young. 

I  cannot  but  think,  Mr.  Rambler,  that  I  have 
reason  to  complain  ;  for  surely  the  females  ought 
to  pay  some  regard  to  the  age  of  him  whose 
youth  was  passed  in  endeavours  to  please  them. 
They  that  encourage  folly  in  the  boy,  have  no 
right  to  punish  it  in  the  man.  Yet  I  find  that, 
though  they  lavish  their  first  fondness  upon  pert- 
ness  and  gayety,  they  soon  transfer  their  regard 
to  other  qualifies,  and  ungratefully  abandon 
their  adorers  to  dream  out  their  last  years  in 
stupidity  and  contempt 

I  am,  &c. 

FLORENTULUS. 


173 


No.  110.]      SATURDAY,  APRIL  6,  1751. 

4t  nobis  vitcc.  dominion  quarenlibus  nnum 

J.m  Her  est,  et  clara  dies,  et  gratia  simplex. 

Spem  scquimur,  gradimurque  fide,  fruimurque  futuris. 

AA  qvc  non  veniunt  prasentis  ga-ndia  vita, 

NIC  cvrrunt  pariter  cnpta,  et  capienda  loluptcs. 

PRUDENT1US 

We  through  this  niazo  of  life  one  Lord  obey  ; 
Whose  light  and  grace  unerring,  lead  the  way. 
By  hope  mi<l  faith  secure  of  future  bliss, 
Gladly  the  joys  of  present  life  we  miss: 
For  baffled  mortals  still  attempt  in  vain, 
Present  and  future  bliss  at  once  to  g.iiu. 

F.   LEWIS 

THAT  to  please  the  Lord  and  Father  of  the  uni- 
verse, is  the  supreme  interest  of  created  and  de- 
pendent beings,  as  it  is  easily  proved,  has  been 
universally  confessed ;  and  since  all  rational 
agents  are  conscious  of  having  neglected  or  vio- 
lated the  duties  prescribed  to  them,  the  fear  of 
being  rejected,  or  punished  by  God,  has  always 
burdened  the  human  mind.  The  expiation  of 
crimes,  and  renovation  of  the  forfeited  hopes  of 
Divine  favour,  therefore  constitute  a  large  part 
of  every  religion. 

The  various  methods  of  propitiation  and  atone- 
ment which  fear  and  folly  have  dictated,  or  arti- 
fice and  interest  tolerated  in  the  different  parts 
of  the  world,  however  they  may  sometimes  re- 
p:oach  or  degrade  humanity,  at  least  show  the 
general  consent  of  all  ages  and  nations  in  their 
opinion  of  the  placability  of  'he  Divine  nature. 
That  God  will  forgive,  may,  indeed,  be  establish- 
ed as  the  first  and  fundamental  truth  of  religion  ; 
for,  though  the  knowledge  of  his  existence  is  the 
origin  of  philosophy,  yet,  without  the  belief  of 
his  mercy,  it  would  have  little  influence  upon 
our  moral  conduct.  There  could  be  no  prospect 
of  enjoying  the  protection,  or  regard  of  him, 
whom  the  least  deviation  from  rectitude  made 
inexorable  for  ever  :  and  every  man  would  na- 
turally withdraw  his  thoughts  from  the  contem- 
plation of  a  Creator,  whom  he  must  consider  as 
a  governor,  too  pure  to  be  pleased,  and  too  se- 
vere to  be  pacified ;  as  an  enemy  infinitely  wise, 
and  infinitely  powerful,  whom  he  could  neither 
deceive,  escape,  nor  resist. 

Where  there  is  no  hope,  there  can  be  no  nn- 


deavour.  A  constant  and  unfailing  obedience 
is  above  the  reach  of  terrestrial  diligence  ;  and 
therefore  the  progress  of  life  could  only  have 
been  the  natural  descent  of  negligent  despair 
from  crime  to  crime,  had  not  the  universal  per- 
suasion of  forgiveness,  to  be  obtained  by  proper 
means  of  reconciliation,  recalled  those  to  the 
paths  of  virtue  whom  their  passions  had  solicited 
aside  ;  and  animated  to  new  attempts  and  firmer 
perseverance,  those  whom  difficulty  had  discou- 
raged, or  negligence  surprised. 

In  times  and  regions  so  disjoined  from  each 
other,  that  there  can  scarcely  be  imagined  any 
communication  of  sentiments  either  by  com- 
merce or  tradition,  has  prevailed  a  general  and 
uniform  expectation  of  propitiating  God  by  cor- 
poral austerities,  of  anticipating  his  vengeance 
by  voluntary  inflictions,  and  appeasing  his  jus- 
tice by  a  speedy  and  cheerful  submission  to  a 
less  penalty,  when  a  greater  is  incurred. 

Incorporated  minds  will  always  feel  some  in- 
clination towards  exterior  acts  and  ritual  ob- 
servances. Ideas  not  represented  by  sensible 
objects  are  fleeting,  variable,  and  evanescent. 
We  are  not  able  to  judge  of  the  degree  of  con- 
viction which  operated  at  any  particular  time 
upon  our  own  thoughts,  but  as  it  is  recorded  by 
some  certain  and  definite  effect.  He  that  re- 
views his  life  in  order  to  determine  the  proba- 
bility of  his  acceptance  with  God,  if  he  could 
once  establish  the  necessary  proportion  between 
crimes  and  sufferings,  might  securely  rest  upon 
ois  performance  of  the  expiation ;  but,  while 
safety  remains  the  reward  only  of  mental  purity, 
ic  is  always  afraid  lest  he  should  decide  too  soon 
n  liis  own  favour,  lest  he  should  not  have  felt 
the  pangs  of  true  contrition ;  lest  he  should 
mistake  satiety  for  detestation,  or  imagine  that 
lis  passions  are  subdued  when  they  are  only 
sleeping. 

From  this  natural  and  reasonable  diffidence 
arose,  in  humble  and  timorous  piety,  a  disposi- 
tion to  confound  penance  with  repentance,  to 
repose  on  human  determinations,  and  to  receive 
rom  some  judicial  sentence  the  stated  and  regu- 
ar  assignment  of  reconciliatory  pain.  We  are 
never  willing  to  be  without  resource  ;  we  seek 
n  the  knowledge  of  others  a  succour  for  our 
own  ignorance,  and  are  ready  to  trust  any  that 
will  undertake  to  direct  us  when  we  have  no 
confidence  in  ourselves. 

This  desire  to  ascertain  by  some  outward 
marks  the  state  of  the  soul,  and  this  willingness 
o  calm  the  conscience  by  some  settled  method, 
lave  produced,  as  they  are  diversified  in  their 
Sects  by  various  tempers  and  principles,  most 
of  the  disquisitions  and  rules,  the  doubts  and 
solutions,  that  have  embarrassed  the  doctrine 
f  repentance,  and  perplexed  tender  and  flexible 
minds  with  innumerable  scruples  concerning 
he  necessary  measures  of  sorrow,  and  adequate 
degrees  of  self-abhorrence ;  and  these  rules, 
corrupted  by  fraud,  or  debased  by  credulity, 
lave,  by  the  common  resiliency  of  the  mind  from 
one  extreme  to  another,  incited  others  to  an  open 
lontempt  of  all  subsidiary  ordinances,  all  pru- 
dential caution,  and  the  whole  discipline  ot  itgu- 
ated  piety. 

Repentance,  however  difficult  to  be  practised, 

if  it  be  explained  without  superstition,  easily 

understood.     Repentance  is  the  relinquishment  of 

any  practice,  from  the  conviction  that  it  has  offended 


174 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  111. 


God.  Sorrow,  and  fear,  and  anxiety,  are  pro- 
perly not  parts,  but  adjuncts  of  repentance ;  yet 
they  ara  too  closely  connected  with  it  to  be  easily 
separated ;  for  they  not  only  mark  its  sincerity, 
but  promote  its  efficacy. 

No  man  commits  any  act  of  negligence  or  ob- 
stinacy, by  which  his  safety  or  happiness  in  this 
world  is  endangered,  without  feeling  the  pun- 
gency of  remorse.  He  who  is  fully  convinced 
that  he  suffers  by  his  own  failure,  can  never  for- 
bear lo  trace  back  his  miscarriage  to  its  first 
cause,  to  image  to  himself  a  contrary  behaviour, 
and  to  form  involuntary  resolutions  against  the 
like  fault,  even  when  he  knows  that  he  shall 
never  again  have  the  power  of  committing  it. 
Danger,  considered  as  imminent,  naturally  pro- 
duces such  trepidations  of  impatience  as  leave  all 
human  means  of  safety  behind  them  :  he  that 
has  once  caught  an  alarm  of  terror,  is  every 
moment  seized  with  useless  anxieties,  adding 
one  security  to  another,  trembling  with  sudden 
doubts,  and  distracted  by  the  perpetual  occur- 
rence of  new  expedients.  If,  therefore,  he  whose 
crimes)  have  deprived  him  of  the  favour  of  God, 
can  reflect  upon  his  conduct  without  disturbance, 
or  can  at  will  banish  the  reflection  ;  if  he  who 
considers  himself  as  suspended  over  the  abyss  of 
eternal  perdition  only  by  the  thread  of  life,  which 
must  soon  part  by  its  own  weakness,  and  which 
the  wing  of  every  minute  may  divide,  can  cast 
his  eyes  round  him  without  shuddering  with  hor- 
ror, or  panting  with  security  ;  what  can  he  judge 
of  himself,  but  that  he  is  not  yet  awakened  to 
sufficient  conviction,  since  every  loss  is  more 
lamented  than  the  loss  of  the  Divine  favour,  and 
every  danger  more  dreaded  than  the  danger  of 
final  condemnation? 

Retirement  from  the  cares  and  pleasures  of 
the  world  has  been  often  recommended  as  useful 
to  repentance.  This  at  least  is  evidence,  that 
every  one  retires,  whenever  ratiocination  and 
recollection  are  required  on  other  occasions; 
and  surely  the  retrospect  of  life,  the  disentangle- 
ment of  actions  complicated  with  innumerable 
circumstances,  and  diffused  in  various  relations, 
the  discovery  of  the  primary  movements  of  the 
heart,  and  the  extirpation  of  lusts  and  appetites 
deeply  rooted  and  widely  spread,  may  be  allowed 
to  demand  some  secession  from  sport  and  noise, 
and  business  and  folly.  Some  suspension  of 
common  affairs,  some  pause  of  temporal  pain 
and  pleasure,  is  doubtless  necessary  to  him  that 
deliberates  for  eternity,  who  is  forming  the  only 
plan  in  which  miscarriage  cannot  be  repaired, 
and  examining  the  only  question  in  which  mis- 
take cannot  be  rectified. 

Austerities  and  mortifications  are  means  by 
which  the  mind  is  invigorated  and  roused,  by 
which  tha  attractions  of  pleasure  are  interrupted 
and  the  chains  of  sensuality  are  broken.  It  it 
observed  by  one  of  the  fathers,  that  he  who  re- 
strains himself  in  the  use  of  things  lawful,  will  never 
encroach  upon  things  forbidden.  Abstinence,  i 
nothing  more,  is,  at  least,  a  cautious  retreat  from 
the  utmost  verge  of  permission,  and  confers  tha 
security  which  cannot  be  reasonably  hoped  bj 
him  that  dares  always  to  hover  over  the  precipice 
of  destruction,  or  delights  to  approach  the  plea 
eures  which  he  knows  it  fatal  to  partake.  Au 
sterity  is  the  proper  antidote  to  indulgence  ;  th 
diseases  of  mind  as  well  as  body  are  cured  b} 
contraries,  and  to  contraries  we  should  readil; 


ave  recourse,  if  we  dreaded  guilt  as  we  dread 
>ain. 

The  completion  and  sum  of  repentance  is  a 
hange  of  life.  That  sorrow  which  dictates  no 
aution,  that  fear  which  does  not  quicken  our 
scape,  that  austerity  which  fails  to  rectify  our 
ffections,  are  vain  and  unavailing.  But  sorrow 
.nd  terror  must  naturally  precede  reformation  ; 
or  what  other  cause  can  produce  it  ?  He,  there- 
ore,  that  feels  himself  alarmed  by  his  conscience, 
nxious  for  the  attainment  of  a  better  state,  and 
fflicted  by  the  memory  of  his  past  faults,  may 
ustly  conclude,  that  the  great  work  of  repentance 
s  begun,  and  hope  by  retirement  and  prayer,  the 
latural  and  religious  means  of  strengthening  his 
onviction,  to  impress  upon  his  mind  such  a 
ense  of  the  Divine  presence,  as  may  overpower 
he  blandishments  of  secular  delights,  and  enable 
iim  to  advance  from  one  degree  of  holiness  to 
another,  till  death  shall  set  him  free  from  doubt 
and  contest,  misery  and  temptation. 

What  better  can  we  do,  than  prostrate  fall 
Before  him  reverent ;  and  there  confess 
Humbly  our  faults,  and  pardon  beg,  with  tears 
Watering  the  ground,  and  with  our  sighs  the  air 
Frequenting,  sent  from  hearts  contrite,  in  sign 
Of  sorrow  unfeign'd,  and  humiliation  meek? 


No.  111.]      TUESDAY,  APRILS,  1751. 

Qpovtiv  yap  ol  ra^us  OVK  aa<f>a.\ti?         SOPHOC. 
Disaster  always  waits  on  early  wit. 

T  has  been  observed  by  long  experience,  that 
ate  springs  produce  the  greatest  plenty.  The 
delay  of  blooms  and  fragrance,  of  verdure  and 
)reezes,  is  for  the  most  part  liberally  recom- 
pensed by  the  exuberance  and  fecundity  of  the 
ensuing  seasons;  the  blossoms  which  lie  con- 
:ealed  till  the  year  is  advanced,  and  the  sun  is 
ligh,  escape  those  chilling  blasts,  and  nocturnal 
'rosts,  which  are  often  fatal  to  early  luxuriance, 
prey  upon  the  first  smiles  of  vernal  beauty,  de- 
stroy the  feeble  principles  of  vegetable  life,  in- 
tercept the  fruit  in  the  germ,  and  beat  down  the 
[lowers  unopened  to  the  ground. 

I  am  afraid  there  is  little  hope  of  persuading 
the  young  and  sprightly  part  of  my  readers,  upon 
whom  the  spring  naturally  forces  my  attention, 
to  learn,  from  the  great  process  of  nature,  the 
difference  between  diligence  and  hurry,  between 
speed  and  precipitation  ;  to  prosecute  their  de- 
signs with  calmness,  to  watch  the  concurrence 
of  opportunity,  and  endeavour  to  find  the  lucky 
moment  which  they  cannot  make.  Youth  is  the 
time  of  enterprise  and  hope :  having  yet  no  oc- 
casion of  comparing  our  force  with  any  opposing 
power,  we  naturally  form  presumptions  in  our 
own  favour,  and  imagine  that  obstruction  and 
impediment  will  give  way  before  us.  The  first 
repulses  rather  inflame  vehemence  than  teach 
prudence ;  a  brave  and  generous  mind  is  long 
before  it  suspects  its  own  weakness,  or  submits 
to  sap  the  difficulties  which  it  expected  to  sub- 
due by  storm.  Before  disappointments  have  en- 
forced the  dictates  of  philosophy,  we  believe  it 
in  our  power  to  shorten  the  interval  between  the 
first  cause  and  the  last  effect ;  we  laugh  at  the 
timorous  delays  of  plodding  industry,  and  fancy 
that,  by  increasing  the  fire,  we  can  at  pleasure 
accelerate  the  projection. 


No.  111.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


175 


At  our  entrance  into  the  world,  when  health 
and  vigour  give  us  fair  promises  of  time  sufficient 
for  the  regular  maturation  of  our  schemes,  and 
a  long  enjoyment  of  our  acquisitions,  we  are 
eager  to  seize  the  present  moment;  we  pluck 
every  gratification  within  our  reach,  without  suf- 
fering it  to  ripen  into  perfection,  and  crowd  all 
the  varieties  of  delight  into  a  narrow  compass  ; 
but  age  seldom  fails  to  change  our  conduct ;  we 
grow  negligent  of  time  in  proportion  as  we  have 
less  remaining,  and  suffer  the  last  part  of  life  to 
steal  from  us  in  languid  preparations  for  future 
undertakings,  or  slow  approaches  to  remote  ad- 
vantages, in  weak  hopes  of  some  fortuitous  oc- 
currence, or  drowsy  equilibrations  of  undeter- 
mined counsel :  whether  it  be  that  the  aged, 
having  tasted  the  pleasures  of  man's  condition 
and  found  them  delusive,  become  less  anxious 
for  their  attainment;  or  that  frequent  miscar- 
riages have  depressed  them  to  despair,  and  frozen 
them  to  inactivity;  or  that  death  shocks  them 
more  as  it  advances  upon  them,  and  they  are 
afraid  to  remind  themselves  of  their  decay,  or  to 
discover  to  their  own  hearts,  that  the  time  of 
trifling  is  past. 

A  perpetual  conflict  with  natural  desires  seems 
to  be  the  lot  of  our  present  state.  In  youth  we 
require  something  of  the  tardiness  and  frigidity 
of  age ;  and  in  age  we  must  labour  to  recall  the 
fire  and  impetuosity  of  youth  ;  in  youth  we  must 
learn  to  expect,  and  in  age  to  enjoy. 

The  torment  of  expectation  is,  indeed,  not 
easily  to  be  borne  at  a  tima  when  every  idea  of 
gratification  fires  the  blood,  and  flashes  on  the 
fancy ;  when  the  heart  is  vacant  to  every  fresh 
form  of  delight,  and  has  no  rival  engagements  to 
withdraw  it  from  the  importunities  of  a  new  de- 
sire. Yet,  since  the  fear  of  missing  what  we 
seek,  must  always  be  proportionable  to  the  hap- 
piness expected  from  possessing  it,  the  passions, 
even  in  this  tempestuous  state,  might  be  some- 
what moderated  by  frequent  inculcation  of  the 
mischief  of  temerity,  \nd  the  hazard  of  losing 
that  which  we  endeavour  to  seize  before  our 
time. 

He  that  too  early  aspires  to  honours,  must  re- 
solve to  encounter  not  only  the  opposition  of  inte- 
rest, but  the  malignity  of  envy.  He  that  is  too 
eager  to  be  rich,  generally  endangers  his  fortune 
in  wild  adventures  and  uncertain  projects  ;  and 
he  that  hastens  too  speedily  to  reputation,  often 
raises  his  character  by  artifices  and  fallacies, 
decks  himself  in  colours  which  quickly  fade,  or 
in  plumes  which  accident  may  shake  off,  or  com- 
petition pluck  away. 

The  dangerof  early  eminence  has  been  extend- 
ed by  some,  even  to  the  gifts  of  nature ;  and  an 
opinion  has  been  long  conceived,  that  quickness 
of  invention,  accuracy  of  judgment,  or  extent  of 
knowledge,  appearing  before  the  usual  time,  pre- 
sage a  short  life.  Even  those  who  are  less  in- 
clined to  form  general  conclusions,  from  instan- 
ces which  by  their  own  nature  must  be  rare, 
have  yet  been  inclined  to  prognosticate  no  suita- 
ble progress  from  the  first  sallies  of  rapid  wits ; 
but  have  observed,  that  after  a  short  effort  they 
either  loiter  or  faint,  and  suffer  themselves  to  be 
surpassed  by  the  even  and  regular  perseverance 
of  slower  understandings. 

It  frequently  happens  that  applause  abates  di- 
ligence. Whoever  finds  himself  to  have  per- 


formed more  than  was  demande4,  will  be  con- 
tented to  spare  the  labour  of  unnecessary  per- 
formances, and  sit  down  to  enjoy  at  ease  his 
superfluities  of  honour.  He  whom  success  has 
made  confident  of  his  abilities,  quickly  claims  the 
privilege  of  negligence,  and  looks  contemptuous- 
ly  on  the  gradual  advances  of  a  rival,  whom  he 
imagines  himself  able  to  leave  behind  whenever 
he  shall  again  summon  his  forces  to  the  contest. 
But  long  intervals  of  pleasure  dissipate  attention, 
and  weaken  constancy  ;  nor  is  it  easy  for  him 
that  has  sunk  from  diligence  into  sloth,  to  rouse  out 
of  his  lethargy,  to  recollect  his  notions,  rekindle 
his  curiosity,  and  engage  with  his  former  ardour 
in  the  toils  of  study. 

Even  that  friendship  which  intends  the  reward 
of  genius  too  often  tends  to  obstruct  it.  Tho 
pleasure  of  being  caressed,  distinguished,  and 
admired,  easily  seduces  the  student  from  literary 
solitude.  He  is  ready  to  follow  the  call  which 
summons  him  to  hear  his  own  praise,  and  which, 
perhaps,  at  once  flatters  his  appetite  with  cer- 
tainty of  pleasures,  and  his  ambition  with  hopes 
of  patronage  ;  pleasures  which  he  conceives  in- 
exhaustible, and  hopes  which  he  has  not  yet 
learned  to  distrust. 

These  evils,  indeed,  are  by  no  means  to  be  im- 
puted to  nature,  or  considered  as  inseparable 
from  an  early  display  of  uncommon  abilities. 
They  may  be  certainly  escaped  by  prudence  and 
resolution,  and  must  therefore  be  accounted  ra- 
ther as  consolations  to  those  who  are  less  libe- 
rally endowed,  than  as  discouragements  to  such 
as  are  born  with  uncommon  qualities.  Beauty 
is  well  known  to  draw  after  it  the  persecutions 
of  impertinence,  to  incite  the  artifices  of  envy, 
and  to  raise  the  flames  of  unlawful  love ;  yet 
among  the  ladies  whom  prudence  or  modesty 
have  made  most  eminent,  who  has  ever  com- 
plained of  the  inconveniences  of  an  amiable 
form?  or  would  have  purchased  safety  by  the. 
loss  of  charms? 

Neither  grace  of  person,  nor  vigour  of  under- 
standing, are  to  be  regarded  otherwise  than  as 
blessings,  as  means  of  happiness  indulged  by  the 
Supreme  Benefactor ;  but  the  advantages  of 
either  may  be  lost  by  too  much  eagerness  to  ob- 
tain them.  A  thousand  beauties  in  their  first 
blossom,  by  an  imprudent  exposure  to  the  open 
world,  have  suddenly  withered  at  the  blast  of  in- 
famy ;  and  men  who  might  have  subjected  new 
regions  to  the  empire  of  learning,  have  been  lured 
by  the  praise  of  their  first  productions  from  aca- 
demical retirement,  and  wasted  their  days  in  vice 
and  dependance.  The  virgin  who  too  soon  as- 
pires to  celebrity  and  conquest,  perishes  by  child- 
ish vanity,  ignorant  credulity,  or  guiltless  indis- 
cretion. The  genius  who  catches  at  laurels  and 
preferment  before  his  time,  mocks  the  hopes  that 
he  had  excited,  and  loses  those  years  which  might 
have  been  most  usefully  employed,  the  years  of 
youth,  of  spirit,  and  vivacity. 

It  is  one  of  the  innumerable  absurdities  of 
pride,  that  we  are  never  more  impatient  of  direc- 
tion, than  in  that  part  of  life  when  we  need  it  most ; 
we  are  in  haste  to  meet  enemies  whom  we  have 
not  strength  to  overcome,  and  to  undertake  tasks 
which  we  cannot  perform  :  and  as  he  that  once 
miscarries  does  not  easily  persuade  mankind  to 
favour  another  attempt,  an  ineffectual  struggle 
for  fame  is  often  followed  by  perpetual  obscurity. 


176 

No.  112.]   SA*TRDAY,  APRIL  13,  1751. 

In  mta  vcsanat  habui  dispendia  vires, 
£t  calui  panta  fortis  in  ipse  meas.  OVID. 

Of  strength  pernicious  to  myself  I  boast; 
The  powers  I  have  were  given  me  to  my  cost. 

F.  LEWIS. 

WE  are  tauo-ht  by  Celsus,  that  health  is  best  pre- 
served by  avoiding  settled  habits  of  life,  and  de- 
viating sometimes  into  slight  aberrations  from  the 
laws  of  medicine;  by  varying  the  proportions  of 
food  and  exercise,  interrupting  the  successions 
of  rest  and  labour,  and  mingling  hardships  with 
indulgence.  The  body, long  accustomed  to  stated 
quantities  and  uniform  periods,  is  disordered  by 
the  smallest  irregularity  ;  and  since  we  cannot 
adjust  every  day  by  the  balance  or  barometer,  it 
is  lit  sometimes  to  depart  from  rigid  accuracy, 
that  we  may  be  able  to  comply  with  necessary  af- 
fairs, or  strong  inclinations.  He  that  too  long 
observes  nice  punctualities,  condemns  himself  to 
voluntary  imbecility,  and  will  not  long  escape 
the  miseries  of  disease. 

The  same  laxity  of  regimen  is  equally  neces- 
sary to  intellectual  health,  and  to  a  perpetual  sus- 
ceptibility of  occasional  pleasure.  Long  confine- 
ment to  the  same  company  which  perhaps  simi- 
litude of  taste  brought  first  together,  quickly 
contracts  his  faculties,  and  makes  a  thousand 
things  offensive  that  are  in  themselves  indiffer- 
ent ;  a  man  accustomed  to  hear  only  the  echo  of 
his  own  sentiments,  soon  bars  all  the  common 
avenues  of  delight,  and  has  no  part  in  the  gene- 
ral gratification  of  mankind. 

In  things  which  are  not  immediately  subject  to 
religious  or  moral  consideration,  it  is  dangerous 
to  be  too  long  or  too  rigidly  in  the  right.  Sensi- 
bility may  by  an  incessant  attention  to  elegance 
and  propriety,  be  quickened  to  a  tenderness  in- 
consistent with  the  condition  of  humanity,  irrita- 
ble by  the  smallest  asperity,  and  vulnerable  by 
the  gentlest  touch.  He  that  pleases  himself  too 
much  with  minute  exactness,  and  submits  to  en- 
dure nothing  in  accommodations,  attendance,  or 
add  ress,  below  the  point  of  perfection ,  will,  when- 
ever he  enters  the  crowd  of  life,  be  harassed  with 
innumerable  distresses,  from  which  those  who 
have  not  in  the  same  manner  increased  their 
sensations  find  no  disturbance.  His  exotic  soft- 
ness will  shrink  at  the  coarseness  of  vulgar  feli- 
city, like  a  plant  transplanted  to  northern  nurse- 
ries, from  the  dews  and  sunshine  of  the  tropical 
regions. 

There  will  always  be  a  wide  interval  between 
practical  _and  ideal  excellence  ;  and  therefore,  if 
we  allow  not  ourselves  to  be  satisfied  while  we 
can  perceive  any  error  or  defect,  we  must  refer 
our  hopes  of  ease  to  some  other  period  of  exist- 
ence. It  is  well  known,  that  exposed  to  a  mi- 
croscope, the  smoothest  polish  of  the  most  solid 
bodies  discovers  cavities  and  prominences ;  and 
that  the  softest  bloom  of  roseate  virginity  repels 
the  eye  with  excresences  and  discolorations. 
The  perceptions  as  well  as  the  senses  may  be  im- 
proved to  our  own  disquiet,  and  we  may,  by  diligent 
cultivation  of  the  powcrsof  dislike,  raise  in  time 
an  artificial  fastidiousness,  which  shall  fill  the 
imagination  with  phantoms  of  turpitude,  show  us 
the  naked  skeleton  of  every  delight,  and  present 
us  only  with  the  pains  of  pleasure,  and  the  de- 
formities of  beauty. 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  119. 


Peevishness,  indeed,  would  perhaps  very  little 
disturb  the  peace  of  mankind,  were  it  always  the 
consequence  of  superfluous  delicacy  :  for  it  is  the 
privilege  only  of  deep  reflection  or  lively  fancy, 
to  destroy  happiness  by  art  and  refinement.  But 
by  continual  indulgence  of  a  particular  humour, 
or  by  long  enjoyment  of  undisputed  superiority, 
the  dull  and  thoughtless  may  likewise  acquire 
the  power  of  tormenting  themselves  and  others, 
and  become  sufficiently  ridiculous  or  hateful  to 
those  who  are  within  sight  of  their  conduct,  or 
reach  of  their  influence. 

They  that  have  grown  old  in  a  single  state  are 


tious  ;  tenacious  of  their  own  practices  and  max- 
soon  offended  by  contradiction  or  negli- 
gence ;  and  impatient  of  any  association,  but 
with  those  that  will  watch  their  nod,  and  submit 
themselves  to  unlimited  authority.  Such  is  the 
effect  of  having  lived  without  the  necessity  of 
consulting  any  inclination  but  their  own. 

The  irascibility  of  this  class  of  tyrants  is  ge- 
nerally exerted  upon  petty  provocations,  such  as 
are  incident  to  understandings  not  far  extended 
beyond  the  instincts  of  animal  life  ;  but,  unhap- 
pily, he  that  fixes  his  attention  on  things  always 
before  him,  will  never  havelongcessation  of  anger. 
There  are  many  veterans  of  luxury  upon  whom 
every  noon  brings  a  paroxysm  of  violence,  fury, 
and  execration  ;  they  never  sit  down  to  their  din- 
ner without  finding  the  meat  so  injudiciously 
bought,  or  so  unskilfully  dressed,  such  blunders 
in  the  seasoning,  or  such  improprieties  in  the 
sauce,  as  can  scarcely  be  expiated  without  blood ; 
and  in  the  transports  of  resentment,  make  very 
little  distinction  between  guilt  and  innocence, 
but  let  fly  their  menaces,  or  growl  out  their  dis- 
content, upon  all  whom  fortune  exposes  to  the 
storm. 

It  is  not  easy  to  imagine  a  more  unhappy  con- 
dition than  that  of  dependance  on  a  peevish  man. 
In  every  other  state  of  inferiority  the  certainty  of 
pleasing  is  perpetually  increased  by  a  fuller 
knowledge  of  our  duty  ;  and  kindness  and  con- 
fidence are  strengthened  by  every  new  act  of 
trust,  and  proof  of  fidelity.  But  peevishness  sa- 
crifices to  a  momentary  offence  the  obsequious- 
ness or  usefulness  of  half  a  life,  and,  as  more  is 
performed,  increases  her  exactions. 

Chrysalus  gained  a  fortune  by  trade,  and  re- 
tired into  the  country  ;  and,  having  a  brother 
burdened  by  the  number  of  his  children,  adopted 
one  of  his  sons.  The  boy  was  dismissed  with 
many  prudent  admonitions  ;  informed  of  his  fa- 
ther's inability  to  maintain  him  in  his  native 
rank  ;  cautioned  against  all  opposition  to  the 
opinions  or  precepts  of  his  uncle  ;  and  animated 
to  perseverance  by  the  hopes  of  supporting  the 
honour  of  the  family,  and  overtopping  his  elder 
brother.  He  had  a  natural  ductility  of  mind, 
without  much  warmth  of  affection,  or  elevation 
of  sentiment:  and  therefore  readily  complied 
with  every  variety  of  caprice  ;  patiently  endured 
contradictory  reproofs  ;  heard  false  accusations 
without  pain,  and  opprobrious  reproaches  with- 
out reply  ;  laughed  obstreperously  at  the  nine- 
tieth repetition  of  a  joke;  asked  questions  about 
the  universal  decay  of  trade ;  admired  the  strength 
of  those  heads  by  which  the  price  of  stocks  is 
changed  and  adjusted  ;  and  behaved  with  such 
prudence  and  circumspection,  that  after  six  years 


No.  113.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


177 


the  will  was  made,  and  Juvenculus  was  declared 
heir.  But  unhappily,  a  month  afterwards,  re- 
tiring at  night  from  his  uncle's  chamber,  he  left 
the  door  open  behind  him ;  the  old  man  tore 
his  will,  and  being  then  perceptibly  declining,  for 
want  of  time  to  deliberate,  left  his  money  to  a 
trading  company. 

When  female  minds  are  embittered  by  age  or 
solitude,  their  malignity  is  generally  exerted  in  a 
rigorous  and  spiteful  superintendence  of  domes- 
tic trifles.  Eriphile  has  employed  her  eloquence 
for  twenty  years  upon  the  degeneracy  of  ser- 
vants, the  nastiness  of  her  house,  the  ruin  of  her 
furniture,  the  difficulty  of  preserving  tapestry 
from  the  moths  and  the  carelessness  of  the  sluts 
whom  she  employs  in  brushing  it.  It  is  her 
business  every  morning  to  visit  all  the  rooms,  in 
hopes  of  finding  a  chair  without  its  cover,  a  win- 
dow shut  or  open  contrary  to  her  orders,  a  spot 
on  the  hearth,  or  a  feather  on  the  floor,  that  the 
rest  of  the  day  may  be  justifiably  spent  in  taunts 
of  contempt  and  vociferations  of  anger.  She 
lives  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  preserve  the 
neatness  of  a  house  and  gardens,  and  feels  nei- 
ther inclination  to  pleasure,  nor  aspiration  after 
virtue,  while  she  is  engrossed  by  the  great  em- 
ployment of  keeping  gravel  from  grass  and 
wainscoat  from  dust.  Of  three  amiable  nieces 
ehe  has  declared  herself  an  irreconcilable  enemy 
to  one,  because  she  broke  off  a  tulip  with  her 
hoop;  to  another, because  she  spilt  hercofFeeon 
a  Turkey  carpet ;  and  to  the  third,  because  she 
let  a  wet  dog  run  into  the  parlour.  She  has 
broken  off  her  intercourse  of  visits,  because  com- 
pany makes  a  house  dirty  ;  and  resolves  to  con- 
fine herself  more  to  her  own  affairs,  and  to  live 
no  longer  in  mire  by  foolish  lenity. 

Peevishnees  is  generally  the  vice  of  narrow 
minds,  and  except  when  it  is  the  effect  of  anguish 
and  disease,  by  which  the  resolution  is  broken, 
and  the  mind  made  too  feeble  to  bear  the  lightest 
addition  to  its  miseries,  proceeds  from  an  unrea- 
sonable persuasion  of  the  importance  of  trifles. 
The  proper  remedy  against  it  is,  to  consider  the 
dignity  of  human  nature,  and  the  folly  of  suffer- 
ing perturbation  and  uneasiness  from  causes  un- 
worthy of  our  notice. 

He  that  resigns  his  peace  to  little  casualties, 
and  suffers  the  course  of  his  life  to  be  interrupted 
by  fortuitous  inadvertencies,  or  offences,  delivers 
up  himself  to  the  direction  of  the  wind,  and  loses 
all  that  constancy  and  equanimity  which  consti- 
tute the  chief  praise  of  a  wise  man. 

The  province  of  prudence  lies  between  the 
greatest  things  and  the  least:  some  surpass  our 
power  by  their  magnitude,  and  some  escape  our 
notice  by  their  number  and  their  frequency.  But 
the  indispensable  business  of  life  will  afford  suf- 
ficient exercise  to  every  understanding;  and 
such  is  the  limitation  of  the  human  powers,  that 
by  attention  to  trifles,  we  must  let  things  of  im- 
portance pass  unobserved ;  when  we  examine  a 
mite  with  a  glass,  we  see  nothing  but  a  mite. 

That  it  is  every  man's  interest  to  be  pleased, 
will  need  little  proof:  that  it  is  his  interest  to 
please  others,  experience  will  inform  him.  It  is 
therefore  not  less  necessary  to  happiness  than  to 
virtue,  that  he  rid  his  mind  of  passions  which 
make  him  uneasy  to  himself,  and  hateful  to  the 
world,  which  enchain  his  intellects,  and  obstruct 
bis  improvement. 


No.  113.]      TUESDAY,  APRIL  16,  1751. 

Uxorem,  Posthume,  ducia} 

Die  qua  Tisiphone,  quil/us  cxagitare  colubrit? 


A  sober  man  like  thee  to  change  his  life ! 
What  fury  would  possess  thee  with  a  wife ! 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

I  KNOW  not  whether  it  is  always  a  proof  of  inno- 
cence to  treat  censure  with  contempt.  We  owe 
so  much  reverence  to  the  wisdom  of  mankind, 
as  justly  to  wish,  that  our  own  opinion  of  our 
merit  may  be  ratified  by  the  concurrence  of 
others'  suffrages  ;  and  since  guilt  and  infamy 
must  have  the  same  effect  upon  intelligences 
unable  to  pierce  beyond  external  appearance 
and  influenced  often  rather  by  example  than 
precept,  we  are  obliged  to  refute  a  false  charge, 
lest  we  should  countenance  the  crime  which  we 
have  never  committed.  To  turn  away  from  an 
accusation  with  supercilious  silence,  is  equally 
in  the  power  of  him  that  is  hardened  by  villany, 
and  inspirited  by  innocence.  The  wall  of  brass 
which  Horace  erects  upon  a  clear  conscience, 
may  be  sometimes  raised  by  impudence  or  pow- 
er ;  and  we  should  always  wish  to  preserve  the 
dignity  of  virtue  by  adorning  her  with  graces 
which  wickedness  cannot  assume. 

For  this  reason  1  have  determined  no  longer 
to  endure,  with  either  patient  or  sullen  resigna- 
tion, a  reproach,  which  is,  at  least  in  my  opinion, 
unjust;  but  will  lay  my  case  honestly  before 
you,  that  you  or  your  readers  may  at  length  de- 
cide it. 

Whether  you  will  be  able  to  preserve  your 
boasted  impartiality,  when  you  hear  that  I  am 
considered  as  an  adversary  by  hdf  the  female 
world,  you  may  surely  pardon  me  for  doubting, 
notwithstanding  the  veneration  to  which  you 
may  imagine  yourself  entitled  by  jrour  age, 
your  learning,  your  abstraction,  or  your  virtue. 
Beauty,  Mr.  Rambler,  has  often  overpowered 
the  resolutions  of  the  firm,  and  the  reasonings 
of  the  wise,  roused  the  old  to  sensibility,  and 
subdued  the  rigorous  to  softness. 

I  am  one  of  those  unhappy  beings,  who  have 
been  marked  out  as  husbands  for  many  different 
women,  and  deliberated  a  hundred  times  on  the 
brink  of  matrimony.  I  have  discussed  all  the 
nuptial  preliminaries  so  often,  that  I  can  repeat 
the  forms  in  which  jointures  are  settled,  pin- 
money  secured,  and  provisions  for  younger  chil- 
dren ascertained ;  but  am  at  last  doomed  by 
general  consent  to  everlasting  solitude,  and  ex- 
cluded by  an  irreversible  decree  from  all  hopes 
of  connubial  felicity.  I  am  pointed  out  by  every 
mother  as  a  man  whose  visits  cannot  be  admit- 
ted without  reproach  ;  who  raises  hopes  only  to 
embitter  disappointment,  and  makes  offers  only 
to  seduce  girls  into  a  waste  of  that  part  of  life  in 
which  they  might  gain  advantageous  matches, 
and  become  mistresses  and  mothers. 

I  hope  you  will  think,  that  some  part  of  this 
penal  severity  may  justly  be  remitted,  when  1 
inform  you,  that  I  never  yet  professed  love  to  a 
woman  without  sincere  intentions  of  marriage  ; 
that  I  have  never  continued  an  appearance  of 
intimacy  from  the  hour  that  my  inclination 


178 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  113. 


changed,  but  to  preserve  her  whom  I  was  leaving 
from  the  shock  of  abruptness,  or  the  ignominy 
of  contempt;  that  I  always  endeavoured  to  give 
the  ladies  an  opportunity  of  seeming  to  discard 
me  •  and  that  I  never  forsook  a  mistress  for  a 
larger  fortune,  or  brighter  beauty,  but  because  I 
discovered  some  irregularity  in  her  conduct,  or 
some  depravity  in  her  mind;  not  because  I  was 
charmed  by  another,  but  because  I  was  offended 
by  herself. 

I  was  very  early  tired  of  that  succession  of 
amusements  by  which  the  thoughts  of  most 
young  men  are  dissipated,  and  had  not  long  glit- 
tered in  the  splendour  of  an  ample  patrimony 
before  I  wished  for  the  calm  of  domestic  happi- 
ness. Youth  is  naturallydehghted  with  sprighl- 
liness  and  ardour,  and  therefore  I  breathed  out 
the  sighs  of  my  first  affection  at  the  feet  of  the 
gay,  the  sparkling,  the  vivacious  Ferocula.  I  fan- 
cied to  myself  a  perpetual  source  of  happiness  in 
wit  never  exhausted,  and  spirit  never  depressed  ; 
looked  with  veneration  on  her  readiness  of  ex- 
pedients, contempt  of  difficulty,  assurance  of 
address,  and  promptitude  of  reply  ;  considered 
her  as  exempt  by  some  prerogative  of  nature 
from  the  weakness  and  timidity  of  female  minds; 
and  congratulated  myself  upon  a  companion 
superior  to  all  common  troubles  and  embarrass- 
ments. I  was,  indeed,  somewhat  disturbed  by 
the  unshaken  perseverance  with  which  she  en- 
forced her  demands  of  an  unreasonable  settle- 
ment ;  yet  I  should  have  consented  to  pass  my 
life  in  union  with  her,  had  not  my  curiosity  led 
me  to  a  crowd  gathered  in  the  street,  where  I 
found  Ferocula,  in  the  presence  of  hundreds, 
disputing  for  sixpence  with  a  chairman.  I  saw 
her  in  so  little  need  of  assistance,  that  it  was  no 
breach  of  the  laws  of  chivalry  to  forbear  interpo- 
sition, and  I  spared  myself  the  shame  of  owning 
her  acquaintance.  I  forgot  some  point  of  cere- 
mony at  our  next  interview,  and  soon  provoked 
her  to  forbid  me  her  presence. 

My  next  attempt  was  upon  a  lady  of  great 
eminence  for  learning  and  philosophy.  I  had 
frequently  observed  the  barrenness  and  uniform- 
ity of  connubial  conversation,  and  therefore 
thoujht  highly  of  my  own  prudence  and  discern- 
ment,  when  I  selected  from  a  multitude  of 
wealthy  beauties,  the  deep-read  Misothea,  who 
declared  herself  the  inexorable  enemy  of  ignorant 
pertness  and  puerile  levity;  and  scarcely  con- 
descended to  make  tea,  but  for  the  linguist,  the 
geometrician,  the  astronomer,  or  the  poet.  The 
queen  of  the  Amazons  was  onlyto  be  gained  by 
the  hero  who  could  conquer  her  in  single  com- 
bat ;  and  Misothea's  heart  was  only  to  bless  the 
scholar  who  could  overpower  her  by  disputation. 
Amidst  the  fondest  transports  of  courtship  she 
could  call  for  a  definition  of  terms,  and  treated 
every  argument  with  contempt  that  could  not  be 
reduced  to  regular  syllogism.  You  may  easily 
imagine,  that  I  wished  this  courtship  at  an  end; 
but  when  I  desired  her  to  shorten  my  torments, 
and  fix  the  day  of  my  felicity,  we  were  led  into  a 
long  conversation,  in  which  Misothea  endea- 
voured to  demonstrate  the  folly  of  attributing 
choice  and  self-direction  to  any  human  being. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  discover  the  danger  of 
committing  myself  for  ever  to  the  arms  of  one 
who  might  at  any  time  mistake  the  dictates  of 
passion,  or  the  calls  of  appetite,  for  the  decree 


of  fate ;  or  consider  cuckoldom  as  necessary  to 
the  general  system,  as  a  link  to  the  everlasting 
chain  of  successive  causes.  I  therefore  told  her, 
that  destiny  had  ordained  us  to  part,  and  that 
nothing  should  have  torn  me  from  her  but  the 
talons  of  necessity. 

I  then  solicited  the  regard  of  the  calm,  the 
prudent,  the  economical  Sophronia,  a  lady  who 
considered  wit  as  dangerous,  and  learning  as 
superfluous,  and  thought  that  the  woman  who 
kept  her  house  clean,  and  her  accounts  exact, 
took  receipts  for  every  payment,  and  could  find 
them  at  a  sudden  call,  inquired  nicely  after  the 
condition  of  the  tenants,  read  the  price  of  stocks 
once  a-week,  and  purchased  every  thing  at  the 
best  market,  could  want  no  accomplishments 
necessary  to  the  happiness  of  a  wise  man.  She 
discoursed  with  great  solemnity  on  the  care  and 
vigilance  which  the  superintendence  of  a  family 
demands,  observed  how  many  were  ruined  by 
confidence  in  servants,  and  told  me  that  she 
never  expected  honesty  but  from  a  strong  chest, 
and  that  the  best  storekeeper  was  the  mistress's 
eye.  Many  such  oracles  of  generosity  she  ut- 
tered, and  made  every  day  new  improvements 
in  her  schemes  for  the  regulation  of  her  servants, 
and  the  distribution  of  her  time.  I  was  con- 
vinced, that,  whatever  I  might  suffer  from  So- 
phronia, I  should  escape  poverty ;  and  we  there- 
fore proceeded  to  adjust  the  settlements  accord- 
ing to  her  own  rule,  fair  and  softly.  But  one 
morning  her  maid  came  to  me  in  tears  to  entreat 
my  interest  for  a  reconciliation  to  her  mistress, 
who  had  turned  her  out  at  night  for  breaking  six 
teeth  in  a  tortoise-shell  comb  ;  she  had  attended 
her  lady  from  a  distant  province,  and  having  not 
lived  long  enough  to  save  much  money,  was  des- 
titute among  strangers,  and  though  of  a  good 
family,  in  danger  of  perishing  in  the  streets,  or 
of  being  compelled  by  hunger  to  prostitution.  1 
made  no  scruple  of  promising  to  restore  her ;  but 
upon  my  first  application  to  .Sophronia,  was  an- 
swered with  an  air  which  called  for  approbation, 
thatif  she  neglected  herown  affairs,  Imight  suspect 
her  of  neglecting  mine ;  that  the  comb  stood  her  in 
three  half  crowns ;  that,  no  servant  should  wrong 
her  twice ;  and  that  indeed  she  took  the  first  op- 
portunity of  parting  with  Phillida,  because,  though 
she  was  honest,  her  constitution  was  bad,  and 
she  thought  her  very  likely  to  fall  sick.  Of  our 
conference  I  need  not  tell  you  the  effect ;  it  sure- 
ly may  be  forgiven  me,  if  on  this  occasion,  I  for- 
got the  decency  of  common  forms. 

From  two  more  ladies  I  was  disengaged  by 
finding  that  they  entertained  my  rivals  at  the 
same  time,  and  determined  their  choice  by  the 
liberality  of  our  sentiments.  Another  I  thought 
myself  justified  in  forsaking,  because  she  gave 
my  attorney  a  bribe  to  favour  her  in  the  bargain  ; 
another  because  I  could  never  soften  her  to  ten- 
derness, till  she  heard  that  most  of  my  family  had 
died  young  ;  and  another,  because,  to  increase 
her  fortune  by  expectations,  she  represented  her 
sister  as  languishing  and  consumptive. 

I  shall  in  another  letter  give  the  remaining 
part  of  my  history  of  courtship.  I  presume  that 
1  should  hitherto  have  injured  the  majesty  of  fe- 
male virtue,  had  I  not  hoped  to  transfer  my  at 
fection  to  higher  merit. 

I  am,  &c. 

HTMBKJBW. 


No.  114.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

No.  114.]    SATURDAY,  APRIL  20,  175L 

Audi, 

Nulla  unqaam  de  morte  hominis  cunctatio  longa  est. 

JUV. 

When  man's  life  is  in  debate, 

The  judge  can  ne'er  too  long  deliberate.        DRYDEN  , 

POWER  and  superiority  are  so  flattering  and  de- 
lightful, that,  fraught  with  temptation  and  expos- 
ed to  danger  as  they  are,  scarcely  any  virtue  is 
so  cautious,  or  any  prudence  so  timorous,  as  to 
decline  them.  Even  those  that  have  most  rever- 
ence for  the  laws  of  right,  are  pleased  with  show- 
ing that  not  fear,  but  choice,  regulates  their  be- 
haviour ;  and  would  be  thought  to  comply, 
rather  than  obey.  We  love  to  overlook  the 
boundaries  which  we  do  not  wish  to  pass  ;  and, 
as  the  Roman  satirist  remarks,  he  that  has  no 
design  to  take  the  life  of  another,  is  yet  glad  to 
have  it  in  his  hands. 

From  the  same  principle,  tending  yet  more  to 
degeneracy  and  corruption,  proceeds  the  desire 
of  investing  lawful  authority  with  terror,  and 
governing  by  force  rather  than  persuasion.  Pride 
is  unwilling  to  believe  the  necessity  of  assigning 
any  other  reason  than  her  own  will ;  and  would 
rather  maintain  the  most  equitable  claims  by  vio- 
lence and  penalties,  than  descend  from  the  dig- 
nity of  command  to  dispute  and  expostulation. 

It  may,  I  think,  be  suspected,  that  this  politi- 
cal arrogance  has  sometimes  found  its  way  into 
legislative  assemblies,  and  mingled  with  delibe- 
rations upon  property  and  life.  A  slight  perusal 
of  the  laws  by  which  the  measures  of  vindictive 
and  coercive  justice  are  established,  will  discover 
so  many  disproportions  between  crimes  and  pu- 
nishments, such  capricious  distinctions  of  guilt, 
and  such  confusion  of  remissness  and  severity,  as 
can  scarcely  be  believed  to  have  been  produced 
by  public  wisdom,  sincerely  and  calmly  studious 
of  public  happiness.  , 

The  learned,  the  judicious,  the  pious  Boerhaave 
relates,  that  he  never  saw  a  criminal  dragged  to 
execution  without  asking  himself,  "Who  knows 
whether  this  man  is  not  less  culpable  than  me?" 
On  the  days  when  the  prisons  of  this  city  are 
emptied  into  the  grave,  let  every  spectator  of  the 
dreadful  procession  put  the  same  question  to  his 
own  heart.  Few  among  those  who  crowd  in 
thousands  to  the  legal  massacre,  and  look  with 
carelessness,  perhaps  with  triumph,  on  the  ut- 
most exacerbations  of  human  misery,  would 
then  bo  able  to  return  without  horror  and  dejec- 
tion. For,  who  can  congratulate  himself  upon  a 
life  passed  without  some  act  more  mischievous 
to  the  peace  or  prosperity  of  others,  than  the  theft 
•  of  a  piece  of  money  ? 

It  has  been  always  the  practice  when  any  par- 
ticular species  of  robbery  becomes  prevalent  and 
common,  to  endeavour  its  suppression  by  capital 
denunciations.  Thus,  one  generation  of  male- 
factors is  commonly  cut  off,  and  their  successors 
are  frightened  into  new  expedients  ;  the  art  of 
thievery  is  augmented  with  greater  variety  of 
fraud,  and  subtilized  to  higher  degrees  of  dexte- 
rity, and  more  occult  methods  of  conveyance. 
The  law  then  renews  the  pursuit  in  the  heat  of 
anger,  and  overtakes  the  offender  again  with 
death.  By  this  practice  capital  inflictions  are 
multiplied,  and  crimes,  very  different  in  their  de- 
grees of  enormity,  are  equally  subjected  to  the 


179 

severest  punishment  that  man  has  the  power  of 
exercising  upon  man. 

The  lawgiver  is  undoubtedly  allowed  to  esti- 
mate the  malignity  of  an  offence,  not  merely  by 
the  loss  or  pain  which  single  acts  may  produce, 
but  by  the  general  alarm  and  anxiety  arising  from 
the  fear  of  mischief,  and  insecurity  of  possession  • 
he  therefore  exercises  the  right  which  societies 
are  supposed  to  have  over  the  lives  of  those  that 
compose  them,  not  simply  to  punish  a  transgres- 
sion, but  to  maintain  order,  and  preserve  quiet ; 
he  enforces  those  laws  with  severity  that  are  most 
in  danger  of  violation,  as  the  commander  of  a 
garrison  doubles  the  guard  on  that  side  which  ia 
threatened  by  the  enemy. 

This  method  has  been  long  tried,  but  tried  with 
so  little  success,  that  rapine  and  violence  are 
hourly  increasing,  yet  few  seem  willing  to  de- 
spair of  its  efficacy,  and  of  those  who  employ 
their  speculations  upon  the  present  corruption  of 
the  people,  some  propose  the  introduction  of  more 
horrid,  lingering,  and  terrific  punishments  ;  some 
are  inclined  to  accelerate  the  executions ;  some  to 
discourage  pardon  ;  and  all  seem  to  think  that 
lenity  has  given  confidence  to  wickedness,  and 
that  we  can  only  be  rescued  from  the  talons  of  rob- 
bery by  inflexible  rigour,  and  sanguinary  justice. 

Yet  since  the  right  of  setting  an  uncertain  and 
arbitrary  value  upon  life  has  been  disputed,  and 
since  experience  of  past  times  gives  us  little  rea- 
son to  hope  that  any  reformation  will  be  effected 
by  a  periodical  havoc  of  our  fellow-beings,  per 
haps  it  will  not  be  useless  to  consider  what  con 
sequences  might  arise  from  relaxations  of  the 
law,  and  a  more  rational  and  equitable  adapta- 
tion of  penalties  to  offences. 

Death  is,  as  one  of  the  ancients  observes,  T<>  run 
<j>o8ep&v  (j>o6ef><i>TaTov,  of  dreadful  things  the  most 
dreadful ;  an  evil  beyond  which  nothing  can  be 
threatened  by  sublunary  power,  or  feared  from 
human  enmity  or  vengeance.  This  terror  should, 
therefore,  be  reserved  as  the  last  resort  of  autho- 
rity, as  the  strongest  and  most  operative  of  pro- 
hibitory sanctions,  and  placed  before  the  treasure 
of  life,  to  guard  from  invasion  what  cannot  bo 
restored.  To  equal  robbery  with  murder  is  to 
reduce  murder  to  robbery,  to  confound  in  com- 
mon minds  the  gradations  of  iniquity,  and  incite 
the  commission  of  a  greater  crime  to  prevent  the 
detection  of  a  less.  If  only  murder  were  punished 
with  death,  very  few  robbers  would  stain  their 
hands  with  blood  ;  but  when  by  the  last  act  of 
cruelty,  no  new  danger  is  incurred,  and  greater 
security  may  be  obtained,  upon  what  principle 
shall  we  bid  them  forbear  ? 

It  may  be  urged,  that  the  sentence  is  often  mi- 
tigated to  simple  robbery ;  but  surely  this  is  to 
confess  that  our  laws  are  unreasonable  in  our 
own  opinion  ;  and,  indeed,  it  may  be  observed, 
that  all  but  murderers  have,  at  their  last  hour, 
the  common  sensations  of  mankind  pleading  in 
their  favour.  From  this  conviction  of  the  ine- 
quality of  the  punishment  to  the  offence,  pro- 
ceeds the  frequent  solicitation  of  pardons.  They 
who  would  rejoice  at  the  correction  of  a  thief, 
are  yet  shocked  at  the  thought  of  destroying 
him.  His  crime  shrinks  to  nothing,  compared 
with  his  misery ;  and  severity  defeats  itself  by 
exciting  pity. 

The  gibbet,  indeed,  certainly,  disables  those 
who  die  upon  it  from  infesting  the  community ; 
but  their  death  seems  not  to  contribute  more  to 


180 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  115. 


the  reformation  of  their  associates,  than  any  other 
method  of  separation.  A  thief  seldom  passes 
much  of  his  time  in  recollection  or  anticipation, 
but  from  robbery  hastens  to  riot,  and  from  riot 
to  robbery ;  nor,  when  the  grave  closes  upon 
his  companion,  has  any  other  care  than  to  find 
another. 

The  frequency  of  capital  punishments,  there- 
fore, rarely  hinders  the  commission  of  a  crime, 
but  naturally  and  commonly  prevents  its  detec- 
tion, and  is,  if  we  proceed  only  upon  prudential 
principles,  chiefly  for  that  reason  to  be  avoided. 
Whatever  maybe  urged  by  casuists  or  politicians, 
the  greater  part  of  mankind,  as  they  can  never 
think  that  to  pick  the  pocket  and  to  pierce  the 
heart  is  equally  criminal,  will  scarcely  believe 
that  two  malefactors  so  different  in  guilt  can  be 
justly  doomed  to  the  same  punishment ;  nor  is 
the  necessity  of  submitting  the  conscience  to  hu- 
man laws  so  plainly  evinced,  so  clearly  stated,  or 
so  generally  allowed,  but  that  the  pious,  the  ten- 
der, and  the  just,  will  always  scruple  to  concur 
with  the  community  in  an  act  which  their  private 
judgment  cannot  approve. 

He  who  knows  not  how  often  rigorous  laws 
produce  total  impunity,  and  how  many  crimes 
are  concealed  and  forgotten  for  fear  of  hurrying 
the  offender  to  that  state  in  which  there  is  no  re- 
pentance, has  conversed  very  little  with  mankind. 
And  whatever  epithets  of  reproach  or  contempt 
this  compassion  may  incur  from  those  who  con- 
found cruelty  with  firmness,  I  know  not  whether 
any  wise  man  would  wish  it  less  powerful,  or 
less  extensive. 

If  those  whom  the  wisdom  of  our  laws  has 
condemned  to  die,  had  been  detected  in  their  ru- 
diments of  robbery,  they  might,  by  proper  disci- 
pline and  useful  labour,  have  been  disentangled 
from  their  habits,  they  might  have  escaped  all 
the  temptations  to  subsequent  crimes,  and  pass- 
ed their  days  in  reparation  and  penitence,  and 
detected  they  might  all  have  been,  had  the  pro- 
secutors been  certain  that  their  lives  would  have 
been  spared.  I  believe,  every  thief  will  confess, 
lhat  he  has  been  more  than  once  seized  and  dis- 
missed ;  and  that  he  has  sometimes  ventured 
upon  capital  crimes,  because  he  knew,  that  those 
whom  he  injured  would  rather  connive  at  his 
escape,  than  cloud  their  minds  with  the  horrors 
of  his  death. 

All  laws  against  wickedness  are  ineffectual, 
unless  some  will  inform,  and  some  will  prose- 
cute ;  but  till  we  mitigate  the  penalties  for  mere 
violations  of  property,  information  will  always  be 
hated,  and  prosecution  dreaded.  The  heart  of  a 
good  man  cannot  but  recoil  at  the  thought  of  pu- 
nishing a  slight  injury  with  death  ;  especially 
when  he  remembers  that  the  thief  might  have 
procured  safety  by  another  crime,  from  which  he 
was  restrained  only  by  his  remaining  virtue. 

The  obligations  to  assist  the  exercise  of  public 
justice  are  indeed  strong;  but  they  will  certainly 
be  overpowered  by  tenderness  for  life.  What  is 
punished  with  severity  contrary  to  ou>-  :deas  of 
adequate  retribution,  will  be  seldom  discovered  ; 
and  multitudes  will  be  suffered  to  advance  from 
crime  to  crime,  till  they  deserve  death,  because, 
if  they  had  been  sooner  prosecuted,  they  would 
have  suffered  death  before  they  deserved  it. 

This  scheme  of  invigorating  the  laws  by  relax- 
ation, and  extirpating  wickedness  by  lenity,  is  so 
remote  from  common  practice,  that  I  might  rea- 


sonably fear  to  expose  it  to  the  public,  could  it  be 
supported  only  by  my  own  observations.  I  shall, 
therefore,  by  ascribing  it  to  its  author,  Sir  Tho 
mas  More,  endeavour  to  procure  it  that  atten- 
tion, which  I  wish  always  paid  to  prudence,  to 
justice,  and  to  mercy. 


No.  1-15.]      TUESDAY,  APRIL  23,  1751. 

Quadam  parva  quidem,  ted  non  toleranda  maritis. 

JUV 

Some  faults,  though  small,  intolerable  grow. 

DRYDEN 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

I  SIT  down,  in  pursuance  of  my  late  engagement, 
to  recount  the  remaining  part  of  the  adventures 
that  befell  me  in  my  long  quest  of  conjugal  felici- 
ty, which,  though  I  have  not  yet  been  so  happy 
as  to  obtain  it,  I  have  at  least  endeavoured  to 
deserve  by  unwearied  diligence,  without  suffering 
from  repeated  disappointments  any  abatement  of 
my  hope,  or  repression  of  my  activity. 

You  must  have  observed  in  the  world  a  spe- 
cies of  mortals  who  employ  themselves  in  pro- 
moting matrimony,  and  without  any  visible  mo- 
tive of  interest  or  vanity,  without  any  disco- 
verable impulse  of  malice  or  benevolence,  with- 
out any  reason  but  that  they  want  objects  of  at- 
tention and  topics  of  conversation,  are  inces- 
santly busy  in  procuring  wives  and  husbands. 
They  fill  the  ears  of  every  single  man  and  woman 
with  some  convenient  match;  and  when  they 
are  informed  of  your  age  and  fortune,  offer  a 
partner  for  life,  with  the  same  readiness,  and  the 
same  indifference,  as  a  salesman,  when  he  has 
taken  measure  by  his  eye,  fits  his  customer  with 
a  coat. 

It  might  be  expected  that  they  should  soon  be 
discouraged  from  this  officious  interposition  by 
resentment  or  contempt ;  and  that  every  man 
should  determine  the  choice  on  which  so  much 
of  his  happiness  must  depend,  by  his  own  judg- 
ment and  observation  ;  yet  it  happens,  that  as 
these  proposals  are  generally  made  with  a  show 
of  kindness,  they  seldom  provoke  anger,  but  are 
at  worst  heard  with  patience,  and  forgotten. 
They  influence  weak  minds  to  approbation  ;  for 
many  are  sure  to  find  in  a  new  acquaintance, 
whatever  qualities  report  has  taught  them  to  ex- 
pect ;  and  in  more  powerful  and  active  under- 
standings they  excite  curiosity,  and  sometimes 
by  a  lucky  chance,  bring  persons  of  similar  tem- 
pers within  the  attraction  of  each  other. 

I  was  known  to  possess  a  fortune,  and  to  want 
a  wife ;  and  therefore  was  frequently  attended 
by  these  Hymeneal  solicitors,  with  whose  im- 
portunity I  was  sometimes  diverted,  and  some- 
times perplexed  ;  for  they  contended  for  me  as 
vultures  for  a  carcass  ;  each  employing  all  his 
eloquence,  and  all  his  artifices,  to  enforce  and 
promote  his  own  scheme,  from  the  success  of 
which  he  was  to  receive  no  other  advantage  than 
the  pleasure  of  defeating  others  equally  eagei 
and  equally  industrious. 

An  invitation  to  sup  with  one  of  those  busy 
friends,  made  me,  by  a  concerted  chance,  ac- 
quainted with  Camilla,  by  whom  it  was  expected 
that  I  should  be  suddenly  and  irresistibly  en 


No.  115.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


181 


slaved.  The  lady  whom  the  same  kindness  had 
brought  without  her  own  concurrence  into  the 
lists  of  love,  seemed  to*think  me  at  least  worthy 
of  the  honour  of  captivity  ;  and  exerted  the 
power,  both  of  her  eyes  and  wit,  with  so  much 
art  and  spirit,  that  though  I  had  been  too  often 
deceived  by  appearances  to  devote  myself  irre- 
vocably at  the  first  interview,  yet  I  could  not 
suppress  some  raptures  of  admiration,  and  flut- 
ters of  desire.  I  was  easily  persuaded  to  make 
nearer  approaches ;  but  soon  discovered  that  a 
union  with  Camilla  was  not  much  to  be  wished. 
Camilla  professed  a  boundless  contempt  for  the 
folly,  Levity,  ignorance,  and  impertinence  of  her 
own  sex ;  and  very  frequently  expressed  her 
wonder  that  men  of  learning  or  experience  could 
submit  to  trifle  away  life  with  beings  incapable 
of  solid  thought.  In  mixed  companies  she  always 
associated  with  the  men,  and  declared  her  satis- 
faction when  the  ladies  retired.  If  any  short  ex- 
cursion into  the  country  was  proposed,  she  com- 
monly insisted  upon  the  exclusion  of  women 
from  the  party ;  because,  where  they  were  ad- 
mitted, the  timo  was  wasted  in  frothy  compli- 
ments, weak  indulgences,  and  idle  ceremonies. 
To  show  the  greatness  of  her  rnind,  she  avoided 
all  compliance  with  the  fashion  ;  and  to  boast 
the  profundity  of  her  kno'wledge,  mistook  the 
various  textures  of  silk,  confounded  tabbies  with 
damasks,  and  sent  for  ribands  by  wrong  names. 
She  despised  the  commerce  of  stated  visits,  a 
farce  of  empty  form  without  instruction  ;  and 
congratulated  herself,  that  she  never  learned  to 
write  message  cards.  She  often  applauded  the 
noble  sentiment  of  Plato,  who  rejoiced  that  he 
was  born  a  man  rather  than  a  woman  ;  pro- 
claimed her  approbation  of  Swift's-opinion,  that 
women  are  only  a  higher  species  of  monkeys ; 
and  confessed,  that  when  she  considered  the  be- 
haviour, or  heard  the  conversation  of  her  sex, 
she  could  not  but  forgive  the  Turks  for  suspect- 
ing them  to  want  souls. 

It  was  the  joy  and  pride  of  Camilla  to  have 
provoked,  by  this  insolence,  all  the  rage  of  ha- 
tred, and  all  the  persecutions  of  calumny ;  nor 
was  she  ever  more  elevated  with  her  own  supe- 
riority, than  when  she  talked  of  female  anger  and 
female  cunning.  Well,  said  she,  has  nature 
provided  that  such  virulence  should  be  disabled 
by  folly,  and  such  cruelty  be  restrained  by  im- 
potence. 

Camilla  doubtless  expected,  that  what  she  lost 
on  one  side,  she  should  gain  on  the  other;  and 
imagined  that  every  male  heart  would  be  open  to 
a  lady,  who  made  such  generous  advances  to  the 
borders  of  virility.  But  man,  ungrateful  man, 
instead  of  springing  forward  to  meet  her,  shrunk 
back  at  her  approach.  She  was  persecuted  by 
the  ladies  as  a  deserter,  and  at  best  received  by 
the  men  only  as  a  fugitive.  I,  for  my  part, 
amused  myself  a  while  with  her  fopperies,  but 
novelty  soon  gave  way  to  detestation,  for  no- 
thing out  of  the  common  order  of  nature  can  be 
long  borne.  I  had  no  inclination  to  a  wife  who 
had  the  ruggedness  of  a  man  without  his  force, 
and  the  ignorance  of  a  woman  without  her  soft- 
ness ;  nor  could  I  think  my  quiet  and  honour  to 
be  intrusted  to  such  audacious  virtue  as  was 
hourly  courting  danger,  and  soliciting  assault. 

My  next  mistress  was  Nitella,  a  lady  of  gentle 
mien,  and  soft  voice,  always  speaking  to  approve, 
and  readv  to  receive  direction  from  those  with 


whom  chance  had  brought  her  into  company. 
In  Nitella  I  promised  myself  an  easy  friend,  with 
whom  I  might  loiter  away  the  day  without  dis- 
turbance or  altercation.  I  therefore  soon  re- 
solved to  address  her,  but  was  discouraged  from 
prosecuting  my  courtship,  by  observing  that  her 
apartments  were  superstitiously  regular;  and 
that,  unless  she  had  notice  of  my  visit,  she  was 
never  to  be  seen.  There  is  a  kind  of  anxious 
cleanliness  which  I  have  always  noted  as  the 
characteristic  of  a  slattern  ;  it  is  the  superfluous 
scrupulosity  of  guilt,  dreading  discovery,  and 
shunning  suspicion  ;  it  is  the  violence  of  an  ef- 
fort against  habit,  which  being  impelled  by  exter- 
nal motives,  cannot  stop  at  the  middle  point. 

Nitella  was  always  tricked  out  rather  with 
nicety  than  elegance ;  and  seldom  could  forbear 
to  discover  by  her  uneasiness  and  constraint, 
that  her  attention  was  burdened,  and  her  ima- 
gination engrossed  :  I  therefore  concluded,  that 
being  only  occasionally  and  ambitiously  dressed, 
she  was  not  familiarized  to  her  own  ornaments. 
There  are  so  many  competitors  for  the  fame  of 
cleanliness,  that  it  is  not  hard  to  gain  informa 
tion  of  those  that  fail,  from  those  that  desire  to 
excel ;  I  quickly  found,  that  Nilella  passed  her 
time  between  finery  and  dirt ;  and  was  always 
in  a  wrapper,  nightcap,  and  slippers,  when  she 
was  not  decorated  for  immediate  show. 

I  was  then  led  by  my  evil  destiny  to  Charyb- 
dis,  who  never  neglected  an  opportunity  of  seizing 
a  new  prey  when  it  came  within  her  reach.  I 
thought  myself  quickly  made  happy  by  permis- 
sion to  attend  her  to  public  places,  and  pleased 
my  own  vanity  with  imagining  the  envy  which  I 
should  raise  in  a  thousand  hearts,  by  appearing 
as  the  acknowledged  favourite  of  Charybdis. 
She  soon  after  hinted  her  intention  to  take  a 
ramble  for  a  fortnight,  into  a  part  of  the  kingdom 
which  she  had  never  seen.  I  solicited  the  hap 
piness  of  accompanying  her,  which,  after  a  short 
reluctance,  was  indulged  me.  She  had  no  other 
curiosity  on  her  journey,  than  after  all  possible 
means  of  expense ;  and  was  every  moment  taking 
occasion  to  mention  some  delicacy,  which  I 
knew  it  my  duty  upon  such  notices  to  procure. 

After  our  return,  being  now  more  familiar,  she 
told  me,  whenever  we  met,  of  some  new  diver 
sion;  at  night  she  had  notice  of  a  charming 
company  that  would  breakfast  in  the  gardens ; 
and  in  the  morning  had  been  informed  of  some 
new  song  in  the  opera,  some  new  dress  at  the 
playhouse,  or  some  performer  at  a  concert  whom 
she  longed  to  hear.  Her  intelligence  was  such, 
that  there  never  was  a  show,  to  which  she  did 
not  summon  me  on  the  second  day ;  and  as  she 
hated  a  crowd,  and  could  not  go  alone,  I  was 
obliged  to  attend  at  some  intermediate  hour,  and 
pay  the  price  of  a  whole  company.  When  we 
passed  the  streets,  she  was  often  charmed  with 
some  trinket  in  the  toyshops ;  and,  from  mode- 
rate desires  of  seals  and  snufF-boxes,  rose,  by  de- 
grees, to  gold  and  diamonds.  I  now  began  to 
find  the  smile  of  Charybdis  too  costly  for  a  pri- 
vate purse,  and  added  one  more  to  six-and,forty 
lovers,  whose  fortune  and  patience  her  rapacity 
had  exhausted. 

Imperia  then  took  possession  of  my  affections, 
but  kept  them  only  for  a  short  time.  She  had 
newly  inherited  a  large  fortune,  and  having  spent 
the  earlier  part  of  her  life  in  the  perusal  of  ro- 
mances, brought  with  her  into  the  gay  world  all 


182 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  116. 


the  pride  of  Cleopatra;  expected  nothing  less 
than  vows,  altars,  and  sacrifices;  and  thought 
her  charms  dishonoured,  and  her  power  in- 
fringed, by  the  softest  opposition  to  her  senti- 
ments, or  the  smallest  transgression  of  her  com- 
mands. Time  might  indeed  cure  this  species  of 
pride  in  a  mind  not  naturally  undiscerning,  and 
vitiated  only  by  false  representations ;  but  the 
operations  of  time  are  slow ;  and  I  therefore  left 
her  to  grow  wise  at  leisure,  or  to  continue  in  er- 
ror at  her  own  expense. 

Thus  I  have  hitherto,  in  spite  of  myself,  passed 
my  life  in  frozen  celibacy.  My  friends,  indeed, 
often  tell  me,  that  I  flatter  my  imagination  with 
higher  hopes  than  human  nature  can  gratify; 
that  I  dress  up  an  ideal  charmer  in  all  the  ra- 
diance of  perfection,  and  then  enter  the  world  to 
look  for  the  same  excellence  in  corporeal  beauty. 
But  surely,  Mr.  RAMBLER,  it  is  not  madness  to 
hope  for  some  terrestrial  lady  unstained  with  the 
spots  which  I  have  been  describing ;  at  least,  I 
am  resolved  to  pursue  my  search ;  for  I  am  so 
far  from  thinking  meanly  of  marriage,  that  I  be- 
lieve it  able  to  afford  the  highest  happiness  de- 
creed to  our  present  state  ;  and  if,  after  all  these 
miscarriages,  I  find  a  woman  that  fills  up  my 
expectation,  you  shall  hear  once  more  from 
Yours,  &c. 

HYMEN^EUS. 


No.  116.]       SATURDAY,  APRIL  27,  1751. 

Of  tat  ephippia  bos  pig  er;  optat  arare  caballus. 

HOR. 

Thus  the  slow  ox  would  gaudy  trappings  claim ; 
The  sprightly  horse  would  plough. FRANCIS. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


I  WAS  the  second  son  of  a  country  gentleman  by 
the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  citizen  of  London. 
My  father  having  by  his  marriage  freed  the  estate 
from  a  heavy  mortgage,  and  paid  his  sisters  their 
portions,  thought  himself  discharged  from  all 
obligation  to  further  thought,  and  entitled  to 
spend  the  rest  of  his  life  in  rural  pleasures.  He1 
therefore  spared  nothing  that  might  contribute  to 
the  completion  of  his  felicity ;  he  procured  the 
best  guns  and  horses  that  the  kingdom  could 
supply,  paid  large  salaries  to  his  groom  and 
huntsman,  and  became  the  envy  of  the  country 
for  the  discipline  of  his  hounds.  But,  above  all 
his  other  attainments,  he  was  eminent  for  a 
breed  of  pointers  and  setting-dogs,  which  by  long 
and  vigilant  cultivation  he  had  so  much  im- 
proved, that  not  a  partridge  or  heathcock  could 
rest  in  security ;  and  game  of  whatever  species, 
that  dared  to  light  upon  his  manor,  was  beaten 
down  by  his  shot,  or  covered  with  his  nets. 

My  elder  brother  was  very  early  initiated  in 
the  chace,  and,  at  an  age  when  other  boys  are 
creeping  like  snails  unwillingly  to  school,  he  could 
wind  the  horn,  beat  the  bushes,  bound  over 
hedges,  and  swim  rivers.  When  the  huntsman 
one  day  broke  his  leg,  he  supplied  his  place  with 
equal  abilities,  and  came  home  with  the  scut  in 
his  hat,  amidst  the  acclamations  of  the  whole 
village.  I  beine  either  delicate  or  timorous,  less 
desirous  of  honour,  or  less  capable  of  sylvan  he- 
roism, wad  always  the  favourite  of  my  mother ; 


because  I  kept  my  coat  clean,  and  my  com- 
plexion free  from  freckles ;  and  did  not  come 
home,  like  my  brother,  mired  and  tanned,  nor 
carry  corn  in  my  hat  to  the  horse,  nor  biing  dirty 
curs  into  the  parlour. 

My  mother  had  not  been  taught  to  amuse  her 
self  with  books,  and  being  much  inclined  to 
despise  the  ignorance  and  barbarity  of  the  coun- 
try ladies,  disdained  to  learn  their  sentiments  or 
conversation,  and  had  made  no  addition  to  the 
notions  which  she  had  brought  from  the  precincts 
of  Cornhill.  She  was,  therefore,  always  recount- 
ing the  glories  of  the  city;  enumerating  the  suc- 
cession of  mayors ;  celebrating  the  magnificence 
of  the  banquets  at  Guildhall ;  and  relating  the 
civilities  paid  her  at  the  companies'  feasts  by 
men,  of  whom  some  are  now  made  aldermen, 
some  have  fined  for  sheriffs,  and  none  are  worth 
less  than  forty  thousand  pounds.  She  frequently 
displayed  her  father's  greatness  ;  told  of  the 
large  bills  which  he  had  paid  at  sight ;  of  the 
sums  for  which  his  vtrord  would  pass  upon  the 
Exchange  ;  the  heaps  of  gold  which  he  used  on 
Saturday  night  to  toss  about  with  a  shovel ;  the 
extent  of  his  warehouse,  and  the  strength  of  his 
doors ;  and  when  she  relaxed  her  imagination 
with  lower  subjects,  described  the  furniture  of 
their  country-house,  or  repeated  the  wit  of  the 
clerks  and  porters. 

By  these  narratives  I  was  fired  with  the  splen- 
dour and  dignity  of  London,  and  of  trade.  I 
therefore  devoted  myself  to  a  shop,  and  warmed 
my  imagination  from  year  to  year  with  inquiries 
about  the  privileges  of  a  freeman,  the  power  of 
the  common  council,  the  dignity  of  a  wholesale 
dealer,  and  the  grandeur  of  mayoralty,  to  which 
my  mother  assured  me  that  many  had  arrived 
who  began  the  world  with  less  than  myself. 

I  was  very  impatient  to  enter  into  a  path, 
which  led  to  such  honour  and  felicity;  but  was 
forced  for  a  time  to  endure  some  repression  of 
my  eagerness,  for  it  was  my  grandfather's  max- 
im, that  a  young  man  seldom  makes  much  money, 
who  is  out  of  his  time  before  two-and-hvenly.  They 
thought  it  necessary,  therefore,  to  keep  me  at 
home  till  the  proper  age,  without  any  other  em- 
ployment than  that  of  learning  merchants'  ac- 
counts, and  the  art  of  regulating  books  ;  but  at 
length  the  tedious  days  elapsed,  I  was  trans- 
planted to  town,  and,  with  great  satisfaction  to 
myself,  bound  to  a  haberdasher. 

My  master,  who  had  no  conception  of  any 
virtue,  merit,  or  dignity,  but  that  of  being  rich, 
had  all  the  good  qualities  which  naturally  arise 
from  a  close  and  unwearied  attention  to  the 
main  chance;  his  desire  to  gain  wealth  was  so 
well  tempered  by  the  vanity  of  showing  it,  that, 
without  any  other  principle  of  action,  he  lived  in 
the  esteem  of  the  whole  commercial  world  ;  and 
was  always  treated  with  respect  by  the  only  men, 
whose  good  opinion  he  valued  or  solicited,  those 
who  were  universally  allowed  to  be  richer  than 
himself. 

By  his  instructions  I  learned  in  a  few  weeks  to 
handle  a  yard  with  great  dexterity,  to  wind  tape 
neatly  upon  the  ends  of  my  fingers,  and  to  make 
up  parcels  with  exact  frugality  of  paper  and 
packthread ;  and  soon  caught  from  my  fellow- 
apprentices  the  true  grace  of  a  counter-bow,  the 
careless  air  with  which  a  small  pair  of  scales  is 
to  be  held  between  the  fingers,  and  the  vigour 
and  sprightliness  with  which  the  box,  after  the 


No.  117.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


183 


riband  has  been  cut,  is  returned  into  its  place. 
Having  no  desireofany  higher  employment,  and 
therefore  applying  all  my  powers  to  the  know- 
ledge of  my  trade,  I  was  quickly  master  of  all 
that  could  be  known,  became  a  critic  in  small 
wares,  contrived  new  variations  of  figures,  and 
new  mixtures  of  colours,  and  was  sometimes 
consulted  by  the  weavers,  when  they  projected 
fashions  for  the  ensuing  spring. 

With  all  these  accomplishments,  in  the  fourth 
year  of  my  apprenticeship  I  paid  a  visit  to  my 
friends  in  the  country,  where  I  expected  to  be 
received  as  a  new  ornament  of  the  family,  and 
consulted  by  the  neighbouring  gentlemen  as  a 
master  of  pecuniary  knowledge,  and  by  the  ladies 
as  an  oracle  of  the  mode.  But  unhappily,  at  the 
first  public  table,  to  which  I  was  invited,  ap- 
pealed a  student  of  the  Temple,  and  an  officer 
of  the  guards,  who  looked  upon  me  with  a  smile 
of  contempt,  which  destroyed  at  once  all  my 
hopes  of  distinction,  so  that  I  durst  hardly  raise 
my  eyes  for  fear  of  encountering  their  superiority 
of  mien.  Nor  was  my  courage  revived  by  any 
opportunities  of  displaying  my  knowledge  ;  for 
tbs  templar  entertained  the  company  for  part  of 
the  day  with  historical  narratives  and  political 
observations ;  and  the  colonel  afterwards  de- 
tailed the  adventures  of  a  birth-night,  told  the 
claims  and  expectations  of  the  courtiers,  and  gave 
an  account  of  assemblies,  gardens,  and  diver- 
sions. I,  indeed,  essayed  to  fill  up  a  pause  in  a 
parliamentary  debate  with  a  faint  mention  of 
trade  and  Spaniards ;  and  once  attempted,  with 
some  warmth,  to  correct  a  gross  mistake  about 
a  silver  breast-knot ;  but  neither  of  my  antago- 
nists seemed  to  think  a  reply  necessary ;  they 
resumed  their  discourse  without  emotion,  and 
again  engrossed  the  attention  of  the  company ; 
nor  did  one  of  the  ladies  appear  desirous  to  know 
my  opinion  of  her  dress,  or  to  hear  how  long  the 
carnation  shot  with  white,  that  was  then  new 
amongst  them,  had  been  antiquated  in  to'wn. 

As  1  knew  that  neither  of  these  gentlemen  had 
more  money  than  myself,  I  could  not  discover 
what  had  depressed  me  in  their  presence ;  nor 
why  they  were  considered  by  others  as  more 
worthy  of  attention  and  respect ;  and  therefore 
resolved,  when  we  met  again,  to  rouse  my  spirit, 
and  force  myself  into  notice.  I  went  very  early 
to  the  next  weekly  meeting,  and  was  entertain- 
ing a  small  circle  very  successfully  with  a  minute 
representation  of  my  lord  mayor's  show,  when 
the  colonel  entered  careless  and  gay,  sat  down 
with  a  kind  of  unceremonious  civility,  and  with- 
out appearing  to  intend  any  interruption,  drew 
my  audience  away  to  the  other  part  of  the  room, 
to  which  I  had  not  the  courage  to  follow  them. 
Soon  after  came  in  the  lawyer,  not  indeed  with 
ths  same  attraction  of  mien,  but  with  greater 
powers  of  language :  and  by  one  or  other  the 
company  was  so  happily  amused,  that  I  was 
neither  heard  nor  seen,  nor  was  able  to  give  any 
other  proof  of  my  existence  than  that  1  put  round 
the  glass,  and  was  in  my  turn  permitted  to  name 
the  toast. 

My  mother  indeed  endeavoured  to  comfort  me 
in  my  vexation,  by  telling  me,  that  perhaps  these 
showy  talkers  were  hardly  able  to  pay  everyone 
his  own  ;  that  he  who  has  money  in  his  pocket 
needs  not  care  what  any  man  says  of  him ;  that 
if  I  minded  my  trade,  the  time  will  come  when 
lawyers  and  soldiers  would  be  glad  to  borrow  out 


of  my  purse ;  and  that  it  is  fine,  when  a  man  can 
set  his  hands  to  his  sides,  and  say  he  is  worth 
forty  thousand  pounds  every  day  of  the  year 
These  and  many  more  such  consolations  and 
encouragements  I  received  from  my  good  mo- 
ther, which,  however,  did  not  much  allay  my  un- 
easiness ;  for  having  by  some  accident  heard, 
that  the  country  ladies  despised  her  as  a  cit,  1 
had  therefore  no  longer  much  reverence  for  her 
opinions,  but  considered  her  as  one  whose  igno- 
rance and  prejudice  had  hurried  me,  though  with- 
out ill  intentions,  into  a  state  of  meanness  and 
ignominy,  from  which  I  could  not  find  any  pos- 
sibility of  rising  to  the  rank  which  my  ancestors 
had  always  held. 

I  returned,  however,  to  my  master,  and  busied 
myself  among  thread,  and  silks,  and  laces,  but 
without  my  former  cheerfulness  and  alacrity.  I 
had  now  no  longer  any  felicity  in  contemplating 
the  exact  disposition  of  my  powdered  curls,  the 
equal  plaits  of  my  luffles,  or  the  glossy  blackness 
of  my  shoes  ;  nor  heard  with  my  former  eleva- 
tion those  compliments  which  ladies  sometimes 
condescended  to  pay  me  upon  my  readiness  in 
twisting  a  paper,  or  counting  out.  the  change. 
The  term  of  Young  Man,  with  which  I  was  some- 
times honoured,  as  I  carried  a  parcel  to  the  door 
of  a  coach,  tortured  my  imagination ;  I  grew 
negligent  of  my  person,  and  sullen  in  my  tem- 
per ;  often  mistook  the  demands  of  the  custom- 
ers, treated  their  caprices  and  objections  with 
contempt,  and  received  and  dismissed  them  with 
surly  silence. 

My  master  was  afraid  lest  the  shop  should 
suffer  by  this  change  of  my  behaviour;  and, 
therefore,  after  some  expostulation,  posted  me  in 
the  warehouse,  and  preserved  me  from  the  dan- 
ger and  reproach  of  desertion,  to  which  my  dis- 
content would  certainly  have  urged  me,  had  1 
continued  any  longer  behind  the  counter. 

In  the  sixth  year  of  my  servitude  my  brother 
died  of  drunken  joy,  for  having  run  down  a  fox 
that  had  baffled  all  the  packs  in  the  province.  I 
was  now  heir,  and  with  the  hearty  consent  of  my 
master  commenced  gentleman.  The  adventures 
in  which  my  new  character  engaged  me  shall  be 
communicated  in  another  letter,  by  Sir, 
Yours,  &c. 

MISOCAPEI.US. 


No.  117.]     TUESDAY,  APRIL  30,  1751. 

'Qvcrav  err'  O6Xi)//7ra>  \iiu.aaav  OijicV  airap  ^ir'  "Oeraji 
IIijXiov  Avoai<pv\\ov,  tv  ovpavds  <fy//?ardj  ttrj.     HOM. 

The  gods  they  challenge,  and  affect  the  skies: 

Heaveil  on  Olympus,  tottering  Ossa  stood ; 

On  Ossa,  Pelion  nods  with  all  his  wood.  POPE 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

NOTHING  has  more  retarded  the  advancement  ol 
learning  than  the  disposition  of  vulgar  minds  to 
ridicule  and  vilify  what  they  cannot  comprehend. 
All  industry  must  be  excited  by  hope ;  and  as  the 
student  often  proposes  no  other  reward  to  him- 
self than  praise,  he  is  easily  discouraged  by  con- 
tempt and  insult.  He  who  brings  with  him  into 
a  clamorous  multitude  the  timidity  of  recluse  spe- 
culation, and  has  never  hardened  his  front  in  pub- 
lic life,  or  accustomed  his  passions  to  the  vicissi- 
tudes and  accidents,  the  triumphs  and  defeats  ot 
mixed  conversation,  will  blush  at  the  stare  of  pe- 


184 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  117. 


tulant  incredulity,  and  suffer  himself  to  be  driven 
by  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  the  fortresses  of  de- 
monstration. The  mechanist  will  be  afraid  to  as- 
sert before  hardy  contradiction,  the  possibility  of 
tearing  down  bulwarks  with  a  silkworm's  thread ; 
and  tuc  astronomer  of  relating  the  rapidity  of 
light,  the  distance  of  the  fixed  stars,  and  the  height 
of  the  lunar  mountains. 

If  I  could  by  any  efforts  have  shaken  off  this 
cowardice,  I  had  not  sheltered  myself  under  a 
borrowed  name,  nor  applied  to  you  for  the 
means  of  communicating  to  the  public  the  theory 
of  a  garret ;  a  subject  which,  except  some  slight 
and  transient  strictures,  has  been  hitherto  ne- 
glected by  those  who  were  best  qualified  to  adorn 
it,  either  for  want  of  leisure  to  prosecute  the  vari- 
ous researches  in  which  a  nice  discussion  must 
engage  them,  or  because  it  requires  such  diversi- 
ty of  knowledge,  and  such  extent  of  curiosity,  as 
is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  any  single  intellect;  or 
perhaps  others  foresaw  the  tumult  which  would 
be  raised  against  them,  and  confined  their  know- 
ledge to  their  own  breasts,  and  abandoned  preju- 
dice and  folly  to  the  direction  of  chance. 

That  the  professors  of  literature  generally  re- 
side in  the  highest  stories,  has  been  immemorially 
observed.  The  wisdom  of  the  ancients  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  intellectual  advantages  of 
an  elevated  situation :  why  else  were  the  Muses 
stationed  on  Olympus,  or  Parnassus,  by  those 
who  could  with  equal  right  have  raised  them 
bowers  in  the  vale  of  Tempe,  or  erected  their  al- 
tars among  the  flexures  of  Meander  ?  Why  was 
Jove  himself  nursed  upon  a  mountain  ?  or  why 
did  the  goddesses,  when  the  prize  of  beauty  was 
contested,  try  the  cause  upon  the  top  of  Ida? 
Such  were  the  fictions  by  which  the  great  mas- 
ters of  the  earlier  ages  endeavoured  to  inculcate 
to  posterity  the  importance  of  a  garret,  which, 
though  they  had  been  long  obscured  by  the  negli- 
gence and  ignorance  of  succeeding  times,  were 
well  enforced  by  the  celebrated  symbol  of  Pytha- 
goras, avtpiav  ttvt6vTij>v  rrjv  ij^ii  irpociciivti ;  "  when 
the  wind  blows,  worship  its  echo."  This  could 
not  but  be  understood  by  his  disciples  as  an  invio- 
lable injunction  to  live  in  a  garret,  which  I  have 
found  frequently  visited  by  the  echo  and  the 
wind.  Nor  was  the  tradition  wholly  obliterated 
in  the  age  of  Augustus,  for  Tibullus  evidently 
congratulates  himself  upon  hif:  garret,  not  without 
some  allusion  to  the  Pythagorean  precept : 

Quamjuvitt  immitcs  ventos  audire  cubantem — 
Aut,  gelidas  hyb  trims  aquas  cumfuderit  duster, 
Secunim  somnos,  imbrejuvante,  sequi ! 

How  sweet  in  sleep  to  pass  the  careless  hours, 
Lull'd  by  the  beating  winds  and  dashing  showers! 

And  it  is  impossible  not  to  discover  the  fond- 
ness of  Lucretius,  as  an  early  writer,  for  a  garret, 
in  his  description  of  the  lofty  towers  of  serene 
learning,  and  of  the  pleasure  with  which  a  wise 
man  looks  down  upon  the  confused  and  erratic 
state  of  the  world  moving  below  him. 

Srd  nil  dulciut  ttt,  bent  quam  munita  tenere 
Edila  doctnna  sapientum  templa  serena; 
Detpicere  unde  queas  alias,  passimque  videre 
jL.rra.re,  atque  viam palanteis  quarere  vita. 

'Tis  sweet  thy  labouring  steps  to  guide 

To  virtue'*  heights,  with  wisdom  well  supplied, 
And  all  the  magazines  of  learning  fortified  ; 
From  thence  to  look  below  on  human  kind, 
Bewilder'd  in  the  maze  of  life,  and  blind. 

DRYDEN. 


The  institution  has,  indeed,  continued  to  our 
own  time  ;  the  garret  is  still  the  usual  receptacle 
of  the  philosopher  and  poet ;  but  this,  like  many 
ancient  customs,  is  perpetuated  only  by  an  acci- 
dental imitation,  without  knowledge  of  the  ori- 
ginal reason  for  which  it  was  established ; 

Causa  latet :  res  est  notissima. 

The  cause  is  secret,  but  th'  effect  is  known 

ADD1SON. 

Conjectures  have,  indeed,  been  advanced  con- 
cerning these  habitations  of  literature,  but  with- 
out much  satisfaction  to  the  judicious  inquirer. 
Some  have  imagined  that  the  garret  is  generally 
chosen  by  the  wits  as  most  easily  rented  ;  and 
concluded  that  no  man  rejoices  in  his  aerial  abode, 
but  on  the  days  of  payment.  Others  suspect  thai 
a  garret  is  chiefly  convenient,  as  it  is  remoter  than 
any  other  part  of  the  house  from  the  outer  door, 
which  is  often  observed  to  be  infested  by  visit- 
ants, who  talk  incessantly  of  beer,  or  linen,  or  a 
coat,  and  repeat  the  same  sounds  every  morning, 
and  sometimes  again  in  the  afternoon,  without 
any  variation,  except  that  they  grow  daily  more 
importunate  and  clamorous,  and  raise  then 
voices  in  time  from  mournful  murmurs  to  raging 
vociferations.  This  eternal  monotony  is  always 
detestable  to  a  man  whose  chief  pleasure  is  to 
enlarge  his  knowledge  and  vary  his  ideas.  Others 
talk  of  freedom  from  noise,  and  abstraction  from 
common  business  or  amusements;  and  some, 
yet  more  visionary,  tell  us,  that  the  faculties  are 
enlarged  by  open  prospects,  and  that  the  fancy 
is  more  at  liberty,  when  the  eye  ranges  without 
confinement 

These  conveniences  may  perhaps  all  be  found 
in  a  well-chosen  garret;  but  surely  they  cannot 
be  supposed  sufficiently  important  to  have  ope- 
rated invariably  upon  different  climates,  distant 
ages,  and  separate  nations.  Of  a  universal  prac- 
tice, there  must  still  be  presumed  a  universal 
cause,  which,  however  recondite  and  abstruse, 
may  be  perhaps  reserved  to  make  me  illustrious 
by  its  discovery,  and  you  by  its  promulgation. 

It  is  universally  known  that  the  faculties  of  the 
mind  are  invigorated  or  weakened  by  the  state 
of  the  body,  and  that  the  body  is  in  a  great  mea- 
sure regulated  by  the  various  compressions  of  the 
ambient  element.  The  effects  of  the  air  in  the 
production  or  cure  of  corporal  maladies  have  been 
acknowledged  from  the  time  of  Hippocrates ;  but 
no  man  has  yet  sufficiently  considered  how  far  it 
may  influence  the  operations  of  the  genius, 
though  every  day  affords  instances  of  local  un- 
derstanding, of  wits  and  reasoners,  whose  facul- 
ties are  adapted  to  some  single  spot,  and  who, 
when  they  are  removed  to  any  other  place,  sink 
at  once  into  silence  and  stupidity.  I  have  disco- 
vered, by  a  long  series  of  observations,  that  in- 
vention and  elocution  suffer  great  impediments 
from  dense  and  impure  vapours,  and  that  the  te- 
nuity of  a  defecated  air  at  a  proper  distance  from 
the  surface  of  the  earth,  accelerates  the  fancy, 
and  sets  at  liberty  those  intellectual  powers  whicl 
were  before  shackled  by  too  strong  attraction 
and  unable  to  expand  themselves  under  the  prea 
sure  of  a  gross  atmosphere.  I  have  found  dul 
ness  to  quicken  into  sentiment  in  a  thin  ether,  at 
water,  though  not  very  hot,  boils  in  a  receive! 
partly  exhausted ;  and  heads,  in  appearanc* 
empty,  have  teemed  with  notions  upon  rising 


No.  118.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


185 


ground,  as  the  flaccid  sides  of  a  football  would  I  ground  stagnates  in  silence,  or  creeps  in  narra- 
have  swelled  out  into  stiffness  and  extension.  tive,  might  at  the  height  of  half  a  mile,  ferment 
For  this  reason  I  never  think  myself  qualified  I  into  merriment,  sparkle  with  repartee,  and  froth 


to  judge  decisively  of  any  man's  faculties,  whom 
I  have  only  known  in  one  degree  of  elevation  ; 
but  take  some  opportunity  of  attending  him  from 
the  cellar  to  the  garret,  and  try  upon  him  all  the 
various  degrees  of  rarefaction  and  condensation, 
tension  and  laxity.  If  he  is  neither  vivacious, 
aloft,  nor  serious  below,  I  then  consider  him  as 
hopeless  ;  but  as  it  seldom  happens,  that  I  do 
not  find  the  temper  to  which  the  texture  of  his 
brain  is  fitted,  I  accommodate  him  in  time  with  a 
tube  of  mercury,  first  marking  the  point  most  fa- 
vourable to  his  intellects,  according  to  rules 
which  I  have  long  studied,  and  which  I  may,  per- 
haps, reveal  to  mankind  in  a  complete  treatise 
of  barometrical  pneumatology. 

Another  cause  of  the  gayety  and  sprightliness 
of  the  dwellers  in  garrets  is  probably  the  increase 
of  that  vertiginous  motion,  with  which  we  are 
carried  round  by  the  diurnal  revolution  of  the 
earth.  The  power  of  agitation  upon  the  spirits 
is  well  known ;  every  man  has  felt  his  heart 
lightened  in  a  rapid  vehicle,  or  on  a  galloping 
horse  ;  and  nothing  is  plainer  than  that  he  who 
towers  to  the  fifth  story  is  whirled  through 
more  space  by  every  circumrotation,  than  ano- 
ther that  grovels  upon  the  ground-floor.  The 
nations  between  the  tropics  are  known  to  be  fiery, 
inconstant,  inventive,  and  fanciful ;  because,  liv- 
ing at  the  utmost  length  of  the  earth's  diameter, 
they  are  carried  about  with  more  swiftness  than 
those  whom  nature  has  placed  nearer  to  the 
poles ;  and,  therefore,  as  it  becomes  a  wise 
man  to  struggle  with  the  inconveniences  of  his 
country,  whenever  celerity  and  acuteness  are  re- 

guisite,  we  must  actuate  our  languor  by  taking  a 
2W  turns  round  the  centre  in  a  garret. 

If  you  imagine  that  I  ascribe  to  air  and  motion 
effects  which  they  cannot  produce,  I  desire  you 
to  consult  your  own  memory,  and  consider  whe- 
ther you  have  never  known  a  man  acquire  repu- 
tation in  his  garret,  which,  when  fortune  or  a  pa- 
tron had  placed  him  upon  the  first  floor,  he  was 
unable  to  maintain ;  and  who  never  recovered  his 
former  vigour  of  understanding,  till  he  was  re- 
stored to  his  original  situation.  That  a  garret  will 
make  every  man  a  wit,  I  am  very  far  from  suppos- 
ing ;  I  know  there  are  some  who  would  continue 
blockheads  even  on  the  summit  of  the  Andes,  or 
on  the  peak  of  Teneriffe.  But  let  not  any  man 
be  considered  as  unimprovable  till  this  potent  re- 
medy has  been  tried  ;  for  perhaps  he  was  formed 
to  be  great  only  in  a  garret,  as  the  joiner  of  Are- 
taeus  was  rational  in  no  other  place  but  in  his 
own  shop. 

I  think  a  frequent  removal  to  various  distances 
from  the  centre,  so  necessary  to  a  just  estimate 
of  intellectual  abilities,  and  consequently  of  so 
great  use  in  education,  that  if  I  hoped  that  the 
public  could  be  persuaded  to  so  expensive  an 
experiment,  I  would  propose,  that  there  should 
be  a  cavern  dug,  and  a  tower  erected,  like  those 
which  Bacon  describes  in  Solomon's  house,  for 
the  expansion  and  concentration  of  understand- 
in  IT,  according  to  the  exigence  of  different  em- 
ployment?, or  constitutions.  Perhaps  some  that 
fume  away  in  meditations  upon  time  and  space 
in  the  tower,  might  compose  tables  of  interest 


with  declamation. 

Addison  observe^  that  we  may  find  the  heat 
of  Virgil's  climate  in  some  lines  of  his  Georgic : 
so  when  I  read  a  composition,  I  immediately  de- 
termine the  height  of  the  author's  habitation.  As 
an  elaborate  performance  is  commonly  said  to 
smell  of  the  lamp,  my  commendation  of  a  noble 
thought,  a  sprightly  sally,  or  a  bold  figure,  is  to 
pronounce  it  fresh  from  the  garret ;  an  expres 
sion  which  would  break  from  me  upon  the  pe 
rusal  of  most  of  your  papers,  did  I  not  believe 
that  you  •sometimes  quit  the  garret,  and  ascend 


into  the  cock-loft. 


HYPERTATUS. 


No.  118.J     SATURDAY,  MAT  4,  1751. 


Omnes  ittacrymabilet 

Urgentur,  ignotique  longa 
Nocte.  HOB. 

In  endless  night  they  sleep,  unwept,  unknown. 

FRANCIS. 

CICERO  has,  with  his  usual  elegance  and  magni- 
ficence of  language,  attempted,  in  his  relation  of 
the  dream  of  Scipio,  to  depreciate  those  honours 
for  which  he  himself  appears  to  have  panted  with 
restless  solicitude,  by  snowing  within  what  narrow 
limits  all  that  fame  and  celebrity  which  man  can 
hope  for  from  men  is  circumscribed. 

"You see,"  says  Africanus,  pointing  at  the 
earth,  from  the  celestial  regions,  "  that  the  globe 
assigned  to  the  residence  and  habitation  of  hu- 
man beings,  is  of  small  dimensions  :  how  then 
can  you  obtain  from  the  praise  of  men,  any  glory 
worthy  of  a  wish?  Of  this  little  world  the  inha 
bited  parts  are  neither  numerous  nor  wide  ;  even 
the  spots  where  men  are  to  be  found  are  broken 
by  intervening  deserts,  and  the  nations  are  so  se- 
parated as  that  nothing  can  be  transmitted  from 
one  to  another.  With  the  people  of  the  south, 
by  whom  the  opposite  part  of  the  earth  is  pos- 
sessed, you  have  no  intercourse ;  and  by  how 
small  a  tract  do  you  communicate  with  the  coun- 
tries of  the  north  1  The  territory  which  you  in- 
habit is  no  more  than  a  scanty  Island,  inclosed 
by  a  small  body  of  water,  to  which  you  give  the 
name  of  the  great  sea  and  the  Atlantic  ocean. 
And  even  in  this  known  and  frequented  conti- 
nent, what  hope  can  you  entertain,  that  your  re- 
nown will  pass  the  stream  of  Ganges,  or  the  cliffs 
of  Caucasus  1  or  by  whom  will  your  name  be 
uttered  in  the  extremities  of  the  north  or  south, 
towards  the  rising  or  the  setting  sun  1  So  narrow 
is  the  space  to  w  hich  your  fame  can  be  propagat- 
ed, and  even  there  how  long  will  it  remain  1" 

He  then  proceeds  to  assign  natural  causes, 
why  fame  is  not  only  narrow  in  its  extent,  but 
short  in  its  duration  ;  he  observes  the  difference 
between  the  computation  of  time  in  earth  and 
heaven,  and  declares  that,  according  to  the  ce- 
lestial chronology,  no  human  honours  can  last  a 
single  year. 

Such  are  the  objections  by  which  Tully  has 
made  a  show  of  discouraging  the  pursuit  of  fame  ; 
objections  which  sufficiently  discover  his  tender- 
ness and  regard  for  his  darling  phantom.  Ho- 
mer, when  the  plan  of  his  poem  made  the  death  of 


at  a    certain  depth :    and  he  that  upon    level  I  Patroclus  necessary    resolved,  at  least,  that  he 
Y 


186 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  I1& 


should  die  with  honour ;  and  therefore  brought 
down  against  him  the  patron  god  of  Troy,  and 
left  to  Hector  only  the  mean  task  of  giving  the 
last  blow  to  an  enemy  whom  a  Divine  hand  had 
disabled  from  resistance.  Thus  Tully  ennobles 
fame,  which  he  professes  to  degrade,  by  opposing 
it  to  celestial  happiness  ;  he  confines  not  its  ex- 
tent but  by  the  boundaries  of  nature,  nor  con- 
tracts its  duration  but  by  representing  it  small  in 
the  estimation  of  superior  beings.  He  still  ad- 
mits it  the  highest  and  noblest  of  terrestrial  ob- 
jects, and  alleges  little  more  against  it,  than  that 
it  is  neither  without  end,  nor  without  limits. 

What  might  be  the  effect  of  these  observations 
conveyed  in  Ciceronian  eloquence  to  Roman  un- 
derstandings, cannot  be  determined  ;  but  few  of 
those  who  shall  in  the  present  age  read  my  hum- 
ble version,  will  find  themselves  much  depressed 
in  their  hopes,  or  retarded  in  their  designs ;  for  I 
am  not  inclined  to  believe,  that  they  who  among 
us  pass  their  lives  in  the  cultivation  of  knowledge, 
or  acquisition  of  power,  have  very  anxiously  in- 
quired what  opinions  prevail  on  the  further  banks 
of  the  Ganges,  or  invigorated  any  effort  by  the  de- 
sire of  spreading  their  renown  among  the  clans 
of  Caucasus.  The  hopes  and  fears  of  modern 
minds  are  content  to  range  in  a  narrower  com- 
pass ;  a  single  nation,  and  a  few  years,  have  ge- 
nerally sufficient  amplitude  to  fill  our  imagina- 
tions. 

A  little  consideration  will  indeed  teach  us,  that 
fame  has  other  limits  than  mountains  and  oceans  ; 
and  that  he  who  places  happiness  in  the  frequent 
repetition  of  his  name,  may  spend  his  life  in  pro- 
pagating it,  without  any  danger  of  weeping  for 
new  worlds,  or  necessity  of  passing  the  Atlantic 
sea. 

The  numbers  to  whom  any  real  and  perceptible 
good  or  evil  can  be  derived  by  the  greatest  power, 
or  most  active  diligence,  are  inconsiderable  ;  and 
where  neither  benefit  nor  mischief  operate,  the 
only  motive  to  the  mention  or  remembrance  of 
others  is  curiosity  ;  a  passion,  which,  though  in 
some  degree  universally  associated  to  reason,  is 
easily  confined,  overborne,  or  diverted  from  any 
particular  object. 

Among  the  lower  classes  of  mankind,  there 
will  be  found  very  little  desire  of  any  other  know- 
ledge, than  what  may  contribute  immediately  to 
the  relief  of  some  pressing  uneasiness,  or  the  at- 
tainment of  some  near  advantage.  The  Turks 
are  said  to  hear  with  wonder  a  proposal  to  walk 
out,  only  that  they  may  walk  back  ;  and  inquire 
why  any  man  should  labour  for  nothing?  So 
those  whose  condition  has  always  restrained  them 
to  the  contemplation  of  their  own  necessities,  and 
who  have  been  accustomed  to  look  forward  only 
to  a  small  distance,  will  scarcely  understand,  why 
nights  and  days  should  be  spent  in  studies,  which 
end  in  new  studies,  and  which,  according  to  Mal- 
herbe's  observation,  do  not  tend  to  lessen  the 
price  of  bread  ;  nor  will  the  trader  or  manufac- 
turer easily  be  persuaded,  that  much  pleasure 
can  arise  from  the  mere  knowledge  of  actions, 
performed  in  remote  regions,  or  in  distant  times  ; 
or  that  any  thing  can  deserve  their  inquiry,  of 
which  *>iof  o«ov  aKovoji.iv,  oiill  rt  K/jttv,  we  can  only 
hear  the  report,  but  which  cannot  influence  our 
hves  by  any  consequences. 

The  truth  is,  that  very  few  have  leisure  from 
indispensable  business,  to  employ  their  thoughts 


upon  narrative  or  characters  ;  and  among  those 
to  whom  fortune  has  given  the  liberty  of  living 
more  by  their  own  choice,  many  create  to  them- 
selves engagements,  by  the  indulgence  of  some 
petty  ambition,  the  admission  of  some  insatiable 
desire,  or  the  toleration  of  some  predominant 
passion.  The  man  whose  whole  wish  is  to  ac- 
cumulate money,  has  no  other  care  than  to  col- 
lect interest,  to  estimate  securities,  and  to  engage 
for  mortgages  :  the  lover  disdains  to  turn  his  ear 
to  any  other  name  than  that  of  Corinna ;  and 
the  courtier  thinks  the  hour  lost,  which  is  not 
spent  in  promoting  his  interest,  and  facilitating 
his  advancement.  The  adventurers  of  valour, 
and  the  discoveries  of  science,  will  find  a  cold 
reception,  when  they  are  obtruded  upon  an  at- 
tention thus  busy  with  its  favourite  amusement, 
and  impatient  of  interruption  or  disturbance. 

But  not  only  such  employments  as  seduce  at- 
tention by  appearances  of  dignity,  or  promises  of 
happiness,  may  restrain  the  mind  from  excur- 
sion and  inquiry  :  curiosity  may  be  equally  de- 
stroyed by  less  formidable  enemies  ;  it  may  be 
dissipated  in  trifles,  or  congealed  by  indolence. 
The  sportsmen  and  the  men  of  dress  have  their 
heads  filled  with  a  fox  or  a  horse-race,  a  feather 
or  a  ball  ;  and  live  in  ignorance  of  every  thing 
beside,  with  as  much  content  as  he  that  heaps  up 
gold,  or  solicits  preferment,  digs  the  field,  or 
beats  the  anvil ;  and  some  yet  lower  in  the  ranks 
of  intellect,  dream  out  their  days  without  plea- 
sure or  business,  without  joy  or  sorrow,  nor  ever 
rouse  from  their  lethargy  to  hear  or  think. 

Even  of  those  who  have  dedicated  themselves 
to  knowledge,  the  far  greater  part  have  confined 
their  curiosity  to  a  few  objects,  and  have  very  lit- 
tle inclination  to  promote  any  fame,  but  that 
which  their  own  studies  entitle  them  to  partake. 
The  naturalist  has  no  desire  to  know  the  opinion  3 
or  conjectures  of  the  philologer:  the  botanist 
looks  upon  the  astronomer  as  a  being  unworthy 
of  his  regard ;  the  lawyer  scarcely  hears  the  name 
of  a  physician  without  contempt ;  and  he  that  is 
growing  great  and  happy  by  electrifying  a  bottle, 
wonders  how  the  world  can  be  engaged  by  tri- 
fling prattle  about  war  or  peace. 

If,  therefore,  he  that  imagines  the  world  filled 
with  his  actions  and  praises,  shall  subduct  from 
the  number  of  his  encomiast,  all  those  who  are 
placed  below  the  flight  of  fame,  and  who  hear  in 
the  valleys  of  life  no  voice  but  that  of  necessi- 
ty ;  all  those  who  imagine  themselves  too  import- 
ant to  regard  him,  and  consider  the  mention  oS 
his  name  as  a  usurpation  of  their  time  ;  all  who 
are  too  much  or  too  little  pleased  with  them- 
selves, to  attend  to  any  thing  external ;  all  who  are 
attracted  by  pleasure,  or  chained  down  by  pain, 
to  unvaried  ideas  ;  all  who  are  withheld  from  at- 
tending his  triumph  by  different  pursuits  ;  and 
all  who  slumber  in  universal  negligence ;  he  will 
find  his  renown  straitened  by  nearer  bounds  than 
the  rocks  of  Caucasus,  and  perceive  that  no  man 
can  be  venerable  or  formidable,  but  to  a  small 
part  of  his  fellow-creatures. 

That  we  may  not  languish  in  our  endeavours 
after  excellence,  it  is  necessary  that,  as  Afiicanus 
counsels  his  descendant,  "  we  raise  our  eyes  to 
higher  prospects,  and  contemplate  our  future  and 
eternal  state,  without  giving  up  our  hearts  to  the 
praise  of  crowds,  or  fixing  our  hopes  on  such  re- 
wards as  human  power  can  bestow." 


No.  119.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

No.  1J9.]         TUESDAT,  MAY  7,  1751. 

lliacos  intra  muros  peccatur,  et  extra.          HOR. 

Faults  lay  on  either  side  the  Trojan  towers. 

EL.PHINSTON. 


187 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


As,  notwithstanding  all  that  wit,  or  malice,  or 
pride,  or  prudence,  will  be  able  to  suggest,  men 
and  women  must  at  last  pass  their  lives  together, 
I  have  never  therefore  thought  those  writers 
friends  to  human  happiness,  who  endeavour  to 
excite  in  either  sex  a  general  contempt  or  sus- 
picion of  the  other.  To  persuade  them  who  arc 
entering  the  world,  and  looking  abroad  for  a 
suitable  associate,  that  all  are  equally  vicious,  or 
equally  ridiculous ;  that  they  who  trust  are  cer- 
tainly betrayed,  and  they  who  esteem  are  always 
disappointed  ;  is  not  to  awaken  judgment,  but 
to  inflame  temerity.  Without  hope  there  can 
be  no  caution.  Those  who  are  convinced,  that 
no  reason  for  preference  can  be  found,  will  never 
harass  their  thoughts  with  doubt  and  delibera- 
tion ;  they  will  resolve,  since  they  are  doomed 
to  misery,  that  no  needless  anxiety  shall  disturb 
their  quiet ;  they  will  plunge  at  hazard  into  the 
crowd,  and  snatch  the  first  hand  that  shall  be 
held  toward  them. 

That  the  world  is  over-run  with  vice  cannot 
be  denied ;  but  vice,  however  predominant,  has 
not  yet  gained  an  unlimited  dominion.  Simple 
and  unmingled  good  is  not  in  our  power,  but  we 
may  generally  escape  a  greater  evil  by  suffering 
a  less ;  and  therefore,  those  who  undertake  to 
initiate  the  young  and  ignorant  in  the  knowledge 
of  life,  should  be  careful  to  inculcate  the  possi- 
bility of  virtue  and  happiness,  and  to  encourage 
endeavours  by  prospects  of  success. 

You,  perhaps,  do  not  suspect,  that  these  are 
the  sentiments  of  one  who  has  been  subject  for 
many  years  to  all  the  hardships  of  antiquated 
virginity ;  has  been  long  accustomed  to  the  cold- 
ness of  neglect,  and  the  petulance  of  insult ;  has 
been  mortified  in  full  assemblies  by  inquiries 
after  forgotten  fashions,  games  long  disused,  and 
wits  and  beauties  of  ancient  renown  ;  has  been 
invited,  with  malicious  importunity,  to  the  second 
wedding  of  many  acquaintances  ;  has  been  ridi- 
culed by  two  generations  of  coquettes  in  whis- 
pers intended  to  be  heard  :  and  been  long  con- 
sidered by  the  airy  and  gay,  as  too  venerable  for 
familiarity,  and  too  wise  for  pleasure.  It  is  in- 
deed natural  for  injury  to  provoke  anger,  and  by 
continual  repetition  to  produce  an  habitual  as- 
perity; yet  I  have  hitherto  struggled  with  so 
much  vigilance  against  my  pride  and  my  resent- 
ment, that  I  have  preserved  my  temper  uncor- 
rupted.  I  have  not  yet  made  it  any  part  of  my 
employment  to  collect  sentences  against  mar- 
riage; nor  am  inclined  to  lessen  the  number  of 
the  few  friends  whom  time  has  left  me,  by  ob- 
structing that  happiness  which  I  cannot  partake, 
and  venting  my  vexation  in  censures  of  the  for- 
wardness and  indiscretion  of  girls,  or  the  incon- 
stancy, tastelessness,  and  perfidy  of  men. 

It  is,  indeed,  not  very  difficult  to  bear  that  con- 
dition to  which  we  are  not  condemned  by  neces- 
sity, but  induced  by  observation  and  choice;  and 
therefore  I,  perhaps,  have  never  yet  felt  all  the 
malignity  with  which  a  reproach,  edged  with  the 
appellation  of  old  maid,  swells  some  of  those 


hearts  in  which  it  is  infixed.  I  was  not  con- 
demned in  my  youth  to  solitude,  either  by  indi- 
gence or  deformity,  nor  passed  the  earlier  part 
of  life  without  the  flattery  of  courtship,  and  the 
joys  of  triumph.  I  have  danced  the  round  ofgay- 
ety  amidst  the  murmurs  of  envy,  andgratulations 
of  applause;  been  attended  from  pleasure  to 
pleasure  by  the  great,  the  sprightly,  and  the  vain  ; 
and  seen  my  regard  solicited  by  the  obsequious- 
ness of  gallantry,  the  gayety  of  wit,  and  the  timid- 
ity of  love.  Ifj  therefore,  I  am  yet  a  stranger  to 
nuptial  happiness,  I  suffer  only  the  consequences 
of  my  own  resolves,  and  can  look  back  upon  the 
succession  of  lovers,  whoss  addresses  I  have  re- 
jected, without  grief,  and  without  malice. 

When  my  name  first  began  to  be  inscribed 
upon  glasses,  I  wag  honoured  with  the  amorous 
professions  of  the  gay  Venustulus,  a  gentleman, 
who,  being  the  only  son  of  a  wealthy  family,  had 
been  educated  in  all  the  wantonness  of  expense, 
and  softness  of  effeminacy.  He  was  beautiful  in 
in  his  person,  and  easy  in  his  address ;  and, 
therefore,  soon  gained  upon  my  eye  at  an  ag« 
when  the  sight  is-very  little  over-ruled  by  the  un- 
derstanding. He  had  not  any  power  in  himself 
of  gladdening  or  amusing:  but  supplied  his  want 
of  conversation  by  treats  and  diversions :  and  his 
chief  art  of  courtship  was  to  fill  the  mind  of  his 
mistress  with  parties,  rambles,  music,  and  shows. 
We  were  often  engaged  in  short  excursions 
to  gardens  and  seats,  and  I  was  for  a  while 
pleased  with  the  care  which  Venustulus  discov 
ered  in  securing  me  from  any  appearance  of  dan- 
ger, or  possibility  of  mischance.  He  never  failed 
to  recommend  caution  to  his  coachman,  or  to 
promise  the  waterman  a  reward  if  he  landed  us 
safe ;  and  always  contrived  to  return  by  day- 
light for  fear  of  robbers.  This  extraordinary  so- 
licitude was  represented  for  a  time  as  the  effect 
of  his  tenderness  for  me ;  but  fear  is  too  strong 
for  continued  hypocrisy.  I  soon  discovered,  that 
Venustulus  had  the  cowardice  as  well  as  ele- 
gance of  a  female.  His  imagination  was  per- 
petually clouded  with  terrors,  and  he  could 
scarcely  refrain  from  screams  and  outcries  at 
any  accidental  surprise.  He  durst  not  enter  a 
room  if  a  rat,  was  heard  behind  the  wainscot,  nor 
cross  a  field  where  the  cattle  were  frisking  in  the 
sunshine ;  the  least  breeze  that  waved  upon  the 
river  was  a  storm,  and  every  clamour  in  the 
street  was  a  cry  of  fire.  I  have  seen  him  lose 
his  colour  when  my  squirrel  had  broke  his  chain ; 
and  was  forced  to  throw  water  in  his  face  on  the 
sudden  entrance  of  a  black  cat  Compassion 
once  obliged  me  to  drive  away  with  my  fan  a 
beetle  that  kept  him  in  distress,  and  chide  off"  a 
dog  that  yelped  at  his  heels,  to  which  he  would 
gladly  have  given  up  me  to  facilitate  his  own 
escape.  W  omen  naturally  expect  defence  and 
protection  from  a  lover  or  a  husband,  and  there- 
fore you  will  not  think  me  culpable  in  refusing  a 
wretch,  who  would  have  burdened  life  with  un- 
necessary fears,  and  flown  to  me  for  that  suc- 
cour which  it  was  his  duty  to  have  given. 

My  next  lover  was  Fungosa,  the  son  of  a  stock- 
jobber,  whose  visits  my  friends,  by  the  impor- 
tunity of  persuasion,  prevailed  upon  me  to  allow. 
Fungosa  was  no  very  suitable  companion  ;  for 
having  been  bred  in  a  counting-house,  he  spoke 
a  language  unintelligible  in  any  other  place.  He 
had  no  desire  of  any  reputation  but  that  of  an 
acute  prognosticator  of  the  changes  in  the  funds; 


188 


THE  RAMBLER. 


No.  120- 


nor  had  any  means  of  raising  merriment,  but  by 
telling  how  somebody  was  over-reached  in  a 
bargain  by  his  father.  He  was,  however,  a 
youth  of  great  sobriety  and  prudence,  and  fre- 
quently informed  us  how  carefully  he  would  im- 
prove my  fortune.  I  was  not  in  haste  to  conclude 
the  match,  but  was  so  much  awed  by  rny  pa- 
rents, that  I  durst  not  dismiss  him,  and  might 
perhaps  have  been  doomed  for  ever  to  the  gross- 
ness  of  pedlary,  and  the  jargon  of  usury,  had  not 
a  fraud  been  discovered  in  the  settlement,  which 
set  me  free  from  the  persecution  of  grovelling 
pride,  and  pecuniary  impudence. 

I  was  afterwards  six  months  without  any  par- 
ticular notice,  but  at  last  became  the  idol  of  the 
glittering  Flosculus,  who  prescribed  the  mode  of 
embroidery  to  all  the  fops  of  his  time,  and  varied 
at  pleasure  the  cock  of  every  hat,  and  the  sleeve 
of  every  coat  that  appeared  in  fashionable  as- 
semblies. Flosculus  made  some  impression  upon 
my  heart  by  a  compliment  which  few  ladies  can 
hear  without  emotion  ;  he  commended  my  skill 
in  dress,  my  judgment  in  suiting  colours,  and  my 
art  in  disposing  ornaments.  But  Flosculus  was 
too  much  engaged  by  his  own  elegance,  to  be 
sufficiently  attentive  to  the  duties  of  a  lover,  or 
to  please  with  varied  praise  an  ear  made  delicate 
by  riot  of  adulation.  He  expected  to  be  repaid 
part  of  his  tribute,  and  stayed  away  three  days, 
because  I  neglected  to  take  notice  of  a  new  coat. 
I  quickly  found,  that  Flosculus  was  rather  a 
rival  than  an  admirer  ;  and  that  we  should  pro- 
bably live  in  a  perpetual  struggle  of  emulous 
finery,  and  spend  our  lives  in  stratagems  to  be 
first  in  the  fashion. 

I  had  soon  after  the  honour  at  a  feast  of  at- 
tracting the  eyes  of  Dcntatus,  one  of  those  human 
beings  whose  only  happiness  is  to  dine.  Denta- 
tus  regaled  me  with  foreign  varieties,  told  me  of 
measures  that  he  had  laid  for  procuring  the  best 
cook  in  France,  and  entertained  me  with  bills  of 
fare,  prescribed  the  arrangement  of  dishes,  and 
taught  me  two  sauces  invented  by  himself.  At 
length,  such  is  the  uncertainty  of  human  happi- 
ness, I  delared  my  opinion  too  hastily  upon  a  pie 
made  under  his  own  direction  ;  after  which  he 
»rew  so  cold  and  negligent,  that  he  was  easily 
dismissed. 

Many  other  lovers,  or  pretended  lovers,  I  have 
had  the  honour  to  lead  a  while  in  triumph.  But 
two  of  them  I  drove  from  me,  by  discovering  that 
they  had  no  taste  or  knowledge  in  music ;  three 
I  dismissed,  because  they  were  drunkards;  two, 
because  they  paid  their  addresses  at  the  same 
time  to  other  ladies  ;  and  six,  because  they  at- 
tempted to  influence  my  choice  by  bribing  my 
maid.  Two  more  I  discarded  at  the  second  visit 
for  obscene  allusions ;  and  five  for  drollery  on 
religion.  In  the  latter  part  of  my  reign,  I  sen- 
tenced two  to  perpetual  exile,  for  offering  me 
settlements,  by  which  the  children  of  a  former 
marriage  would  have  been  injured  ;  four,  for  re- 
presenting falsely  the  value  of  their  estates ;  three, 
for  concealing  their  debts  ;  and  one,  for  raising 
the  rent  of  a  decrepit  tenant. 

I  have  now  sent  you  a  narrative,  which  the 
ladies  may  oppose  to  the  tale  of  Hymenseus.  J 
mean  not  to  depreciate  the  sex  which  has  pro- 
duced poets  and  philosophers,  heroes  and  mar- 
tyrs ;  but  will  not  suffer  the  rising  generation  of 
beauties  to  be  dejected  by  partial  satire ;  or  to 
imagine  that  those  who  censured  them  have  not 


likewise  their  follies  and  their  vices.  I  do  not 
yet  believe  happiness  unattainable  in  marriage, 
though  I  have  never  yet  been  able  to  find  a  man,, 
with  whom  1  could  prudently  venture  an  insepa- 
rable union.  It  is  necessary  to  expose  faults, 
that  their  deformity  may  be  seen ;  but  the  re- 
proach ought  not  to  be  extended  beyond  the 
crime,  nor  either  sex  to  be  condemned  because 
some  women,  or  men,  are  indelicate  or  dishonest. 
I  am,  &c. 

TRANQUILLA. 


No.  120.]       SATURDAY,  MAT  11,  1751. 

Reddiltum  Cyri  solio  Phraaten, 

JDissidens  plcbi,  numero  beutorum 

Ezimit  virtus,  popiilumqite  Jaisis 

Dedocet  vti 


True  virtue  can  the  crowd  unteach 
Their  false  mistaken  forms  of  speech  ; 
Virtue,  to  crowds  a  foe  profess'd, 
Disdains  to  number  with  the  bless'd 
Phraates,  by  liis  slaves  adored, 
And  to  the  Parthian  crown  restored. 


IN  the  reign  of  Jenghiz  Can,  conqueror  of  the 
east,  in  the  city  of  Samarcand,  lived  Nouradin 
the  merchant,  renowned  throughout  all  the  re- 
gions of  India  for  the  extent  of  his  commerce,  and 
the  integrity  of  his  dealings.  His  warehouses 
were  filled  with  all  the  commodities  of  the  re- 
motest nations  ;  every  rarity  of  nature,  every  cu- 
riosity of  art,  whatever  was  valuable,  whatever 
was  useful,  hasted  to  his  hand.  The  streets 
were  crowded  with  his  carriages ;  the  sea  was 
covered  with  his  ships ;  the  streams  of  Oxua 
were  wearied  with  conveyance,  and  every  breeze 
of  the  sky  wafted  wealth  to  Nouradin. 

At  length  Nouradin  felt  himself  seized  with  a 
slow  malady,  which  he  first  endeavoured  to  di- 
vert by  application,  and  afterwards  to  relieve  by 
luxury  and  indulgence;  but  finding  his  strength 
every  day  less,  he  was  at  last  terrified,  and  called 
for  help  upon  the  sages  of  physic :  they  filled 
his  apartments  with  alexipharmics,  restoratives, 
and  essential  virtues ;  the  pearls  of  the  ocean 
were  dissolved,  the  spices  of  Arabia  were  dis- 
tilled, and  all  the  powers  of  nature  were  em- 
ployed to  give  new  spirits  to  his  nerves,  and  new 
balsam  to  his  blood.  Nouradin  was  for  some 
time  amused  with  promises,  invigorated  with 
cordials,  or  soothed  with  anodynes ;  but  the  dis- 
ease preyed  upon  his  vitals,  and  he  soon  disco- 
vered with  indignation,  that  health  was  not  to  be 
bought.  He  was  confined  to  his  chamber,  de- 
serted by  his  physicians,  and  rarely  visited  by 
his  friends ;  but  his  unwillingness  to  die  flattered 
him  long  with  hopes  of  life. 

At  length,  having  passed  the  night  in  tedious 
languor,  he  called  to  him  Almamoulin,  his  only 
son,  and,  dismissing  his  attendants,  "My  son," 
says  he,  "  behold  here  the  weakness  and  fragility 
of  man;  look  backward  a  few  days,  thy  father 
•was  great  and  happy,  fresh  as  the  vernal  rose, 
and  strong  as  the  cedar  of  the  mountain  ;  the 
nations  of  Asia  drank  his  dews,  and  art  and  com- 
merce delighted  in  his  shade.  Malevolence  be- 
held me,  and  sighed  :  His  root,  she  cried,  is  fixed 
in  the  depths  ;  it  is  watered  by  the  fountains  o{ 
Oxus ;  it  sends  out  branches  afar,  and  bids  defi 
ance  to  the  blast ;  prudence  reclines  against  his 


No.  120.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


189 


trunk,  and  prosperity  dances  on  his  top.  Now, 
Almamoulin,  look  upon  me  withering  and  pros- 
trate; look  upon  me,  and  attend.  1  have  traf- 
ficked, I  have  prospered,  I  have  rioted  in  gain  ; 
rny  house  is  splendid,  my  servants  are  numerous; 
yet  1  displayed  only  a  small  part  of  my  riches ; 
the  rest,  which  I  was  hindered  from  enjoying  by 
the  fear  of  raising  envy,  or  tempting  rapacity,  1 
have  piled  in  towers,  I  have  buried  in  caverns,  I 
have  hidden  in  secret  repositories,  which  this 
scroll  will  discover.  My  purpose  was,  after  ten 
months  more  spent  in  commerce,  to  have  with- 
drawn my  wealth  to  a  safer  country ;  to  have 
given  seven  years  to  delight  and  festivity,  and 
the  remaining  part  of  my  days  to  solitude  and 
repentance;  but  the  hand  of  death  is  upon  me; 
a  frigoritic  torpor  encroaches  upon  my  veins  ;  I 
am  now  leaving  the  produce  of  my  toil,  which  it 
must  be  thy  business  to  enjoy  with  wisdom." 
The  thought  of  leaving  his  wealth  filled  Noura- 
din  with  such  grief,  that  he  fell  into  convulsions, 
became  delirious,  and  expired. 

Almamoulin,  who  loved  his  father,  was  touch- 
ed awhile  with  honest  sorrow,  and  sat  two  hours 
in  profound  meditation,  without  perusing  the 
paper  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  He  then  re- 
tired to  his  own  chamber,  as  overborne  with  af- 
fliction, and  there  read  the  inventory  of  his  new 
possessions,  which  swelled  his  heart  with  such 
transports,  that  he  no  longer  lamented  his  father's 
death.  Us  was  now  sufficiently  composed  to 
order  a  funeral  of  modest  magnificence,  suitable 
at  once  to  the  rank  of  Nouradin's  profession,  and 
the  reputation  of  his  wealth.  The  two  next 
nights  he  spent  in  visiting  the  tower  and  the  ca- 
verns, and  found  the  treasures  greater  to  his  eye 
than  to  his  imagination. 

Almamoulin  had  been  bred  to  the  practice  of 
exact  frugality,  and  had  often  looked  with  envy 
on  the  finery  and  expenses  of  other  young  men  : 
he  therefore  believed  that  happiness  was  now  in 
his  power,  since  he  could  obtain  all  of  which  he 
had  hitherto  been  accustomed  to  regret  the  want 
He  resolved  to  give  a  loose  to  his  desires,  to  re- 
vel in  enjoyment,  and  feel  pain  or  uneasiness  no 
more. 

He  immediately  procured  a  splendid  equipage, 
dressed  his  servants  in  rich  embroidery,  and 
covered  his  horses  with  golden  caparisons.  He 
showered  down  silver  on  the  populace,  and  suf- 
fered their  acclamations  to  swell  him  with  inso- 
lence. The  nobles  saw  him  with  anger,  the 
wise  men  of  the  state  combined  against  him,  the 
leaders  of  armies  threatened  his  destruction.  Al- 
mamoulin was  informed  of  his  danger:  he  put 
on  the  robe  of  mourning  in  the  presence  of  his 
enemies,  and  appeased  them  with  gold,  and 
gems,  and  supplication. 

He  then  sought  to  strengthen  himself,  by  an 
alliance  with  the  princes  of  Tartary,  and  offered 
the  price  of  kingdoms  for  a  wife  of  noble  birth. 
His  suit  was  generally  rejected,  and  his  presents 
refused ;  but  a  princess  of  Astracan  once  conde- 
scended to  admit  him  to  her  presence.  She  re- 
ceived him  sitting  on  a  throne,  attired  in  the  robe 
of  royalty,  and  shining  with  the  jewels  of  Gol- 
conda;  command  sparkled  in  her  eyes,  and  dig- 
nity towered  on  her  forehead.  Almamoulin  ap- 
proached and  trembled.  She  saw  his  confusion 
and  disdained  him  :  How,  says  she,  dares  the 
wretch  hope  my  obedience,  who  thus  shrinks  at 
my  glance  ?  Retire,  and  enjoy  thy  riches  in  sor- 


did ostentation;  thou  wast  bom  to  be  wealthy, 
but  never  canst  be  great. 

He  then  contracted  his  desires  to  more  private 
and  domestic  pleasures.  He  built  palaces,  he 
laid  out  gardens,  he  changed  the  face  of  the  land, 
he  transplanted  forests,  he  levelled  mountains, 
opened  prospects  into  distant  regions,  poured 
fountains  from  the  tops  of  turrets,  and  rolled 
rivers  through  new  channels. 

These  amusements  pleased  him  for  a  time ; 
but  languor  and  weariness  soon  invaded  him. 
His  bowers  lost  their  fragrance,  and  the  waters 
murmured  without  notice.  He  purchased  large 
tracts  of  land  in  distant  provinces,  adorned  them 
with  houses  of  pleasure,  and  diversified  them  with 
accommodations  for  different  seasons.  Change 
of  place  at  first  relieved  his  satiety,  but  aii  the 
novelties  of  situation  were  soon  exhausted  ;  he 
found  his  heart  vacant,  and  his  desires,  for  want 
of  external  objects,  ravaging  himself. 

He  therefore  returned  to  Samarcand,  and  set 
open  his  doors  to  those  whom  idleness  sends  out 
in  search  of  pleasure.  His  tables  were  always 
covered  with  delicacies ;  wines  of  every  vintage 
sparkled  in  his  bowls,  and  his  lamps  scattered 
perfumes.  The  sound  of  the  lute,  and  the  voice 
of  the  singer,  chased  away  sadness;  every  hour 
was  crowded  with  pleasure  ;  and  the  day  ended 
and  began  with  feasts  and  dances,  and  revelry 
and  merriment.  Almamoulin  cried  out,  "  I  have 
at  last  found  the  use  of  riches  ;  1  am  surrounded 
by  companions,  who  view  my  greatness  without 
envy  ;  and  I  enjoy  at  once  the  raptures  of  popu- 
larity, and  the  safety  of  an  obscure  station.  What 
trouble  can  he  feel,  whom  all  are  studious  to 
please,  that  they  may  be  repaid  with  pleasure  ? 
What  danger  can  he  dread,  to  whom  every  man 
is  a  friend  ? 

Such  were  the  thoughts  of  Almamoulin,  as  he 
looked  down  from  a  gallery  upon  the  gay  assem- 
bly, regaling  at  his  expense  ;  but  in  the  midst  of 
this  soliloquy,  an  officer  of  justice  entered  the 
house,  and  in  the  form  of  legal  citation,  sum- 
moned Almamoulin  to  appear  before  the  em 
peror.  The  guests  stood  awhile  aghast,  then 
stole  imperceptibly  away,  and  he  was  led  off 
without  a  single  voice  to  witness  his  integrity. 
He  now  found  one  of  his  most  frequent  visitants 
accusing  him  of  treason,  in  hopes  of  sharing  his 
confiscation;  yet,  unpatronized  and  unsupported, 
he  cleared  himself  by  the  openness  of  innocence, 
and  the  consistence  of  truth  ;  he  was  dismissed 
with  honour,  and  his  accuser  perished  in  prison. 

Almamoulin  now  perceived  with  how  little 
reason  he  had  hoped  for  jutisce  or  fidelity  from 
those  who  live  only  to  gratify  their  senses  :  and, 
being  now  weary  with  vain  experiments  upon 
life  and  fruitless  researches  after  felicity,  he  had 
recourse  to  a  sage,  who  after  spending  his  youth 
in  travel  and  observation,  had  reiired  from  all 
human  cares,  to  a  small  habitation  on  the  banks 
of  Oxus,  where  he  conversed  only  with  such  as 
solicited  his  counsel.  "  Brother,"  said  the  phi- 
losopher, "  thou  hast  suffered  thy  reason  to  be 
deluded  by  idle  hopes  and  fallacious  appearances. 
Having  long  looked  with  desire  upon  riches, 
thou  hadst  taught  thyself  to  think  them  more 
valuable  than  nature  designed  them?  and  to  ex- 
pect from  them,  what  experience  has  now  taught 
thee,  that  they  cannot  give.  That  they  do  not 
confer  wisdom,  thou  mayest  be  convinced,  by 
considering  at  how  dear  a  price  they  tempted 


190 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  121. 


thee,  upon  thy  first  entrance  into  the  world,  to 
purchase  the 'empty  sound  of  vulgar  acclama- 
tion. That  they  cannot  bestow  fortitude  or  mag- 
nanimitv,  lliat  man  may  be  certain,  who  stood 
trembling  at  Astracan,  before  a  being  not  natu- 
rally superior  to  himself.  That  they  will  not 
supply  unexhausted  pleasure,  the  recollection  of 
forsaken  palaces,  and  neglected  gardens;>  will 
easily  inform  thee.  That  they  rarely  purchase 
'  friends,  thou  didst  soon  discover,  when  thou  wert 
left  to  stand  thy  trial  uncountenanced  and  alone. 
Yet  think  not  riches  useless  ;  there  are  purposes 
to  which  a  wise  man  may  be  delighted  to  apply 
them ;  they  may,  by  a  rational  distribution  to 
those  who  want  them,  ease  the  pains  of  helpless 
disease,  still  the  throbs  of  restless  anxiety,  re- 
lieve innocence  from  oppression,  and  raise  imbe- 
cility to  cheerfulness  and  vigour.  This  they  will 
enable  thee  to  perform,  and  this  will  afford  the 
only  happiness  ordained  for  our  presen'.  state, 
the  confidence  of  Divine  favour,  and  the  hope  of 
future  rewards." 


No.  121.]       TUESDAY,  MAY  14,  1751. 

O  imitatores,  servum  pecus  !  HOH. 

Away,  ye  imitators,  servile  herd  1 


ELPHIXSTON. 


I  HAVE  been  informed  by  a  letter  from  one  of  the 
universities,  that  among  the  youth  from  whom 
the  next  swarm  of  reasoners  is  to  learn  philoso- 
phy, and  the  next  flight  of  beauties  to  hear  elegies 
and  sonnets,  there  are  many,  who,  instead  of  en- 
deavouring by  books  and  meditation  to  form 
their  own  opinions,  content  themselves  with  the 
secondary  knowledge,  which  a  convenient  bench 
in  a  cofFae-house  can  supply  :  and,  without  any 
examination  or  distinction,  adopt  the  criticisms 
and  remarks  which  happen  to  drop  from  those 
who  have  risen,  by  merit  or  fortune,  to  reputa^ 
tion  and  authority. 

These  humble  retailers  of  knowledge  my  cor- 
respondent stigmatizes  with  the  name  of  Echoes  ; 
and  seems  desirous  that  they  should  be  made 
ashamed  of  lazy  submission,  and  animated  to 
attempts  after  new  discoveries,  and  original  sen- 
timents. 

It  is  very  natural  for  young  men  to  be  vehe- 
ment, acrimonious  and  severe.  For  as  they  sel- 
dom comprehend  at  once  all  the  consequences 
of  a  position,  or  perceive  the  difficulties  by  which 
cooler  and  more  experienced  reasoners  are  re- 
strained from  confidence,  they  form  their  conclu- 
sions with  great  precipitance.  Seeing  nothing 
that  can  darken  or  embarrass  the  question,  they 
expect  to  find  their  own  opinion  universally  pre- 
valent, and  are  inclined  to  impute  uncertainty 
and  hesitation  to  want  of  honesty,  rather  than  of 
knowledge.  I  may  perhaps,  therefore,  be  re- 
proached  by  my  lively  correspondent,  when  it 
shall  be  found,  that  I  have  no  inclination  to  per- 
secute these  collectors  of  fortuitous  knowledge 
with  Ihe  severity  required ;  yet,  as  I  am  now 
too  old  to  be  much  pained  by  hasty  censure,  I 
shall  not  be  afraid  of  taking  into  protection  those 
whom  I  think  condemned  without  a  sufficient 
knowledge  of  their  cause. 

He  that  adopts  the  sentiments  of  another, 
whom  he  has  reason  to  bslieve  wiser  than  him- 
telf,  is  only  to  be  blamed  when  he  claims  the 


honours  which  are  not  due  but  to  the  author,  and 
endeavours  to  deceive  the  world  into  praise  and 
veneration  ;  for  to  learn  is  the  proper  business 
of  youth  ;  and  whether  we  increase  our  know- 
ledse  by  books  or  by  conversation,  we  are  equally 
ndebted  to  foreign  assistance. 

The  greater  part  of  students  are  not  born  with 
abilities  to  construct  systems,  or  advance  know- 
ledge ;  nor  can  have  any  hope  beyond  that  of 
becoming  intelligent  hearers  in  the  schools  of 
art,  of  being  able  to  comprehend  what  others 
discover,  and  to  remember  what  others  teach. 
Even  those  to  whom  Providence  hath  allotted 
greater  strength  of  understanding,  can  expect 
only  to  improve  a  single  science.  In  every  other 
part  of  learning,  they  must  be  content  to  follow 
opinions,  which  they  are  not  able  to  examine : 
and,  even  in  that  which  they  claim  as  peculiarly 
their  own,  can  seldom  add  more  than  some  small 
particle  of  knowledge  to  the  hereditary  stock  de- 
volved to  them  from  ancient  times,  the  collective 
labour  of  a  thousand  intellects. 

In  science,  which,  being  fixed  and  limited,  ad- 
mits of  no  other  variety  than  such  as  arises  from 
new  methods  of  distribution,  or  new  arts  of  il- 
lustration, the  necessity  of  following  the  traces 
of  our  predecessors  is  indisputably  evident;  bu* 
there  appears  no  reason  why  imagination  should 
be  subject  to  the  same  restraint.  It  might  be 
conceived,  that  of  those  who  profess  to  forsake 
the  narrow  paths  of  truth,  every  one  may  devi- 
ate towards  a  different  point,  since,  though  rec- 
titude is  uniform  and  fixed,  obliquity,  may  be  in- 
finitely diversified.  The  roads  of  science  are 
narrow,  so  that  they  who  travel  them,  must 
either  follow  or  meet  one  another;  but  in  the 
boundless  regions  of  possibility,  which  fiction 
claims  for  her  dominion,  there  are  surely  a  thou- 
and  recesses  unexplored,  a  thousand  flowers  un- 
plucked,  a  thousand  fountains  unexhausted,  com- 
binations of  imagery  yet  unobserved,  und  races 
of  ideal  inhabitants  not  hitherto  described. 

Yet,  whatever  hope  may  persuade,  or  reason 
evince,  experience  can  boast  of  very  few  addi- 
tions to  ancient  fable.  The  wars  of  Troy,  and 
the  travels  of  Ulysses,  have  furnished  almost  all 
succeeding  poets  with  incidents,  characters,  and 
sentiments.  The  Romans  are  confessed  to  have 
attempted  little  more  than  to  display  in  their 
own  tongue  the  inventions  of  the  Greeks.  There 
is,  in  all  their  writings,  such  a  perpetual  recur- 
rence of  allusions  to  the  tales  of  the  fabulous 
age,  that  they  must  be  confessed  often  to  want 
that  power  of  giving  pleasure  which  novelty  sup- 
plies; nor  can  we  wonder  that  they  excelled  so 
much  in  the  graces  of  diction,  when  we  consider 
how  rarely  they  were  employed  in  search  of  new 
thoughts. 

The  warmest  admirers  of  the  great  Mantuan 
poet  can  extol  him  for  little  more  than  the  skill 
with  which  he  has,  by  making  his  hero  both  a 
traveller  and  a  warrior,  united  the  beauties  of 
the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey  in  one  composition  ; 
yet  his  judgment  was  perhaps  sometimes  over- 
borne by  his  avarice  of  the  Homeric  treasures; 
and,  for  fear  of  suffering  a  sparkling  ornament 
to  be  lost,  he  has  inserted  it  where  it  cannot 
shine  with  its  original  splendour. 

When  Ulysses  visited  the  infernal  regions,  he 
found  among  the  heroes  that  perished  at  Troy, 
his  competitor  Ajax,  who,  when  the  arms  of 
Achilles  were  adjudged  to  Ulysses,  died  by  hi* 


No.  122.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


191 


own  hand  in  the  madness  of  disappointment. 
He  still  appeared  to  resent,  as  on  earth,  his  loss 
and  disgrace.  Ulysses  endeavoured  to  pacify 
him  with  praises  and  submission;  but  Ajax 
walked  away  without  reply.  This  passage  has 
always  been  considered  as  eminently  beautiful ; 
because  Ajax,  the  haughty  chief,  the  unlettered 
soldier,  of  unshaken  courage,  of  imrno  veable  con- 
stancy, but  without  the  power  of  recommending 
his  own  virtues  by  eloquence,  or  enforcing  his 
assertions  by  any  other  argument  than  the  sword, 
had  no  way  of  making  his  anger  known  but  by 
gloomy  sullenness,  and  dumb  ferocity.  His  ha- 
tred of  a  man  whom  he  conceived  to  have  de- 
feated him  only  by  volubility  of  tongue,  was 
therefore  naturally  shown  by  silence,  more  con- 
temptuous and  piercing  than  any  words  that  so 
rude  an  orator  could  have  found,  and  by  which 
he  gave  his  enemy  no  opportunity  of  exerting 
the  only  power  in  which  he  was  superior. 

When  ,<Eneas  is  sent  by  Virgil  to  the  shades, 
he  meets  Dido  the  queen  of  Carthage,  whom 
his  perfidy  has  hurried  to  the  grave ;  he  accosts 
her  with  tenderness  and  excuses ;  but  the  lady 
turns  away  like  Ajax  in  mute  disdain.  She 
turns  away  like  Ajax;  but  she  resembles  him  in 
none  of  those  qualities  which  give  either  dignity 
or  propriety  to  silence.  She  might,  without  any 
departure  from  the  tenor  of  her  conduct,  have 
burst  out,  like  other  injured  women,  into  cla- 
mour, reproach,  and  denunciation ;  but  Virgil 
had  his  imagination  full  of  Ajax,  and  therefore 
could  not  prevail  on  himself  to  teach  Dido  any 
other  mode  of  resentment. 

If  Virgil  could  be  thus  seduced  by  imitation, 
there  will  be  little  hope  that  common  wits  should 
escape ;  and  accordingly  we  find  that,  besides 
the  universal  and  acknowledged  practice  of  co- 
pying the  ancients,  there  has  prevailed  in  every 
age  a  particular  species  of  fiction.  At  one  time, 
all  truth  was  conveyed  in  allegory ;  at  another, 
nothing  was  seen  but  in  a  vision;  at  one  period 
all  the  poets  followed  sheep,  and  every  event  pro- 
duced a  pastoral ;  at  another,  they  busied  them- 
selves wholly  in  giving  directions  to  a  painter. 

It  is  indeed  easy  to  conceive  why  any  fashion 
should  become  popular,  by  which  idleness  is  fa- 
voured, and  imbecility  assisted ;  but  surely  no 
man  of  genius  can  much  applaud  himself  for 
repeating  a  tale  with  which  the  audience  is  al- 
ready tired,  and  which  could  bring  no  honour 
to  any  but  its  inventor. 

There  are,  I  think,  two  schemes  of  writing,  on 
which  the  laborious  wits  of  the  present  time  em- 
ploy their  faculties.  One  is  the  adaptation  of 
sense  to  all  the  rhymes  which  our  language  can 
supply  to  some  word  that  makes  the  burden  of 
the  stanza;  but  this,  as  it  has  been  only  used  in 
a  kind  of  amorous  burlesque,  can  scarcely  be 
censured  with  much  acrimony.  The  other  is 
the  imitation  of  Spenser,  which,  by  the  influ- 
ence of  some  men  of  learning  and  genius,  seems 
likely  to  gain  upon  the  age,  and  therefore  de- 
serves to  be  more  attentively  considered. 

To  imitate  the  fictions  and  sentiments  of 
Spenser  can  incur  no  reproach,  for  allegory  is 
perhaps  one  of  the  most  pleasing  vehicles  of  in- 
struction. But  I  am  very  far  from  extending 
the  same  respect  to  his  diction  as  his  stanza. 
His  style  was  in  his  own  time  allowed  to  be  vi- 
cious, so  darkened  with  old  words  and  peculiari- 
ties of  phrase,  and  so  remote  from  common  use, 


that  Jonson  boldly  pronounces  him  to  have  writ- 
ten no  language.  His  stanza  is  at  once  difficult 
and  unpleasing;  tiresome  to  the  ear  by  its  uni- 
formity, and  to  the  attention  by  its  length.  It 
was  at  first  formed  in  imitation  of  the  Italian 
poets,  without  due  regard  to  the  genius  of  our 
language.  The  Italians  have  little  variety  of 
termination,  and  were  forced  to  contrive  such  a 
stanza  as  might  admit  the  greatest  number  of 
similar  rhymes;  but  our  words  end  with  so 
much  diversity,  that  it  is  seldom  convenient  for 
us  to  bring  more  than  two  of  the  same  sound  to- 
gether. If  it  be  justly  observed  by  Milton,  that 
rhyme  obliges  poets  to  express  their  thoughts  in 
improper  terms,  these  improprieties  must  always 
be  multiplied,  as  the  difficulty  of  rhyme  is  in- 
creased by  long  concatenations. 

The  imitators  of  Spenser  are  indeed  not  very 
rigid  censors  of  themselves,  for  they  seem  to  con- 
clude that,  when  they  have  disfigured  their  lines 
with  a  few  obsolete  syllables,  they  have  accom- 
plished their  design,  without  considering  that 
they  ought  not  only  to  admit  old  words,  but  to 
avoid  new.  The  laws  of  imitation  are  broken 
by  every  word  introduced  since  the  time  of 
Spenser,  as  the  character  of  Hector  is  violated 
by  quoting  Aristotle  in  the  play.  It  would  in- 
deed be  difficult  to  exclude  from  a  long  poem  all 
modern  phrase,  though  it  is  easy  to  sprinkle  it 
with  gleamings  of  antiquity.  Perhaps,  however, 
the  style  of  Spenser  might  by  long  labour  be 
justly  copied;  but  life  is  surely  given  us  for 
higher  purposes  than  to  gather  what  our  ances- 
tors have  wisely  thrown  away,  and  to  learn  whal 
is  of  no  value,  but  because  it  has  been  forgotten. 


No.  122.]       SATURDAY,  MAT  18,  1751. 

Iftscio  qua  Hatale  solum  dulcedine  cunctos  Ducit. 

OVID. 

By  secret  charms  our  native  land  attracts. 

NOTHING  is  more  subject  to  mistake  and  disap 
pointment  than  anticipated  judgment  concerning 
the  easiness  or  difficulty  of  any  undertaking, 
whether  we  form  our  opinion  from  the  perform- 
ances of  others,  or  from  abstracted  contemplation 
of  the  thing  to  be  attempted. 

Whatever  is  done  skilfully  appears  to  be  done 
with  ease;  and  art,  when  it  is  once  matured  to 
habit,  vanishes  from  observation.  We  are  there- 
fore more  powerfully  excited  to  emulation,  by 
those  who  have  attained  the  highest  degree  of  ex- 
cellence, and  whom  we  can  therefore  with  least 
reason  hope  to  equal. 

In  adjusting  the  probability  of  success  by  a 
previous  consideration  of  the  undertaking,  we  are 
equally  in  danger  of  deceiving  ourselves.  It  ia 
never  easy,  nor  often  possible,  to  comprise  the  se- 
ries of  any  process  with  all  its  circumstances,  in- 
cidents and  variations,  in  a  speculative  scheme. 
Experience  soon  shows  us  the  tortuosities  of  ima- 
ginary rectitude,  the  complications  of  simplicity, 
and  the  asperities  of  smoothness.  Sudden  diffi- 
culties often  start  up  from  the  ambushes  of  art, 
stop  the  career  of  activity,  repress  the  gayety  of 
confidence,  and,  when  w'e  imagine  ourselves  al- 
most at  the  end  of  our  labours,  drive  us  back  to 
new  plans  and  different  measures. 

There  are  many  things  which  we  every  day  sea 
others  unable  to  perform,  and  perhaps  have  even 


192 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  129. 


ourselves  miscarried  in  attempting  ;  and  yet  can 
hardly  allow  to  be  difficult ;  nor  can  we  forbear 
to  wonder  afresh  at  every  new  failure,  or  to  pro- 
mise certainty  of  success  to  our  next  essay ;  but 
when  we  trv,  the  same  hindrances  recur, the  same 
inability  is  perceived,  and  the  vexation  of  disap- 
pointment must  again  be  suffered. 

Of  the  various  kinds  of  speaking  or  writing, 
which  serve  necessity,  or  promote  pleasure,  none 
appear  so  artless  or  easy  as  simple  narration ; 
I'or  what  should  make  him  that  knows  the  whole 
order  and  progress  of  an  affair  unable  to  relate 
it  ?  Yet  we  houily  find  such  an  endeavour  to  en- 
tertain or  instruct  us  by  recitals,  clouding  the 
facts  which  they  intend  to  illustrate,  and  losing 
themselves  and  their  auditors  in  wilds  and  maze*; 
in  digression  and  confusion.  When  we  have 
congratulated  ourselves  upon  a  new  opportunity 
of  inquiry,  and  new  means  of  information,  it  often 
happens  that  without  designing  either  deceit  or 
concealment,  without  ignorance  of  the  fact,  or 
unwillingness  to  disclose  it,  the  rclator  fills  the 
ear  with  empty  sounds,  harasses  the  attention 
with  fruitless  impatience  and  disturbs  the  imagin- 
ation by  a  tumult  of  events,  without  order  of  time, 
or  train  of  consequence. 

It  is  natural  to  believe,  upon  the  same  princi- 
ple, that  no  writer  has  a  more  easy  task  than  the 
historian.  The  philosopher  has  the  works  of 
omniscience  to  examine  ;  and  is  therefore  en- 
gaged in  disquisitions,  to  which  finite  intellects 
are  utterly  unequal.  The  poet  trusts  to  his  in- 
ventions, and  is  not  only  in  danger  of  those  in- 
consistencies to  which  every  one  is  exposed  by 
departure  from  truth ;  but  may  be  censured  as 
well  for  deficiencies  of  matter,  as  for  irregularity 
of  disposition,  or  impropriety  of  ornament.  But 
the  happy  historian  has  no  other  labour  than  of 
gathering  what  tradition  pours  down  before  him, 
or  records  treasure  for  his  use.  He  has  cnly  the 
actions  and  designs  of  men  like  himself  to  con- 
ceive and  to  relate  ;  he  is  not  to  form,  but  copy 
characters,  and  therefore  is  not  blamed  for  the 
inconsistency  of  statesmen,  the  injustice  of  ty- 
rants, or  the  cowardice  of  commanders.  The 
difficulty  of  making  variety  inconsistent,  or  unit- 
ing probability  with  surprise,  needs  not  to  dis- 
turb him ;  the  manners  and  actions  of  his  per- 
tpnages  are  already  fixed ;  his  materials  are  pro- 
dded and  put  into  his  hands,  and  he  is  at  leisure 
to  employ  all  his  powers  in  arranging  and  dis- 
playing them. 

Yet,  even  with  these  advantages,  very  few 
in  any  age  have  been  able  to  raise  themselves  to 
reputation  by  writing  histories ;  and  among  the 
innumerable  authors,  who  fill  every  nation  with 
accounts  of  their  ancestors,  or  undertake  to 
transmit  to  futurity  the  events  of  their  own  time, 
the  greater  part,  when  fashion  and  novelty  have 
ceased  to  recommend  them,  are  of  no  other  use 
than  chronological  memorials,  which  necessity 
may  sometimes  require  to  be  consulted,  but  which 
rnght  away  curiosity  and  disgust  delicacy. 

It  is  observed,  that  our~nation,  which  has 
produced  so  many  authors  eminent  for  almost 
every  other  species  of  literary  excellence,  has 
been  hitherto  remarkably  barren  of  historical 
census ;  and,  so  far  has  this  defect  raised  preju- 
dices against  us>  that  some  have  doubted  whe- 
ther an  Englishman  can  stop  at  that  mediocrity 
of  style,  or  confine  his  mind  to  that  even  tenor  of 
nnagiration  which  narrative  requires. 


They  who  can  believe  that  nature  has  so  ca- 
priciously distributed  understanding  have  surely 
no  claim  to  the  honour  of  serious  confutation. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  same  country  have  oppo- 
site characters  in  different  ages  ;  the  prevalence 
or  neglect  of  any  particular  study  can  proceed 
only  from  the  accidental  influence  of  some  tem- 
porary cause  ;  and  if  we  have  failed  in  history, 
we  can  have  failed  only  because  history  has  not 
hitherto  been  diligently  cultivated. 

But  how  is  it  evident,  that  we  have  not  histori- 
ans among  us,  whom  we  may  venture  to  place  in 
comparison  with  any  that  the  neighbouring  na- 
tions can  produce  ?  The  attempt  of  Raleigh  is  de- 
servedly celebrated  for  the  labour  of  his  research- 
es, and  the  elegance  of  his  style  ;  but  he  has  en- 
deavoured to  exert  his  judgment  more  than  his 
genius,  to  select  facts  rather  than  adorn  them; 
and  has  produced  a  historical  dissertation,  but 
seldom  risen  to  the  majesty  of  history. 

The  works  of  Clarendon  deserve  more  regard. 
His  diction  is  indeed  neither  exact  in  itself,  nor 
suited  to  the  purpose  of  history.  It  is  the  effu- 
sion of  a  mind  crowded  with  ideas,  and  desirous 
of  imparting  them;  and  therefore  always  accu- 
mulating words  and  involving  one  clause  and  sen- 
tence in  another.  But  there,  is  in  his  negligence 
a  rude,  inartificial  majesty,  which,  without  the 
nicety  of  laboured  elegance  swells  the  mind  by  its 
plenitude  and  diffusion.  His  narration  is  not 
perhaps  sufficiently  rapid,  being  stopped  too  fre- 
quently by  particularities,  which,  though  they 
might  strike  the  author  who  was  present  at  the 
transactions,  will  not  equally  detain  the  attention 
of  posterity.  But  his  ignorance  or  carelessness 
of  the  art  of  writing  is  amply  compensated  by  his 
knowledge  of  nature  and  of  policy  ;  the  wisdom 
of  his  maxims,  the  justness  of  his  reasonings,  and 
the  variety,  distinctness,  and  strength  of  his  cha- 
racters. 

But  none  of  our  writers  can,  in  my  opinion, 
justly  contest  the  superiority  of  Knolles,  who,  in 
his  history  of  the  Turks,  has  displayed  all  the 
excellences  that  narration  can  admit.  His  style, 
though  somewhat  obscured  by  time,  and  some- 
times vitiated  by  false  wit,  is  pure,  nervous,  ele- 
vated, and  clear.  A  wonderful  multiplicity  of 
events  is  so  artfully  arranged,  and  so  distinctly 
explained,  that  each  facilitates  the  knowledge  ot 
the  next.  Whenever  a  new  personage  is  intro- 
duced, the  reader  is  prepared  by  his  character  for 
his  actions ;  when  a  nation  is  first  attacked,  or 
city  besieged,  he  is  made  acquainted  with  its  his 
tory,  or  situation  ;  so  that  a  great  part  of  tho 
world  is  brought  into  view.  The  descriptions  of 
this  author  are  without  minuteness,  and  the  di- 
gressions without  ostentation.  Collateral  events 
are  so  artfully  woven  into  the  contexture  of  h'i3 
principal  story,  that  they  cannot  be  disjoined  with- 
out leaving  it  lacerated  and  broken.  There  is 
nothing  turgid  in  his  dignity,  nor  superfluous  in 
his  copiousness.  His  orations  only,  which  he 
feigns,  like  the  ancient  historians,  to  have  been 
pronounced  on  remarkable  occasions,  are  tedious 
and  languid  ;  and  since  they  are  merely  the  vo- 
luntary sports  of  imagination,  prove  how  much 
the  most  judicious  and  skilful  may  be  mistaken, 
in  the  estimate  of  their  own  powers. 

Nothing  could  have  sunk  this  author  in  obscu- 
rity but  the  remoteness  and  barbarity  of  the  peo- 
ple whose  stcry  he  relates.  It  seldom  happens, 
that  all  circumstances  concur  to  happiness  or 


No.  123.1 


THE  RAMBLER. 


193 


fame.  The  nation  which  produced  this  great 
historian,  has  the  grief  of  seeing  his  genius  em- 
ployed upon  a  foreign  and  uninteresting  subject ; 
and  that  writer,  who  might  have  secured  perpe- 
tuity to  his  name,  by  a  history  of  his  own  coun- 
try, has  exposed  himself  to  the  danger  of  oblivion, 
by  recounting  enterprises  and  revolutions,  of 
which  none  desire  to  be  informed. 


No.  123.]     TUESDAY,  MAY  21, 1751. 

Quo  semel  estimbutarecens,  aervabitodorem 
Testa  diu.  HOR. 

What  seascm'd  first  the  vessel,  keeps  the  taste. 

CREECH. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

THOUGH  I  have  so  long  found  myself  deluded  by 
projects  of  honour  and  distinction,  that  I  often  re- 
solve to  admit  them  no  more  into  my  heart ;  yet, 
how  determinately  soever  excluded,  they  always 
recover  their  dominion  by  force  or  stratagem ; 
and  whenever,  after  the  shortest  relaxation  of  vi- 
gilance, reason  and  caution  return  to  their  charge, 
they  find  hope  again  in  possession,  with  all  her 
train  of  pleasures  dancing  about  her. 

Even  while  I  am  preparing  to  write  a  history 
of  disappointed  expectations,  I  cannot  forbear  to 
flatter  myself,  that  you  and  your  readers  are  im- 
patient for  my  performance  ;  and  that  the  sons  of 
learning  have  laid  down  several  of  your  late  pa- 
pers with  discontent,  when  they  found  that  Miso- 
capelus  had  delayed  to  continue  his  narrative. 

But  the  desire  of  gratifying  the  expectations 
that  [  have  raised,  is  not  the  only  motive  of  this 
relation,  which,  having  once  promised  it,  I  think 
myself  no  longer  at  liberty  to  forbear.  For,  how- 
ever I  may  have  wished  to  clear  myself  from  every 
other  adhesion  of  trade,  I  hope  I  shall  be  always 
wise  enough  to  retain  my  punctuality,  and  amidst 
all  my  new  arts  of  politeness,  continue  to  despise 
negligence,  and  detest  falsehood. 

When  the  death  of  my  brother  had  dismissed 
me  from  the  duties  of  a  shop,  I  considered  my- 
self as  restored  to  the  rights  of  my  birth,  and  en- 
titled to  the  rank  and  reception  which  my  ances- 
tors obtained.  I  was,  however,  embarrassed  with 
many  difficulties  at  my  first  re-entrance  into  the 
world  ;  for  my  haste  to  be  a  gentleman  inclined 
me  to  precipitate  measures ;  and  every  accident 
that  forced  me  back  towards  my  old  station,  was 
considered  by  me  as  an  obstruction  of  my  hap- 
piness. 

It  was  with  no  common  grief  and  indignation, 
that  I  found  my  former  companions  still  daring 
to  claim  my  notice,  and  the  journeymen  and  ap- 
prentices sometimes  pulling  me  by  the  sleeve  as  I 
\vas  walking  in  the  street,  and,  without  any  ter- 
;or  of  my  new  sword,  which  was,  notwithstand- 
ing, of  an  uncommon  size,  inviting  me  to  partake 
of  a  bottle  at  the  old  house,  and  entertaining  me 
with  histories  of  the  girls  in  the  neighbourhood. 
I  had  always,  in  my  officinal  state,  been  kept  in 
awe  by  lace  and  embroidery  ;  and  imagined  that, 
to  fright  away  these  unwelcome  familiarities,  no- 
thing was  necessary,  but  that  I  should,  by  splen- 
dour of  dress,  proclaim  my  re-union  with  a  higher 
rank.  I  therefore  sent  for  my  tailor ;  ordered  a 
suit  with  twice  the  usual  quantity  of  lace  ;  and, 
that  I  might  not  let  my  persecutors  increase  their 


confidence,  by  the  habit  of  accosting  me,  staid  at 
home  till  it  was  made. 

This  week  of  confinement  I  passed  in  practis- 
ing a  forbidding  frown,  a  smile  of  condescension, 
a  slight  salutation,  and  an  abrupt  departure ;  and 
in  four  mornings  was  able  to  turn  upon  my  heel, 
with  so  much  levity  and  sprightliness,  that  I  made 
no  doubt  of  discouraging  all  public  attempts  upon 
my  dignity.  I  therefore  issued  forth  in  my  new 
coat,  with  a  resolution  of  dazzling  intimacy  to  a 
fitter  distance ;  and  pleased  myself  with  the  ti- 
midity and  reverence,  which  I  should  impress 
upon  all  who  had  hitherto  presumed  to  harass  me 
with  their  freedoms.  But,  whatever  was  the 
cause,  1  did  not  find  myself  received  with  any 
new  degree  of  respect:  those  whom  I  intended 
to  drive  from  me,  ventured  to  advance  with  their 
usual  phrases  of  benevolence  ;  and  those,  whose 
acquaintance  I  solicited,  grew  more  supercilious 
and  reserved.  I  began  soon  to  repent  the  ex- 
pense, by  which  I  had  procured  no  advantage, 
and  to  suspect  that  a  shining  dress,  like  a  weighty 
weapon,  has  no  force  in  itself,  but  owes  all  its  ef- 
ficacy to  him  that  wears  it 

Many  were  the  mortifications  and  calamities 
which  I  was  condemned  to  suffer  in  my  initiation 
to  politeness.  I  was  so  much  tortured  by  the  in- 
cessant civilities  of  my  companions,  that  I  never 
passed  through  that  region  of  the  city  but  in  a 
chair  with  the  curtains  drawn ;  and  at  last  left 
my  lodgings,  and  fixed  myself  in  the  verge  of  the 
court.  Here  I  endeavoured  to  be  thought  a  gen- 
tleman just  returned  from  his  travels,  and  was 
pleased  to  have  my  landlord  believe  that  I  was 
in  some  danger  from  importunate  creditors ;  but 
this  scheme  was  quickly  defeated  by  a  formal  de- 
putation sent  to  offer  me,  though  I  had  now  re- 
tired from  business,  the  freedom  of  my  company. 

I  was  now  detected  in  trade,  and  therefore  re- 
solved to  stay  no  longer.  I  hired  another  apart- 
ment, and  changed  my  servants.  Here  I  lived 
very  happily  for  three  months,  and,  with  secrel 
satisfaction,  often  overheard  the  family  cele- 
brating the  greatness  and  felicity  of  the  esquire ; 
though  the  conversation  seldom  ended  without 
some  complaint  of  my  covetousness,  or  some  re- 
mark upon  my  language,  or  my  gait.  I  now  be- 
gan to  venture  into  the  public  walks,  and  to  know 
the  faces  of  nobles  and  beauties  ;  but  could  not 
observe,  without  wonder,  as  I  passed  by  them, 
how  frequently  they  were  talking  of  a  tailor.  I 
longed,  however,  to  be  admitted  to  conversation, 
and  Was  somewhat  weary  of  walking  in  crowds 
without  a  companion,  yet  continued  to  come  and 
go  with  the  rest,  till  a  lady,  whom  I  endeavoured 
to  protect  in  a  crowded  passage,  as  she  was 
about  to  step  into  her  chariot,  thanked  me  for  my 
civility,  and  told  me,  that  as  she  had  often  distin- 
tinguished  me  for  my  modest  and  respectful  be- 
haviour, whenever  I  set  up  for  myself,  I  might 
expect  to  see  her  among  my  first  customers. 

Here  was  an  end  of  all  my  ambulatory  pro 
jects.  I  indeed  sometimes  entered  the  walks 
again,  but  was  always  blasted  by  this  destructive 
lady,  whoee  mischievous  generosity  recommend- 
ed me  to  her  acquaintance.  Being  therefore 
forced  to  practice  my  adscititious  character  upon 
another  stage,  I  betook  myself  to  a  coffee-house 
frequented  by  wits,  among  whom  I  learned  in  a 
short  time  the  cant  of  criticism,  and  talked  so 
loudly  and  volubly  of  nature,  and  manners,  and 
sentiment,  and  diction,  and  similes,  and  con- 


194 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  124. 


trasts.  and  action,  and  pronunciation,  that  1  was 
often  desired  to  lead  the  hiss  and  clap,  and  was 
feared  and  hated  by  the  players  and  the  poets. 
Many  a  sentence  have  I  hissed,  which  I  did  not 
understand,  and  many  a  groan  have  I  uttered, 
when  the  ladies  were  weeping  in  the  boxes.  At 
last  a  malignant  author,  whose  performance  I 
had  persecuted  through  the  nine  nights,  wrote  an 
epigram  upon  Tape  the  critic,  which  drove  me 
from  the  pit  for  ever. 

My  desire  to  be  a  fine  gentleman  still  con- 
tinued :  I  therefore,  after  a  short  suspense,  chose 
a  new  set  of  friends  at  the  gaming-table,  and  was 
for  some  time  pleased  with  the  civility  and  open- 
ness with  which  I  found  myself  treated.  I  was 
indeed  obliged  to  play ;  but  being  naturally  timo- 
rous and  vigilant,  was  never  surprised  into  large 
sums.  What  might  have  been  the  consequence 
of  long  familiarity  with  these  plunderers  I  had 
not  an  opportunity  of  knowing ;  for  one  night 
the  constables  entered  and  seized  us,  and  I  was 
once  more  compelled  to  sink  into  my  former  con- 
dition, by  sending  for  my  old  master  to  attest  my 
character. 

When  I  was  deliberating  to  what  new  qualifi- 
cations I  should  aspire,  I  was  summoned  into  the 
country,  by  an  account  of  my  father's  death. 
Here  I  had  hopes  of  being  able  to  distinguish 
myself,  and  to  support  the  honour  of  my  family. 
I  therefore  bought  guns  and  horses,  and,  con- 
trary to  the  expectation  of  the  tenants,  increased 
the  salary  of  the  huntsman.  But  when  I  en- 
tered the  field,  it  was  soon  discovered  that  I  was 
not  destined  to  the  glories  of  the  chase.  I  was 
afraid  of  thorns  in  the  thicket,  and  of  dirt  in  the 
marsh ;  I  shivered  on  the  brink  of  a  river  while 
the  sportsmen  crossed  it,  and  trembled  at  the 
sight  of  a  five-bar  gate.  When  the  sport  and 
danger  were  over,  I  was  still  equally  disconcert- 
ed ;  for  I  was  effeminate,  though  not  delicate,  and 
could  only  join  a  feebly-whispering  voice  in  the 
clamours  of  their  triumph. 

A  fall,  by  which  my  ribs  were  broken,  soon 
recalled  me  to  domestic  pleasures,  and  I  exerted 
all  my  art  to  obtain  the  favour  of  the  neighbour- 
ing ladies ;  but,  wherever  I  came,  there  was  al- 
ways some  unlucky  conversation  upon  ribands, 
fillets,  pins,  or  thread,  which  drove  all  my  stock 
of  compliments  out  of  my  memory,  and  over- 
whelmed me  with  shame  and  dejection. 

Thus  I  passed  the  ten  first  years  after  the 
death  of  my  brother,  in  which  I  have  learned  at 
last  to  repress  that  ambition,  which  I  could  never 
gratify ;  and,  instead  of  wasting  more  of  my  life 
in  vain  endeavours  after  accomplishments,  which 
if  not  early  acquired,  no  endeavours  can  obtain, 
I  shall  confine  my  care  to  those  higher  excel- 
lences which  are  in  every  man's  power,  and 
though  I  cannot  enchant  affection  by  elegance 
and  eaae,  hope  to  secure  esteem  by  honesty  and 
truth.  I  am,  &c.  MISOCAPELUS. 


No.  124.]     SATURDAY,  MAT  25,  1751. 

Taciturn  sijhas  inter  reptare  talubres, 

Curantem  quicquid  dignum  sapicntc  bonoque  est. 

HOE. 

To  range  in  silence  through  each  healthful  wood, 
And  muse  what's  worthy  of  the  wise  and  good. 

ELPHINSTON. 

THE  season  of  the  year  is  now  come,  in  which 
the  theatres  are  shut,  and  the  card-tables  for- 


saken ;  the  regions  of  luxury  are  for  awhile  un- 
peopled, and  pleasure  leads  out  her  votaries  to 
groves  and  gardens,  to  still  scenes  and  erratic 
gratifications.  Those  who  have  passed  many 
months  in  a  continual  tumult  of  diversion ;  who 
have  never  opened  their  eyes  in  the  morning, 
but  upon  some  new  appointment ;  nor  slept  at 
night  without  a  dream  of  dances,  music,  and  good 
hands,  or  of  soft  sighs  and  humble  supplications ; 
must  now  retire  to  distant  provinces,  where  tho 
syrens  of  flattery  are  scarcely  to  be  heard,  where 
beauty  sparkles  without  praise  or  envy,  and  wit 
is  repeated  only  by  the  echo. 

As  I  think  it  one  of  the  most  important  duties 
of  social  benevolence  to  give  warning  of  the  ap^ 
proach  of  calamity,  when  by  timely  prevention  it 
may  be  turned  aside,  or  by  preparatory  measures 
be  more  easily  endured,  I  cannot  feel  the  in- 
creasing warmth,  or  observe  the  lengthening 
days,  without  considering  the  condition  of  my 
fair  readers,  who  are  now  preparing  to  leave  all 
that  has  so  long  filled  up  their  hours,  all  from 
which  they  have  been  accustomed  to  hope  for 
delight ;  and  who,  till  fashion  proclaims  the 
liberty  of  returning  to  the  seats  of  mirth  and  ele- 
gance, must  endure  the  rugged  'squire,  the  sober 
housewife,  the  loud  huntsman,  or  the  formal  par- 
son, the  roar  of  obstreperous  jollity,  or  the  dul- 
ness  of  prudential  instruction ;  without  any  re- 
treat but  to  the  gloom  of  solitude,  where  they 
will  yet  find  greater  inconveniences,  and  must 
learn,  however  unwillingly,  to  endure  themselves. 

In  winter  the  life  of  the  polite  and  gay  may  be 
said  to  roll  on  with  a  strong  and  rapid  current ; 
they  float  along  from  pleasure  to  pleasure,  with- 
out the  trouble  of  regulating  their  own  motions, 
and  pursue  the  course  of  the  stream  in  all  tho 
felicity  of  inattention ;  content  that  they  find 
themselves  in  progression,  and  careless  whither 
they  are  going.  But  the  months  of  summer  are 
a  kind  of  sleeping  stagnation  without  wind  or 
tide,  where  they  are  left  to  force  themselves  for- 
ward by  their  own  labour,  and  to  direct  their 
passage  by  their  own  skill ;  and  where,  if  they 
have  not  some  internal  principle  of  activity,  they 
must  be  stranded  upon  shallows,  or  lie  torpid  in 
a  perpetual  calm. 

There  are,  indeed,  some  to  whom  this  univer- 
sal dissolution  of  gay  societies  affords  a  welcome 
opportunity  of  quitting,  without  disgrace,  the 
post  which  they  have  found  themselves  unable 
to  maintain  ;  and  of  seeming  to  retreat  only  at 
the  call  of  nature,  from  assemblies  where,  after 
a  short  triumph  of  uncontested  superiority,  they 
are  overpowered  by  some  new  intruder  of  softer 
elegance  or  sprightlier  vivacity.  By  these,  hope- 
less of  victory,  and  yet  ashamed  to  confess  a  con- 
quest, the  summer  is  regarded  as  a  release  from 
the  fatiguing  service  of  celebrity,  a  dismission  to 
more  certain  joys  and  a  safer  empire.  They 
now  solace  themselves  with  the  influence  which 
they  shall  obtain,  where  they  have  no  rival  to 
fear  ;  and  with  the  lustre  which  they  shall  effuse, 
when  nothing  can  be  seen  of  brighter  splendour. 
They  imagine,  while  they  are  preparing  for  their 
journey,  the  admiration  with  which  the  rustics 
will  crowd  about  them ;  plan  the  laws  of  a  new 
assembly  •  or  contrive  to  delude  provincial  igno- 
rance with  a  fictitious  mode.  A  thousand  pleas- 
ing  expectations  swarm  in  the  fancy;  and  all 
the  approaching  weeks  are  filled  with  distinc- 
tions, honours,  and  authority. 


No.  125.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


195 


But  others,  who  have  lately  entered  the  world, 
or  have  yet  had  no  proofs  of  its  inconstancy  and 
desertion,  are  cut  off,  by  this  cruel  interruption, 
from  the  enjoyment  01  their  prerogatives,  and 
doomed  to  lose  four  months  in  unactive  obscurity. 
Many  complaints  do  vexation  and  desire  extort 
from  those  exiled  tyrants  of  the  town,  against 
the  inexorable  sun,  who  pursues  his  course  with- 
out any  regard  to  love  or  beauty;  and  visits 
either  tropic  at  the  stated  time,  whether  shunned 
or  courted,  deprecated  or  implored. 

To  them  who  leave  the  places  of  public  resort 
m  the  full  bloom  of  reputation,  and  withdraw 
from  admiration,  courtship,  submission,  and  ap- 
plause, a  rural  triumph  can  give  nothing  equiva- 
lent. The  praise  of  ignorance,  and  the  subjec- 
tion of  weakness,  are  little  regarded  by  beauties 
who  have  been  accustomed  to  more  important 
conquests,  and  more  valuable  panegyrics.  Nor 
indeed  should  the  powers  •which  have  made 
havoc  in  the  theatres,  or  borne  down  rivalry  in 
courts,  be  degraded  to  a  mean  attack  upon  the 
untravelled  heir,  or  ignoble  contest  with  the  rud- 
dy milkmaid. 

How  then  must  four  long  months  be  worn 
away  ?  Four  months,  in  which  there  will  be  no 
routs,  no  shows,  no  ridottos ;  in  which  visits 
must  be  regulated  by  the  weather,  and  assem- 
blies will  depend  upon  the  moon  ?  The  Platon- 
ists  imagine,  that  the  future  punishment  of  tliose 
who  have  in  this  life  debased  their  reason  by 
subjection  to  their  senses,  and  have  preferred  the 
gross  gratifications  of  lewdness  and  luxury,  to 
the  pure  and  sublime  felicity  of  virtue  and  con- 
templation, will  arise  from  the  predominance  and 
solicitations  of  the  same  appetites,  in  a  state 
which  can  furnish  no  means  of  appeasing  them. 
I  cannot  but  suspect  that  this  month,  bright 
with  sunshine,  and  fragrant  with  perfumes  ;  this 
month,  which  covers  the  meadow  with  verdure, 
and  decks  the  gardens  with  all  the  mixtures  of 
colorific  radiance ;  this  month,  from  which  the 
man  of  fancy  expects  new  infusions  of  imagery, 
and  the  naturalist  new  scenes  of  observation ; 
this  month  will  chain  down  multitudes  to  the 
Platonic  penance  of  desire  without  enjoyment, 
and  hurry  them  from  the  highest  satisfactions, 
which  they  have  yet  learned  to  conceive,  into  a 
state  of  hopeless  wishes  and  pining  recollec- 
tion, where  the  eye  of  vanity  will  look  round  for 
admiration  to  no  purpose,  and  the  hand  of  ava- 
rice shuffle  cards  in  a  bower  with  ineffectual  dex- 
terity. 

From  the  tediousness  of  this  melancholy  sus- 
pension of  life,  I  would  willingly  preserve  those 
who  are  exposed  to  it  only  by  inexperience ;  who 
want  not  inclination  to  wisdom  or  virtue,  though 
they  have  been  dissipated  by  negligence,  or  mis- 
led by  example ;  and  who  would  gladly  find  the 
way  to  rational  happiness,  though  it  should  be 
necessary  to  struggle  with  habit,  and  abandon 
fashion.  To  these  many  arts  of  spending  time 
might  be  recommended,  which  would  neither 
sadden  the  present  hour  with  weariness,  nor  the 
future  with  repentance. 

It  would  seem  impossible  to  a  solitary  specu- 
latist,  that  a  human  being  can  want  employ- 
ment. To  be  born  in  ignorance  with  a  capacity 
of  knowledge,  and  to  be  placed  in  the  midst  of  a 
world  filled  with  variety,  perpetually  pressing 
upon  the  senses  and  irritating  curiosity,  is  surely 
a  sufficient  security  against  the  languishment  of 


inattention.  Novelty  is  indeed  necessary  to  pre- 
serve eagerness  and  alacrity ;  but  art  and  nature 
have  stores  inexhaustible  by  human  intellects ; 
and  every  moment  produces  something  new  to 
him,  who  has  quickened  his  faculties  by  diligent 
observation. 

Some  studies,  for  which  the  country  and  the 
summer  afford  peculiar  opportunities,  I  shall 
perhaps  endeavour  to  recommend  in  a  future  es- 
say ;  but  if  there  be  any  apprehension  not  apt  to 
admit  unaccustomed  ideas,  or  any  attention  so 
stubborn  and  inflexible,  as  not  easily  to  comply 
with  new  directions,  even  these  obstructions 
cannot  exclude  the  pleasure  of  application  ;  for 
there  is  a  higher  and  nobler  employment,  to 
which  all  faculties  are  adapted  by  him  who  gave 
them.  The  duties  of  religion,  sincerely  and  re- 
gularly performed,  will  always  be  sufficient  to 
exalt  the  meanest,  and  to  exercise  the  highest 
understanding.  That  mind  will  never  be  va- 
cant, which  is  frequently  recalled  by  stated  du 
ties  to  meditations  on  eternal  interests ;  nor  can 
any  hour  be  long,  which  is  spent  in  obtaining 
some  new  qualification  for  celestial  happiness. 


No.  125.]     TUESDAY,  MAT  28,  1751. 

Descriptor  tervare  vices,  operumque  colorei, 
Cur  ego,  si  nequeo  ignoroque  poeta  salutor.     ROB. 

But  if,  through  weakness,  or  my  want  of  art, 

I  can't  to  every  different  style  impart 

The  proper  strokes  and  colours  it  may  claim, 

Why  am  1  honour'd  with  a  poet's  name  ?      FRANCIS. 

IT  is  one  of  the  maxims  of  the  civil  law,  that  de- 
finitions are  hazardous.  Tilings  modified  by  hu- 
man understandings,  subject  to  varieties  of  com- 
plication, and  changeable  as  experience  advances 
knowledge,  or  accident  influences  caprice,  are 
scarcely  to  be  included  in  any  standing  form  of 
expression,  because  they  are  always  suffering 
some  alteration  of  their  state.  Definition  is,  in- 
deed, not  the  province  of  man  ;  every  thing  is  set 
above  or  below  our  faculties.  The  works  and 
operations  of  nature  are  too  great  in  their  extent, 
or  too  much  diffused  in  their  relations,  and  the 
performances  of  art  are  too  inconsistent  and  un- 
certain, to  be  reduced  to  any  determinate  idea. 
It  is  impossible  to  impress  upon  our  minds  an  ade- 
quate and  just  representation  of  an  object  so 
great,  that  we  can  never  take  it  into  our  view,  or 
so  mutable,  that  it  is  always  changing  under  our 
eye,  and  has  already  lost  its  form  while  we  are  la- 
bouring to  conceive  it. 

Definitions  have  been  no  less  difficult  or  uncer- 
tain in  criticisms  than  in  law.  Imagination,  a  li- 
centious and  vagrant  faculty,  unsusceptible  of 
limitations,  and  impatient  of  restraint,  has  always 
endeavoured  to  baffle  the  logician,  to  perplex  the 
confines  of  distinction,  and  burst  the  enclosures 
of  regularity.  There  is,  therefore,  scarcely  any 
species  of  writing,  of  which  we  can  tell  what  is 
its  essence,  and  what  are  its  constituents ;  every 
new  genius  produces  some  innovation,  which, 
when  invented  and  improved,  subverts  the  rules 
which  the  practice  of  foregoing  authors  had  esta- 
blished. 

Comedy  has  been  particularly  unpropitious  to 
definers  ;  though  perhaps  they  might  properly 
have  contented  themselves  with  declaring  it  to 
be  such  a  dramatic  representation  of  human  life,  at 


196 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  125. 


inayexcile  mirth,  they  have  embarrassed  their  de- 
finition with  the  means  by  which  the  comic  writ- 
ers attain  their  end,  without  considering  that  the 
various  methods  of  exhilarating  their  audience, 
not  bein"  limited  by  nature,  cannot  be  comprised 
in  precept.  Thus,  some  make  comedy  a  repre- 
sentation of  mean,  and  others  of  bad  men  ;  some 
think  that  its  essence  consists  in  the  unimport- 
ance, others  in  the  fictitiousness  of  the  transac- 
tion. But  any  man's  reflections  will  inform  him, 
that  every  dramatic  composition  which  raises 
mirth  is  comic  :  and  that,  to  raise  mirth,  it  is  by 
no  means  universally  necessary,  that  the  person- 
ages should  be  cither  mean  or  corrupt,  nor  al- 
ways requisite  that  the  action  should  be  trivial, 
nor  ever,  that  it  should  be  fictitious. 

If  the  two  kinds  of  dramatic  poetry  had  been 
defined  only  by  their  effects  upon  the  mind,  some 
absurdities  might  have  been  prevented,  with 
which  the  compositions  of  our  greatest  poets  are 
disgraced,  who,  for  want  of  some  settled  ideas 
and  accurate  distinctions,  have  unhappily  con- 
founded tragic  with  comic  sentiments.  They 
seem  to  have  thought,  that  as  the  meanness  of 
personages  constituted  comedy,  their  greatness 
was  sufficient  to  form  a  tragedy  ;  and  that  no- 
thing was  necessary  but  that  they  should  crowd 
the  scene  with  monarchs,  and  generals,  and 
guards  ;  and  make  them  talk,  at  certain  intervals, 
of  the  downfall  of  kingdoms,  and  the  route  of  ar- 
mies. They  have  not  considered,  that  thoughts 
or  incidents,  in  themselves  ridiculous,  grow  still 
more  grotesque  by  the  solemnity  of  such  charac- 
ters ;  that  reason  and  nature  are  uniform  and  in- 
flexible ;  and  that  what  is  despicable  and  absurd, 
will  not,  by  any  association  with  splendid  titles, 
become  rational  or  great ;  that  the  most  import- 
ant affairs,  by  an  intermixture  of  an  unseasona- 
ble levity,  may  be  made  contemptible ;  and  that 
the  robes  of  royalty  can  give  no  dignity  to  non- 
sense or  to  folly. 

"  Comedy,"  says  Horace,  "  sometimes  raises 
her  voice  ;  and  Tragedy  may  likewise  on  proper 
occasions  abate  her  dignity  ;"  but  as  the  comic 
personages  can  only  depart  from  her  familiarity 
of  style,  when  the  more  violent  passions  are  put 
in  motion,  the  heroes  and  queens  of  tragedy 
should  never  descend  to  trifle,  but  in  the  hours 
of  ease,  and  intermissions  of  danger.  Yet  in  the 
tragedy  of  Don  Sebastian,  when  the  King  of 
Portugal  is  in  the  hands  of  his  enemy,  and  hav- 
ing just  drawn  the  lot,*by  which  he  is  condemned 
to  die,  breaks  out  into  a  wild  boast  that  his  dust 
shall  take  possession  of  Afric,  the  dialogue  pro- 
ceeds thus  between  the  captive  and  his  con- 
queror : 

Muley  Moloch.    What  shall  I  do  to  conquer  thce  J 

Seb.     Impossible ! 
Souls  know  no  conquerors. 

M.  Mol.    I'll  show  thce  for  a  monster  through  my  Afric. 

Seb.     No,  thou  canst  only  show  me  for  a  man  : 
Afric  is  stor'd  with  monsters;  man's  a  prodigy 
Thy  subjects  have  not  seen. 

M.  Mol.    Thou  talk'st  as  if 
Still  at  the  head  of  battle. 

Seb.    Thou  mistak'st, 
For  there  1  would  not  talk. 

Senducar,  the  Minister.    Sure,  he  would  sleep. 

This  conversation,  with  the  sly  remark  of  the 
minister,  can  only  be  found  not  to  be  comic,  be- 
cause it  wants  the  probability  necessary  to  re- 
presentations of  common  life,  and  degenerates 
too  much  towards  buffoonery  and  farce. 

The  same  jAay  affords  a  smart  return  of  the 


general  to  the  emperor,  who,  enforcing  his  orders 
for  the  death  of  Sebastian,  vents  his  impatience 
in  this  abrupt  threat. 


-No  more  replies, 


But  see  thou  dost  it ;  Or 
To  which  Dorax  answers, 

Choke  in  that  throat  :  I  can  say  Or  as  loud. 

A  thousand  instances  of  such  impropriety 
might  be  produced,  were  not  one  scene  in  Au- 
reng-Zebe  sufficient  to  exemplify  it.  Indamora, 
a  captive  queen,  having  Aurcng-Zebe  for  her 
lover,  employs  Arimant,  to  whose  charge  she 
had  been  entrusted,  and  whom  she  had  made 
sensible  of  her  charms,  to  carry  her  message  to 
his  rival. 

ARIMANT,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand;  INDAMORA 

Arim.    And  I  the  messenger  to  him  from  you  ? 
Your  empire  you  to  t^mny  pursue : 
You  lay  commands  both  cruel  and  unjust, 
To  serve  my  rival,  and  betray  niy  trust. 

Ind.    You  first  betray'd  your  trust  in  loving  me  : 
And  should  not  t  my  own  advantage  see  J 
Serving  my  love,  you  may  my  friendship  gain  » 
You  know  the  rest  of  your  pretences  vain. 
You  must,  my  Arimant,  you  must  be  kind  : 
'Tis  in  your  nature,  and  your  noble  mind. 

Arim.    I'll  to  the  king,  and  straight  my  trust  resign. 

Ind.    His  trust  you  may,  but  you  sh;ill  never  minn 
Heaven  made  you  love  me  for  no  other  end, 
But  to  become  my  confidant  and  friend  : 
As  such,  I  keep  no  secret  from  your  sight, 
And  therefore  make  you  judge  how  ili  I  write' 
Read  it,  and  tell  me  freely  then  your  mind, 
If  'tis  indited,  as  I  meant  it,  kind. 

Arim.    J  ask  not  Heaven  my  freedom  to  restore. 

[Reading 

But  only  for  your  sake I'll  read  no  more. 

And  yet  1  must 

Less  for  my  oicn,  than  for  your  sorrow  sad 

[Reading 

Another  line  like  this,  would  make  me  mad 

Heaven!  she  goes  on — yet  more — and  yet  more  kind  ! 

[As  reading 
Each  sentence  is  a  dagger  to  my  mind. 

See  me  thisnight [Reading 

Thank  fortune,  who  did  such  a  friend  provide; 
For  faithful  Arimant  shall  be  your  guide. 
Not  only  to  be  made  an  instrument, 
But  pre-engaged  without  my  own  consent ! 

Ind.    Unknown  t'  engage  3-011  still  augments  my  score 
And  gives  you  scope  of  meriting  the  more. 

Arim.    The  best  of  men 
Some  interest  in  their  actions  must  confess ; 
None  merit,  but  in  hope  they  may  possess : 
The  fatal  paper  rather  let  me  tear, 
Than,  like  Bellerophon,  my  own  sentence  bear. 

Ind.    You  may;  but 'twill  not  be  your  best  advice 
'Twill  only  give  me  pains  of  writing  twice. 
You  know  you  must  obey  me,  soon  or  late : 
Why  should  you  vainly  struggle  with  your  fate  ? 

Arim.    I  thank  thee,  Heaven !  thou  hast  been  wondrou» 

kind ! 

Why  am  I  thus  to  slavery  design'd, 
And  yet  am  cheated  with  a  free  born  mind, 
Or  make  thy  orders  with  my  reason  suit, 
Or  let  me  live  by  sense,  a  glorious  brute.          [  She  frown*. 
You  frown,  and  I  obey  with  speed,  before 
That  dreadful  sentence  comes,  Sec  me  no  more. 

In  this  scene,  every  circumstance  concurs  to 
turn  tragedy  to  farce.  The  wild  absurdity  of  the 
expedient ;  the  contemptible  subjection  of  the 
lover  ;  the  folly  of  obliging  him  to  read  the  letter 
only  because  it  ought  to  have  been  concealed 
from  him  ;  the  frequent  interruptions  of  amorous 
impatience  ;  the  faint  expostulations  of  a  volun 
tary  slave  ;  the  imperious  haughtiness  of  a  tyrant 
without  power ;  the  deep  reflection  of  the  yield- 
ing rebel  upon  fate  and  free-will ;  and  his  wise 
wish  to  lose  his  reason  as  soon  as  he  finds  him- 
self about  to  do  what  he  cannot  persuade  his  rea 


No.  126.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


197 


son  to  approve,  are  surely  sufficient  to  awaken 
the  most  torpid  risibility. 

There  is  scarce  a  tragedy  of  the  last  century 
which  has  not  debased  its  most  important  inci- 
dents and  polluted  its  most  serious  interlocutions, 
with  buffoonery  and  meanness :  but  though  per- 
haps it  cannot  be  pretended  that  the  present  age 
has  added  much  to  the  force  and  efficacy  of  the 
drama,  it  has  at  least  been  able  to  escape  many 
faults,  which  either  ignorance  had  overlooked,  or 
indulgence  had  licensed.  The  latter  tragedies 
indeed  have  faults  of  another  kind,  perhaps  more 
destructive  to  delight,  though  less  open  to  censure. 
The  perpetual  tumour  of  phrase  with  which  eve- 
ry thought  is  now  expressed  by  every  personage, 
the  paucity  of  adventures,  which  regularity  ad- 
mits, and  the  unvaried  equality  of  flowing  dia- 
logue, has  taken  away  from  our  present  writers 
almost  all  that  dominion  over  the  passions  which 
was  the  boast  of  their  predecessors.  Yet  they 
may  at  least  claim  this  commendation,  that  they 
avoid  gross  faults,  and  that  if  they  cannot  often 
move  terror  or  pity,  they  are  always  careful  not  to 
provoke  laughter. 


No.  126.]     SATURDAY,  JUNE  1,  1751. 

— JVihil eat  oliud  magnum  quam  multa  minuta. 

VET.   AUCT. 

Sands  form  the  mountain,  moments  make  the  year. 

YOUNG. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


AMONG  other  topics  of  conversation  which  your 
papers  supply,  I  was  lately  engaged  in  a  discus- 
sion of  the  character  given  by  Tranquilla  of  her 
lover  Venustnlus,  whom,  notwithstanding  the  se- 
verity of  his  mistress,  the  greater  number  seemed 
inclined  to  acquit  of  unmanly  or  culpable  ti- 
midity. 

One  of  the  company  remarked,  that  prudence 
ought  to  be  distinguished  from  fear ;  and  that  if 
Venustulus  was  afraid  of  nocturnal  adventures, 
no  man  who  considered  how  much  every  avenue 
of  the  town  was  infested  with  robbers  could  think 
him  blameable  ;  for  why  should  life  be  hazarded 
without  prospect  of  honour  or  advantage  ?  Ano- 
ther was  of  opinion,  that  a  brave  man  might  be 
afraid  of  crossing  the  river  in  the  calmest  wea- 
ther, and  declared  that,  for  his  part,  while  there 
were  coaches  and  a  bridge,  he  would  never  be 
seen  tottering  in  a  wooden  case,  out  of  which  he 
might  be  thrown  by  any  irregular  agitation,  or 
which  might  be  overset  by  accident  or  negligence, 
or  by  the  force  of  a  sudden  gust,  or  the  rush  of 
a  larger  vessel.  It  was  his  custom,  he  said,  to 
keep  the  security  of  day-light,  and  dry  ground  ; 
for  it  was  a  maxim  with  him,  that  no  wise  man 
ever  perished  by  water,  or  was  lost  in  the  dark. 

The  next  was  humbly  of  opinion,  that  if  Tran- 
quilla had  seen,  like  him,  the  cattle  run  roaring 
about  the  meadows  in  the  hot  months,  she  would 
not  have  thought  meanly  of  her  lover  for  not 
venturing  his  safety  among  them.  His  neigh- 
bour then  told  us,  that  for  his  part  he  was  not 
ashamed  to  confess,  that  ho  could  not  see  a  rat, 
though  it  was  dead,  without  palpitation  ;  that  he 
had  been  driven  six  times  out  of  his  lodgings 
either  by  rats  or  mice  ;  and  that  he  always  had 
a  bed  in  the  closet  for  his  servant,  whom  he  call- 


ed up  whenever  the  enemy  was  in  motion.  An- 
other wondered  that  any  man  should  think 
himself  disgraced  by  a  precipitate  retreat  from  a 
dog;  for  there  was  always  a  possibility  that  a 
dog  might  be  mad  ;  and  that  surely,  though  there 
was  no  danger  but  of  being  bit  by  a  fierce  animal, 
there  was  more  wisdom  in  flight  than  contest. 
By  all  these  declarations  another  was  encourag- 
ed to  confess,  that  if  he  had  been  admitted  to  the 
honour  of  paying  his  addresses  to  Tranquilla, 
he  should  have  been  likely  to  incur  the  same  cen- 
sure ;  for,  among  all  the  animals  upon  which  na- 
ture has  impressed  deformity  and  horror,  there 
is  none  whom  he  durst  not  encounter  rather  than 
a  beetle. 

Thus,  Sir,  though  cowardice  is  universally  de- 
fined too  close  and  anxious  an  attention  to  per- 
sonal safety,  there  will  be  found  scarcely  any 
fear,  however  excessive  in  its  degree,  or  unreason- 
able in  its  object,  which  will  be  allowed  to  cha- 
racterise a  coward.  Fear  is  a  passion  which 
every  man  feels  so  frequently  predominant  in  his 
own  breast,  that  he  is  unwilling  to  hear  it  cen- 
sured with  great  asperity  ;  and,  perhaps,  if  we 
confess  the  truth,  the  same  restraint  which  would 
hinder  a  man  from  declaiming  against  the  frauds 
of  any  employment  among  those  who  profess  it, 
should  withhold  him  from  treating  fear  with  con 
tempt  among  human  beings. 

Yet  since  fortitude  is  one  of  those  virtues 
which  the  condition  of  our  nature  makes  hourly 
necessary,  I  think  you  cannot  better  direct  your 
admonitions  than  against  superfluous  and  panic 
terrors.  Fear  is  implanted  in  us  as  a  preservative 
from  evil ;  but  its  duty,  like  thatof  other  passions  is 
not  to  overbear  reason,  but  to  assist  it ;  nor  should 
it  be  suffered  to  tyrannize  in  the  imagination,  to 
raise  phantoms  of  horror,  or  beset  life  with  super 
numerary  distresses. 

To  be  always  afraid  of  losing  life  is,  indeed, 
scarely  to  enjoy  a  life  that  can  deserve  the  care 
of  preservation.  He  that  once  indulges  idle  fears 
will  never  be  at  rest.  Our  present  state  admits 
only  of  a  kind  of  negative  security ;  we  must 
conclude  ourselves  safe  when  we  see  no  danger, 
or  none  inadequate  to  our  powers  of  opposition. 
Death  indeed  continually  hovers  about  us,  bul 
hovers  commonly  unseen,  unless  we  sharpen  our 
sight  by  useless  curiosity. 

There  is  always  a  point  at  which  caution,  how- 
ever solicitous,  must  limit  its  preservatives,  be- 
cause one  terror  often  counteracts  another.  I 
once  knew  one  of  the  speculatists  of  cowardice, 
whose  reigning  disturbance  was  the  dread  of 
house-breakers.  His  inquiries  were  for  nine 
years  employed  upon  the  best  method  of  barring 
a  window,  or  a  door ;  and  many  an  hour  has  he 
spent  in  establishing  the  preference  of  a  bolt  to  a 
lock.  He  had  at  last,  by  the  daily  superaddition 
of  new  expedients,  contrived  a  door  which  could 
never  be  forced  ;  for  one  bar  was  secured  by  an- 
other with  such  intricacy  of  subordination  that  he 
was  himself  not  always  able  to  disengage  them 
in  the  proper  method.  He  was  happy  in  this  for- 
tification, till  being  asked  how  he  would  escape 
if  he  was  threatened  by  fire,  he  discovered,  that, 
with  all  his  care  and  expense,  he  had  only  been 
assisting  his  own  destruction.  He  then  imme- 
diately tore  off  his  bolts,  and  now  leaves  at  night 
his  outer  door  half-locked,  that  he  may  not  by 
his  own  folly  perish  in  the  flames. 

There  is  one  species  of  terrorwhich  those  who 


108 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  127. 


are  unwilling  to  suffer  the  reproach  of  cowardice 
have  wisely  dignified  with  the  name  of  antipathy. 
A  man  who  talks  with  intrepidity  of  the  monsters 
of  the  wilderness  while  they  are  out  of  sight,  will 
readily  confess  his  antipathy  to  a  mole,  a  weazel, 
or  a  frog.  He  has  indeed  no  dread  of  harm  from 
an  insect  or  a  worm,  but  his  antipathy  turns  him 
pale  whenever  they  approach  him.  He  believes 
that  a  boat  will  transport  him  with  as  much  safety 
as  his  neighbours,  but  he  cannot  conquer  his  an- 
tipathy to  the  water.  Thus  he  goes  on  without 
any  reproach  from  his  own  reflections,  and  every 
day  multiplies  antipathies,  till  he  becomes  con- 
temptible to  others,  and  burdensome  to  himself. 

It  is  indeed  certain,  that  impressions  of  dread 
may  sometimes  be  unluckily  made  by  objects  not 
in  themselves  justly  formidable ;  but  when  fear  is 
discovered  to  be  groundless,  it  is  to  be  eradicated 
like  other  false  opinions,  and  antipathies  are  ge- 
nerally superable  by  a  single  effort.  He  that  has 
been  taught  to  shudder  at  a  mouse,  if  he  can  per- 
suade himself  to  risk  one  encounter,  will  find  his 
own  superiority,  and  exchange  his  terrors  for  the 
pride  of  conquest. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

THRASO. 

SIR, 

As  you  profess  to  extend  your  regard  to  the  mi- 
nuteness of  decency,  as  well  as  to  the  dignity  of 
science,  I  cannot  forbear  to  lay  before  you  a  mode 
of  persecution  by  which  I  have  been  exiled  to  ta- 
verns and  coffee-houses,  and  deterred  from  enter- 
ing the  doors  of  my  friends. 

Among  the  ladies  who  please  themselves  with 
splendid  furniture,  or  elegant  entertainment,  it  is 
a  practice  very  common  to  ask  every  guest  how 
he  likes  the  carved  work  of  the  cornice,  or  the 
figures  of  the  tapestry ;  the  china  at  the  table,  or 
the  plate  on  the  side-board ;  and  on  all  occasions 
to  inquire  his  opinion  of  their  judgment  and  their 
choice.  Melania  has  laid  her  new  watch  in  the 
window  nineteen  times,  that  she  may  desire  me 
V)  look  upon  it.  Calistahas  an  art  of  dropping 
her  snuff-box  by  drawing  out  her  handkerchief, 
that  when  I  pick  it  up  I  may  admire  it;  and  Ful- 
gentia  has  conducted  me  by  mistake  into  the 
wrong  room,  at  every  visit  I  have  paid  since  her 
picture  was  put  into  a  new  frame. 

I  hope,  Mr.  Rambler,  you  will  inform  them, 
that  no  man  should  be  denied  the  privilege  of  si- 
lence, or  tortured  to  false  declarations  ;  and  that 
though  ladies  may  justly  claim  to  be  exempt  from 
rudeness,  they  have  m  right  to  force  unwilling 
civilities.  To  please  is  a  laudable  and  elegant 
ambition,  and  is  properly  rewarded  with  honest 
praise ;  but  to  seize  applause  by  violence,  and 
call  out  for  commendation  without  knowing,  or 
caring  to  know,  whether  it  be  given  from  convic- 
tion, is  a  species  of  tyranny  by  which  modesty  is 
oppressed,  and  sincerity  corrupted.  The  tribute 
of  admiration  thus  exacted  by  impudence  and 
importunity,  differs  from  the  respect  paid  to  silent 
merit,  as  the  plunder  of  a  pirate  from  the  mer- 
chant's profit. 

I  am,  &c. 

MISOCOLAX. 

SIR, 

YOUR  great  predecessor,  the  Spectator,  endea- 
voured to  diffuse  among  his  female  readers  a  de- 
nre  of  knowledge ;  nor  can  I  charge  you,  though 


you  do  not  seem  equally  attentive  to  the  ladies, 
with  endeavouring  to  discourage  them  from  any 
laudable  pursuit.  But  however  either  he  or  you 
may  excite  our  curiosity,  you  have  not  yet  in- 
formed us  how  it  may  be  gratified.  The  world 
seems  to  have  formed  a  universal  conspiracy 
against  our  understandings;  our  questions  are 
supposed  not  to  expect  answers,  our  arguments 
are  confuted  with  a  jest,  and  we  are  treated  like 
beings  who  transgress  the  limits  of  our  nature 
whenever  we  aspire  to  seriousness  or  improve- 
ment. 

I  inquired  yesterday  of  a  gentleman  eminent 
for  astronomical  skill,  what  made  the  day  long 
in  summer,  and  short  in  winter  ;  and  was  told 
that  nature  protracted  the  days  in  summer,  lest 
ladies  should  want  time  to  walk  in  the  park ;  and 
the  nights  in  winter,  lest  they  should  not  have 
hours  sufficient  to  spend  at  the  card-table. 

J  hope  you  do  not  doubt  but  I  heard  such  in- 
formation with  just  contempt,  and  I  desire  you 
to  discover  to  this  great  master  of  ridicule,  that 
I  was  far  from  wanting  any  intelligence  which  he 
could  have  given  me.  I  asked  the  question  with 
no  other  intention  than  to  set  him  free  from  the 
necessity  of  silence,  and  gave  him  an  opportunity 
of  mingling  on  equal  terms  with  a  polite  assem- 
bly, from  which  however  uneasy,  he  could  not 
then  escape,  by  a  kind  introduction  of  the  only 
subject  on  which  I  believed  him  able  to  speak 
with  propriety.  I  am,  &c. 

GENEROSA. 


No.  127.]      TUESDAY,  JUNE  4,  1751. 

Ocpitli  melius  quam  desinis:  ultima  primit 
Cedunt :  dissimiles,  hie  vir,  et  illepuer. 

OVID 

Succeeding  years  thy  early  fame  destroy ; 
Thou,  who  began'st  a  man,  wilt  end  a  boy. 

POLITIAN,  a  name  eminent  among  the  restorers 
of  polite  literature,  when  he  published  a  collec- 
tion of  epigrams,  prefixed  to  many  of  them  the 
year  of  his  age  at  which  they  were  composed. 
He  might  design  by  this  information,  either  to 
boast  the  early  maturity  of  his  genius,  or  to  con- 
ciliate indulgence  to  the  puerility  of  his  perform- 
ances. But,  whatever  was  his  intent,  it  is  re- 
marked by  Scaliger,  he  very  little  promoted  his 
own  reputation,  because  he  fell  below  the  pro- 
mise which  his  first  productions  had  given,  and 
in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  seldom  equalled  the 
sallies  of  his  youth. 

It  is  not  uncommon  for  those  who,  at  their 
first  entrance  into  the  world,  were  distinguished 
for  attainments  or  abilities,  to  disappoint  the 
hopes  which  they  had  raised,  and  to  end  in  ne- 
glect and  obscurity  that  life  which  they  began 
in  celebrity  and  honour.  To  the  long  catalogue 
of  the  inconveniences  of  old  age,  which  moral 
and  satirical  writers  have  so  copiously  displayed, 
may  be  often  added  the  loss  of  fame. 

The  advance  of  the  human  mind  towards  any 
object  of  laudable  pursuit,  may  be  compared  to 
the  progress  of  a  body  driven  by  a  blow.  It 
moves  for  a  time  with  great  velocity  and  vigour, 
but  the  force  of  the  first  impulse  is  perpetually 
decreasing,  and,  though  it  should  encounter  no 
obstacle  capable  of  quelling  it  by  a  sudden  stop, 
the  resistance  of  the  medium  through  which  it 


No.  127.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


199 


passes,  and  the  latent  inequalities  of  the  smooth- 
est surface,  will,  in  a  short  time,  by  continued 
retardation,  wholly  overpower  it.  Some  hin- 
drances will  be  found  in  every  road  of  life,  but  he 
that  fixes  his  eyes  upon  any  thing  at  a  distance, 
necessarily  loses  sight  of  all  that  fills  up  the  in- 
termediate space,  and  therefore  sets  forward  with 
alacrity  and  confidence,  nor  suspects  a  thousand 
obstacles  by  which  he  afterwards  finds  liis  pas- 
sage embarrassed  and  obstructed.  Some  are 
indeed  stopped  at  once  in  their  career  by  a  sud- 
den shock  of  calamity,  or  diverted  to  a  different 
direction  by  the  cross  impulse  of  some  violent 
passion ;  but  far  the  greater  part  languish  by 
slow  degrees,  deviate  at  first  into  slight  obliqui- 
ties, and  themselves  scarcely  perceive  at  what 
time  their  ardour  forsook  them,  or  when  they 
lost  sight  of  their  original  design. 

Weariness  and  negligence  are  perpetually  pre- 
vailing by  silent  encroachments,  assisted  by  dif- 
ferent causes,  and  not  observed  till  they  cannot, 
without  great  difficulty,  be  opposed.  Labour 
necessarily  requires  pauses  of  ease  and  relaxa- 
tion, and  the  deliciousness  of  ease  commonly 
makes  us  unwilling  to  return  to  labour.  We, 
perhaps,  prevail  upon  ourselves  to  renew  our 
attempts,  but  eagerly  listen  to  every  argument 
for  frequent  interpositions  of  amusement ;  for, 
when  indolence  has  once  entered  upon  the  mind, 
it  can  scarcely  be  dispossessed  but  by  such  ef- 
forts as  very  few  are  willing  to  exert. 

It  is  the  fate  of  industry  to  be  equally  endan- 
gered by  miscarriage  and  success,  by  confidence 
and  despondency.  He  that  engages  in  a  great 
undertaking,  with  a  false  opinion  of  its  facility, 
or  too  high  conceptions  of  his  own  strength,  is 
easily  discouraged  by  the  first  hindrance  of  his 
advances,  because  he  had  promised  himself  an 
equal  and  perpetual  progression,  without  impedi- 
ment or  disturbance ;  when  unexpected  inter- 
ruptions break  in  upon  him,  he  is  in  the  state  of 
a  man  surprised  by  a  tempest,  where  he  pur- 
posed only  to  bask  in  the  calm,  or  sport  in  the 
shallows. 

It  is  not  only  common  to  find  the  difficulty  of 
an  enterprise  greater,  but  the  profit  less,  than 
hope  had  pictured  it.  Youth  enters  the  world 
with  very  happy  prejudices  in  her  own  favour. 
She  imagines  herself  not  only  certain  of  accom- 
plishing every  adventure,  but  of  obtaining  those 
rewards  which  the  accomplishment  may  deserve. 
She  is  not  easily  persuaded  to  believe  that  the 
force  of  merit  can  be  resisted  by  obstinacy  and 
avarice,  or  its  lustre  darkened  by  envy  and  ma- 
lignity. She  has  not  yet  learned  that  the  most 
evident  claims  to  praise  or  preferment  may  be 
rejected  by  malice  against  conviction,  or  by  indo- 
lence without  examination ;  that  they  may  be 
sometimes  defeated  by  artifices,  and  sometimes 
overborne  by  clamour ;  that,  in  the  mingled  num- 
bers of  mankind,  many  need  no  other  provoca- 
tion to  enmity  than  that  they  find  themselves 
excelled  ;  that  others  have  ceased  their  curiosity, 
and  considered  every  man  who  fills  the  mouth 
of  report  with  a  new  name,  as  an  intruder  upon 
their  retreat,  and  disturber  of  their  repose ;  that 
some  are  engaged  in  complications  of  interest 
which  they  imagine  endangered  by  every  inno- 
vation ;  that  many  yield  themselves  up  implicitly 
to  every  report  which  hatred  disseminates  or 
folly  scatters ;  and  that  whoever  aspires  to  the 
notice  of  the  public,  has  in  almost  every  man  an 


enemy  and  a  rival ;  and  must  struggle  with  the 
opposition  of  the  daring,  and  elude  the  strata- 
gems of  the  timorous,  must  quicken  the  frigid, 
and  soften  the  obdurate,  must  reclaim  perverse- 
ness  and  inform  stupidity. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  when  the  prospect  of  re- 
ward has  vanished,  the  zeal  of  enterprise  should 
cease;  for  who  would  persevere  to  cultivate  the 
soil  which  he  has,  after  long  labour,  discovered 
to  be  barren  ?  He  who  hath  pleased  himself 
with  anticipated  praises,  and  expected  that  he 
should  meet  in  every  place  with  patronage  or 
friendship,  will  soon  remit  his  vigour,  when  he 
finds  that,  from  those  who  desire  to  be  considered 
as  his  admirers,  nothing  can  be  hoped  but  cold 
civility,  and  that  many  refuse  to  own  his  excel- 
lence, lest  they  should  be  too  justly  expected  to 
reward  it. 

A  man  thus  cut  off  from  the  prospect  of  that 
port  to  which  his  address  and  fortitude  had  been 
employed  to  steer  him,  often  abandons  himself 
to  chance  and  to  the  wind,  and  glides  carelessly 
and  idle  down  the  current  of  life,  without  resolu- 
tion to  make  another  effort,  till  he  is  swallowed 
up  by  the  gulf  of  mortality. 

Others  am  betrayed  to  the  same  desertion  of 
themselves  by  a  contrary  fallacy.  It  was  said 
of  Hannibal,  that  he  wanted  nothing  to  the  com- 
pletion of  his  martial  virtues,  but  that  when  he 
had  gained  a  victory  he  should  know  how  to  use 
it.  The  folly  of  desisting  too  soon  from  success- 
ful labours,  and  the  haste  of  enjoying  advantages 
before  they  are  secured,  are  often  fatal  to  men  of 
impetuous  desire,  to  men  whose  consciousness 
of  uncommon  powers  fills  them  with  presump- 
tion, and  who,  havingbcrne  opposition  down  be- 
fore them,  and  left  emulation  panting  behind,  are 
early  persuaded  to  imagine  that  they  have  reached 
the  heights  of  perfection,  and  that  now,  being 
no  longer  in  danger  from  competitors,  they 
may  pass  the  rest  of  their  days  in  the  enjoyment 
of  their  acquisitions,  in  contemplation  of  their 
own  superiority,  and  in  attention  to  their  own 
praises,  and  look  unconcerned  from  their  emi- 
nence upon  the  toils  and  contentions  of  meaner 
beings. 

It  is  not  sufficiently  considered  in  the  hour  ol 
exultation,  that  all  human  excellence  is  compara- 
tive ;  that  no  man  performs  much  but  in  pro- 
portion to  what  others  accomplish,  or  to  the  time 
and  opportunities  which  have  been  allowed  him  ; 
and  that  he  who  stops  at  any  point  of  excellence 
is  every  day  sinking  in  estimation,  because  his 
improvement  grows  continually  more  incommen- 
surate to  his  life.  Yet,  as  no  man  willingly  quits 
opinions  favourable  to  himself,  they  who  have 
once  been  justly  celebrated,  imagine  that  they 
still  have  the  same  pretensions  to  regard,  and 
seldom  perceive  the  diminution  of  their  character 
while  there  is  time  to  recover  it.  Nothing  then 
remains  but  murmurs  and  remorse ;  for  if  the 
spendthrift's  poverty  be  embittered  by  the  reflec- 
tion that  he  once  was  rich,  how  must  the  idler's 
obscurity  be  clouded  by  remembering  that  he 
once  had  lustre ! 

These  errors  all  arise  from  an  original  mistake 
of  the  true  motives  of  action.  He  that  never 
extends  his  view  beyond  the  praises  or  rewards 
of  men,  will  be  dejected  by  neglect  and  envy,  or 
infatuated  by  honours  and  applause.  But  the 
consideration  that  life  is  only  deposited  in  his 
hands  to  be  employed  in  obedience  to  a  Master 


200 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  128. 


who  will  regard  his  endeavours,  not  his  success, 
would  have  preserved  him  from  trivial  elation? 
ami  discouragements,  and  enabled  him  to  pro 
ceed  with  constancy  and  cheerfulness,  ncithe. 
enervated  by  commendation,  nor  intimidated  by 
censure. 


No.  123.]     SATURDAY,  JUNE  8,  1751. 


O{IK  lyevtr1,  o'ur'  \laKiba  irapd 
Ourt  rap'  dvriS/u) 
KiiSfiai'  kiyovrai  yt  /iav  jSpdru 
"OA/3ov  v-ipraTov  ot 


For  not  the  brave,  or  wise,  or  great, 
E'er  yet  had  happiness  complete  ; 
Nor  Peleus,  grandson  of  the  sky, 

\or  Cadmus  scaped  the  shafts  of  pain, 
Though  favour'd  by  the  Powers  on  high, 

With  every  bliss  that  man  can  gaiu. 

THE  writers  who  have  undertaken  the  task  of 
reconciling  mankind  to  their  present  state,  and 
relieving  the  discontent  produced  by  the  various 
distribution  of  terrestrial  advantages,  frequently 
remind  us  that  we  judge  too  hastily  of  good  and 
evil  ;  that  we  view  only  the  superficies  of  life, 
and  determine  of  the  whole  by  a  very  small  part  ; 
and  that  in  the  condition  of  men  it  frequently 
happens,  that  grief  and  anxiety  lie  hid  under  the 
golden  robes  of  prosperity,  and  the  gloom  of 
calamity  is  cheered  by  secret  radiations  of  hope 
and  comfort  ;  as  in  the  works  of  nature  the  bog 
is  sometimes  covered  with  flowers,  and  the  mine 
concealed  in  the  barren  crags. 

None  but  those  who  have  learned  the  art  of 
subjecting  their  senses  as  well  as  reason  to  hy- 
pothetical systems,  can  be  persuaded  by  the  most 
specious  rhetorician  that  the  lots  of  life  are 
equal  ;  yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  every  one 
has  his  peculiar  pleasures  and  vexations,  and  ex- 
ternal accidents  operate  variously  upon  different 
minds,  and  that  no  man  can  exactly  judge  from 
his  own  sensations,  what  another  would  feel  in 
the  same  circumstances. 

If  the  general  disposition  of  things  be  esti- 
mated by  the  representation  which  every  one 
makes  of  his  own  estate,  the  world  must  be  con- 
sidered as  the  abode  of  sorrow  and  misery  ;  for 
how  few  can  forbear  to  relate  their  troubles  and 
distresses?  If  we  judge  by  the  account  which 
may  be  obtained  of  every  man's  fortune  from 
others,  it  may  be  concluded,  that  we  all  are 
placed  in  an  elysian  region,  overspread  with  the 
luxuriance  of  plenty,  and  fanned  by  the  breezes 
of  felicity  ;  since  scarcely  any  complaint  is  ut- 
tered without  censure  from  those  that  hear  it, 
and  almost  all  are  allowed  to  have  obtained  a 
provision  at  least  adequate  to  their  virtue  or  their 
understanding,  to  possess  either  more  than  they 
deserve,  or  more  than  they  enjoy. 

We  are  either  born  with  such  dissimilitude 
of  tempsr  and  inclination,  or  receive  so  many  of 
our  ideas  and  opinions  from  the  state  of  life  in 
which  we  are  engaged,  that  the  griefs  and  cares 
of  one  part  of  mankind  seem  to  the  other  hypo- 
crisy, folly,  and  affectation.  Every  class  of  so- 
ciety has  its  cant  of  lamentation,  which  is  un- 
derstood or  regarded  by  none  but  themselves  ; 
and  every  part  of  life  has  its  uneasiness,  which 
those  who  do  not  feel  them  will  not  commise- 


rate. An  event  which  spreads  distraction  over 
half  the  commercial  world,  assembles  the  trading 
companies  in  councils  and  committees,  and 
shakes  the  nerves  of  a  thousand  stockjobbers,  is 
read  by  the  landlord  and  the  farmer  with  frigid 
indifference.  An  affair  of  love,  which  fills  the 
young  breast  with  incessant  alternations  of  hope 
and  fear,  and  steals  away  the  night  and  day  from 
every  other  pleasure  or  employment,  is  regarded 
by  them  whose  passions  time  has  extinguished, 
as  an  amusement,  which  can  properly  raise 
neither  joy  nor  sorrow,  and,  though  it  may  be 
suffered  to  fill  the  vacuity  of  an  idle  moment, 
should  always  give  way  to  prudence  or  interest. 
He  that  never  had  any  other  desire  than  to  fill 
a  chest  with  money,  or  to  add  another  manor  to 
his  estate,  who  never  grieved  but  at  a  bad  mort- 
gage, or  entered  a  company  but  to  make  a  bar- 
gain, would  be  astonished  to  hear  of  beings 
known  among  the  polite  and  gay  by  the  denomi- 
nation of  wits.  How  would  he  gape  with  curi- 
osity, or  grin  with  contempt,  at  the  mention  of 
beings  who  have  no  wish  but  to  speak  what  was 
never  spoken  before ;  who,  if  they  happen  to  in- 
herit wealth,  often  exhaust  their  patrimonies  in 
treating  those  who  will  hear  them  talk  ;  and,  if 
they  are  poor,  neglect  opportunities  of  improving 
their  fortunes,  for  the  pleasure  of  making  others 
laugh  !  How  slowly  would  he  believe  that  there 
are  men  who  would  rather  lose  a  legacy  than  the 
reputation  of  a  distich ;  who  think  it  less  disgrace 
to  want  money  than  repartee  ;  whom  the  vexa- 
tion of  having  been  foiled  in  a  contest  of  raillery 
is  sometimes  sufficient  to  deprive  of  sleep ;  and 
who  would  esteem  it  a  lighter  evil  to  miss  a  pro- 
fitable bargain  by  some  accidental  delay,  than  not 
to  have  thought  of  a  smart  reply  till  the  time  of 
producing  it  was  past!  How  little  would  he  sus- 
pect that  this  child  of  idleness  and  frolic  enters 
every  assembly  with  a  beating  bosom,  like  a  liti- 
gant on  the  day  of  decision,  and  revolves  the  pro- 
bability of  applause  with  the  anxiety  of  a  conspi- 
rator, whose  fate  depends  upon  the  next  night ; 
that  at  the  hour  of  retirement  he  carries  home, 
undera  show  of  airy  negligence,  a  heart  lacerated 
with  envy,  or  depressed  with  disappointment; 
and  immures  himself  in  his  closet,  that  he  may  dis- 
encumber his  memory  at  leisure,  review  the  pro- 
gress of  the  day,  state  with  accuracy  his  loss  or 
jain  of  reputation,  and  examine  the  causes  of  his 
"ailure  or  success? 

Yet  more  remote  from  common  conceptions 
are  the  numerous  and  restless  anxieties,  by  which 
emale  happiness  is  particularly  disturbed.  A 
solitary  philosopher  would  imagine  ladies  born 
with  an  exemption  from  care  and  sorrow  lulled 
n  perpetual  quiet,  and  feasted  with  unmingled 
pleasure  ;  for,  what  can  interrupt  the  content  of 
hose,  upon  whom  one  age  has  laboured  after 
another  to  confer  honours,  and  accumulate  im- 
munities ;  those  to  whom  rudeness  is  infamy, 
and  insult  is  cowardice  ;  whose  eye  commands 
the  brave,  and  whose  smile  softens  the  severe  ; 
whom  the  sailor  travels  to  adorn,  the  soldier 
bleeds  to  defend,  and  the  poet  wears  out  life  to 
celebrate  ;  who  claim  tribute  from  every  art  and 
science,  and  for  whom  all  who  approach  them  en- 
deavour to  multiply  delights,  without  requiring 
rom  them  any  return  but  willingness  to  bo 
)leased  ? 

Surely  among  these  favourites  of  nature,  thus 
macquainted  with  toil  and  danger,  felicity  must 


No.  129.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


•201 


have  fixed  her  residence ;  they  must  know  only 
the  changes  of  more  vivid  or  more  gentle  joys ; 
their  life  must  always  move  either  to  the  slow  or 
sprightly  melody  of  the  lyre  of  gladness;  they  can 
never  assemble  but  to  pleasure,  or  retire  but  to 
peace. 

Such  would  be  the  thoughts  of  every  man  who 
should  hover  at  a  distance  round  the  world,  and 
know  it  only  by  conjecture  and  speculation.  But 
experience  will  soon  discover  how  easily  those 
are  disgusted  who  have  been  made  nice  by  plenty 
and  tender  by  indulgence.  He  will  soon  see  to 
how  many  dangers  power  is  exposed  which  has 
no  other  guard  than  youth  and  beauty,  and  how 
easily  that  tranquillity  is  molested  which  can  only 
be  soothed  with  the  songs  of  flattery.  It  is  im- 
possible to  supply  wants  as  fast  as  an  idle  imagi- 
nation may  be  able  to  form  them,  or  to  remove 
all  inconveniences  by  which  elegance  refined  into 
impatience  may  be  offended.  None  are  so  hard 
to  please,  as  those  whom  satiety  of  pleasure 
makes  weary  of  themselves;  nor  any  so  readily 
provoked  as  those  who  have  been  always  courted 
with  an  emulation  of  civility. 

There  are  indeed  some  strokes  which  the  envy 
of  fate  aims  immediately  at  the  fair.  The  mis- 
tress of  Catullus  wept  for  her  sparrow  many  cen- 
turies ago,  and  lapdogs  will  be  sometimes  sick 
in  the  present  age.  The  most  fashionable  bro- 
cade is  subject  to  stains ;  a  pinner,  the  pride  of 
Brussels,  may  be  torn  by  a  careless  washer ;  a 
picture  may  drop  from  a  watch ;  or  the  triumph 
of  a  new  suit  may  be  interrupted  on  the  first  day 
of  its  enjoyment,  and  all  distinctions  of  dress  un- 
expectedly obliterated  by  a  general  mourning. 

Such  is  the  state  of  every  age,  every  sex,  and 
every  condition  :  all  have  their  cares,  either  from 
nature  or  from  folly :  and  whoever  therefore  finds 
himself  inclined  to  envy  another,  should  remem- 
ber that  he  knows  not  the  real  condition  which 
he  desires  to  obtain,  but  is  certain  that,  by  in- 
dulging a  vicious  passion,  he  must  lessen  that 
happiness  which  he  thinks  already  too  sparingly 
bestowed. 


No.  129.]        TUESDAY,  JUNE  11,  1751. 

Nunc,  o  nunc,  Dadale,  dixit, 
Mater iam,  qua  sis  ingcniosus,  habes : 

Possidet  en  terras,  et  possidet  aqvora,  Minos. 
Nee,  tellus  nostra,  nee  patet  undafvga. 

Reslat  Her  ccclo  :  ccclo  tcntabimue  ire 
Da  centum  ccrpto,  Jupiter  alte,  meo.  onD. 

Now  Docdalus,  behold,  by  fate  assign VI, 
A  task  proportion'd  to  thy  mighty  mind ! 
Unconqner'd  bars  on  earth  and  sea  withstand ; 
Thine,  Minos,  is  the  main,  and  thine  the  land 
The  skies  are  open — let  us  try  the  skies  ; 
Forgive  great  Jove,  the  daring  enterprise. 

MORALISTS,  like  other  writers,  instead  of  casting 
their  eyes  abroad  in  the  living  world,  and  endea- 
vouring to  form  maxims  ofjjractice  and  new  hints 
of  theory,  content  their  curiosity  with  that  se- 
condary knowledge  which  books  afford,  and 
think  themselves  entitled  to  reverence  by  a  new 
arrangement  of  an  ancient  system,  or  new  illus- 
tration of  established  principles.  The  sage  pre- 
cepts of  the  first  instructors  of  the  world  are 
transmitted  from  age  to  age  with  little  variation, 
and  echoed  from  one  author  to  another,  not  per- 
haps without  some  loss  of  their  original  force  at 
everv  repercussion. 

2  A 


I  know  not  whether  any  other  reason  than 
this  idlenesss  of  imitation  can  be  assign-ed  for 
that  uniform  and  constant  partiality,  by  which 
some  vices  have  hitherto  escaped  censure,  and 
some  virtues  wanted  recommendation  ;  nor  can 
I  discover  why  else  we  have  been  warned  only 
against  part  of  our  enemies,  wliile  the  rest  have 
been  suffered  to  steal  upon  us  without  notice ; 
.why  the  heart  has  on  one  side  been  doubly  for- 
tified, and  laid  open  on  the  other  to  the  incur- 
sions of  error,  and  the  ravages  of  vice. 

Among  the  favourite  topics  of  moral  declama- 
tion may  be  numbered  the  miscarriages  of  im- 
prudent boldness,  and  the  folly  of  attempts  be- 
yond our  power.  Every  page  of  every  philoso- 
pher is  crowded  with  examples  of  temerity  that 
sunk  under  burdens  which  she  laid  upon  herself, 
and  called  out  enemies  to  battle  by  whom  she 
was  destroyed. 

Their  remarks  are  too  just  to  be  disputed,  and* 
too  salutary  to  be  rejected ;  but  there  is  likewise 
some  danger  lest  timorous  prudence  should  be 
inculcated,  till  courage  and  enterprise  are  wholly 
repressed,  and  the  mind  congealed  in  perpetual 
inactivity  by  the  fatal  influence  of  frigorific  wis- 
dom. 

fivery  man  should,  indeed,  carefully  compare 
his  force  with  his  undertaking ;  for  though  we 
ought  not  to  live  only  for  our  own  sakes,  and 
though  therefore  danger  or  difficulty  should  not 
be  avoided  merely  because  we  may  expose  our- 
selves to  misery  or  disgrace ;  yet  it  may  be  justly 
required  of  us,  not  to  throw  away  pur  lives  upon 
inadequate  and  hopeless  designs,  since  we  might, 
by  a  just  estimate  of  our  abilities,  become  more 
useful  to  mankind. 

There  is  an  irrational  contempt  of  danger, 
which  approaches  nearly  to  the  folly,  if  not  the 
guilt,  of  suicide ;  there  is  a  ridiculous  persever- 
ance in  impracticable  schemes,  which  is  justly 
punished  with  ignominy  and  reproach.  But  in 
the  wide  regions  of  probability,  which  are  the 
proper  province  of  prudence  and  election,  there 
is  always  room  to  deviate  on  either  side  of  recti- 
tude without  rushing  against  apparent  absurdi- 
ty ;  and,  according  to  the  inclinations  of  nature, 
or  the  impressions  of  precept,  the  daring  and  the 
cautious  may  move  in  different  directions  without 
touching  upon  rashness  or  cowardice. 

That  there  is  a  middle  path  which  it  is  every 
man's  duty  to  find,  and  to  keep,  is  unanimously 
confessed  ;  but  it  is  likewise  acknowledged  that 
this  middle  path  is  so  narrow,  that  it  cannot 
easily  be  discovered,  and  so  little  beaten,  that 
there  are  no  certain  marks  by  which  it  can  be 
followed  :  the  care  therefore  of  all  those  who 
conduct  others  has  been,  that  whenever  they 
decline  into  obliquities, they  should  tend  towarda 
the  side  of  safety. 

It  can,  indeed,  raise  no  wonder  that  temerity 
has  been  generally  censured ;  for  it  is  one  of  the 
vices  with  which  few  can  be  charged,  and  which 
therefore  great  numbers  are  ready  to  condemn 
It  is  the  vice  of  noble  and  generous  minds,  th« 
exuberance  of  magnanimity,  and  the  ebullition 
of  genius ;  and  is  therefore  not  regarded  with 
much  tenderness,  because  it  never  flatters  us  by 
that  appearance  of  softness  and  imbecility  which 
is  commonly  necessary  to  conciliate  compassion. 
But  if  the  same  attention  had  been  applied  to  tha 
search  of  arguments  against  the  folly  of  presup- 
posing impossibilities  and  anticipating  frustra- 


202 


THE  RAMBLER. 


tion,  I  know  not  whether  many  would  not  have 
been  roused  to  usefulness,  who  having  been 
taught  to  confound  prudence  with  timidity,  never 
ventured  to  excel,  lest  they  should  unfortunately 

fail. 

It  is  necessary  to  distinguish  our  own  interests 
from  that  of  others,  and  that  distinction  will  per- 
haps assist  us  in  fixing  the  just  limits  of  caution 
and  adventurousness.  In  an  undertaking  that 
involves  the  happiness  or  the  safety  of  many,  we 
have  certainly  no  right  to  hazard  more  than  is 
allowed  by  those  who  partake  the  danger:  but 
where  only  ourselves  can  suffer  by  misctirriage, 
we  are  not  confined  within  such  narrow  limits  ; 
and  still  less  is  the  reproach  of  temerity,  when 
numbers  will  receive  advantage  by  success,  and 
only  one  be  incommoded  by  failure. 

Men  are  generally  willing  to  hear  precepts  by 
which  ease  is  favoured ;  and  as  no  resentment  is 
•raised  by  general  representations  of  human  folly, 
even  in  those  who  are  most  eminently  jealous  of 
comparative  reputation,  we  confess,  without  re- 
luclance,  that  vain  man  is  ignorant  of  his  own 
weakness,  and  therefore  frequently  presumes  to 
attempt  what  he  can  never  accomplish :  but  it 
ought  likewise  to  be  remembered,  that  man  is 
no  less  ignorant  of  his  own  powers,  and  might 
perhaps  have  accomplished  a  thousand  designs, 
which  the  prejudice  of  cowardice  restrained  him 
from  attempting. 

It  is  observed  in  the  golden  verses  of  Pythago- 
ras, that  Power  is  never  far  from  necessity.  The 
vigour  of  the  human  mind  quickly  appears,  when 
there  is  no  longer  any  place  for  doubt  and  hesi- 
tation, when  diffidence  is  absorbed  in  the  sense 
of  danger,  or  overwhelmed  by  some  resistless 
passion.  We  then  soon  discover,  that  difficulty 
is,  for  the  most  part,  the  daughter  of  idleness, 
that  the  obstacles  with  which  our  way  seemed  to 
be  obstructed  were  only  phantoms,  which  we  be- 
lieved real,  because  we  durst  not  advance  to  a 
close  examination  ;  and  we  learn  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  determine  without  experience  how 
much  constancy  may  endure,  or  perseverance 
perform. 

But  whatever  pleasure  may  be  found  in  the 
review  of  distresses  when  art  or  courage  has 
surmounted  them,  few  will  be  persuaded  to  wish 
that  they  may  be  awakened  by  want  or  terror  to 
the  conviction  of  their  own  abilities.  Every  one 
should  therefore  endeavour  to  invigorate  himself 
by  reason  and  reflection,  and  determine  to  exert 
the  latent  force  that  nature  may  have  rep.osited 
in  him,  before  the  hour  of  exigence  comes  upon 
him,  and  compulsion  shall  torture  him  to  dili- 
gence. It  is  below  the  dignity  of  a  reasonable 
being  to  owe  that  strength  to  necessity  which 
onght  always  to  act  at  the  call  of  choice,  or  to 
need  any  other  motive  to  industry  than  the  de- 
sire of  performing  his  duty. 

Reflections  that  may  drive  away  despair,  can- 
not be  wanting  to  him  who  considers  how  much 
life  is  now  advanced  beyond  the  state  of  naked 
undisciplined,  uninstructed  nature.  Whatever 
has  been  effected  for  convenience  or  elegance, 
while  it  was  yet  unknown,  was  believed  im- 
possible ;  and  therefore  would  never  have  been 
attempted,  had  not  some,  more  daring  than  the 
rest,  adventured  to  bid  defiance  to  prejudice  and 
censure.  Nor  is  there  yet  any  reason  to  doubt 
that  the  same  labour  would  be  rewarded  with 
ttie  same  success.  There  are  qualities  in  the 


products  of  nature  yet  undiscovered,  and  com- 
binations in  the  powers  of  art  yet  untried.  It  is 
the  duty  of  every  man  to  endeavour  that  some- 
tiling  may  be  added  by  his  industry  to  the  here- 
ditary aggregate  of  knowledge  and  happiness. 
To  add  much  can  indeed  be  the  lot  of  few,  but 
to  add  something,  however  little,  every  one  may 
hope ;  and  of  every  honest  endeavour,  it  is  cer- 
tain, that,  however  unsuccessful,  it  will  be  at 
last  rewarded. 


No.  130.]       SATURDAY,  JUNE  15,  1751. 

Jfon  sic  prata  novo  vere  decentia 
&statis  calidtz  dispoliat  vapor, 

S&vit  solstitio  cum  medias  dies  ; 

Vtfulgor  teneris  qui  radial  genis 
Momtnlo  rapitur,  nullur/itc  nun  did 
Formosi  spolium  corporis  alstulit. 
Res  est  forma  fugax.     Q«is  sapiens  bono 
Confidat  fragili  1  SENECA. 

Not  faster  in  the  summer's  ray 

The  spring's  frail  beauty  fades  away, 

Than  anguish  and  decay  consume 

The  smiling  virgin's  ro«v  bloom, 

Some  beauty's  suatch'd  each  day,  each  hour, 

For  beauty  is  a  fleeting  flower: 

Then  how  can  wisdom  e'er  coufide 

In  beauty's  momentary  pride  1          ELPHINSTON. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

You  have  very  lately  observed,  that  in  the  nu- 
merous subdivisions  of  the  world,  every  class 
and  order  of  mankind  have  joys  and  sorrows  of 
their  own  ;  we  all  feel  hourly  pain  and  pleasure 
from  events  which  pass  unheeded  before  our 
eyes,  but  can  scarcely  communicate  our  percep- 
tions to  minds  preoccupied  by  different  objects, 
any  more  than  the  delight  of  well-disposed  co- 
lours or  harmonious  sounds  can  be  imparted  to 
such  as  want  the  senses  of  hearing  or  of  sight. 

I  am  so  strongly  convinced  of  the  justness  of 
this  remark,  and  have  on  so  many  occasions  dis- 
covered with  how  little  attention  pride  looks  up- 
on calamity  of  which  she  thinks  herself  not  in 
danger,  and  indolence  listens  to  complaint  when 
it  is  not  echoed  by  her  own  remembrance,  that 
though  I  am  about  to  lay  the  occurrences  of  my 
life  before  you,  I  question  whether  you  will  con- 
descend to  peruse  my  narrative,  or,  without  the 
help  of  some  female  speculatist,  be  able  to  un 
derstand  it. 

I  was  born  a  beauty.  From  the  dawn  of  rea- 
son I  had  my  regard  turned  wholly  upon  myself, 
nor  can  recollect  any  thing  earlier  than  praise 
and  admiration.  My  mother,  whose  face  had 
uckily  advanced  her  to  a  condition  above  her 
jirth,  thought  no  evil  so  great  as  deformity.  She 
lad  not  the  power  of  imagining  any  other  de- 
ect  than  a  cloudy  complexion,  or  disproportion- 
ate features  ;  and  therefore  contemplated  me  as 
m  assemblage  of  all  that  could  raise  envy  or  de- 
sire, and  predicted  with»trinmphant  fondness  the 
extent  of  my  conquests,  and  the  number  of  my 
slaves. 

She  never  mentioned  any  of  my  young  ac- 
quaintance before  me,  but  to  remark  how  much 
;hey  fell  below  my  perfection ;  how  one  would 
lave  had  a  fine  face,  but  that  her  eyes  were  with- 
out lustre ;  how  another  struck  the  sight  at  a  dis- 
tance, but  wanted  my  hair  and  teeth  at  a  nearer 
view;  another  disgraced  an  elegant  shape  with 


No.  130.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


203 


a  brown  skin;  some  had  short  fingers,  and 
others  dimples  in  a  wrong  place. 

As  she  expected  no  happiness  nor  advantage 
but  from  beauty,  she  thought  nothing  but  beauty 
worthy  of  her  care  ;  and  her  maternal  kindness 
was  chiefly  exercised  in  contrivances  to  protect 
me  from  any  accident  that  might  deface  me  with 
a  scar,  or  stain  me  with  a  freckle ;  she  never 
thought  me  sufficiently  shaded  from  the  sun,  or 
screened  from  the  fire.  She  was  severe  or  in- 
dulgent with  no  other  intention  than  the  preser- 
vation of  my  form  ;  she  excused  me  from  work, 
lest  I  should  learn  to  hang  down  my  head,  or 
harden  my  finger  with  a  needle ;  she  snatched 
away  my  book,  because  a  young  lady  in  the 
neighbourhood  had  made  her  eyes  red  with  read- 
ing by  a  candle ;  but  she  would  scarcely  suffer 
me  to  eat,  lust  I  should  spoil  my  shape,  nor  to 
walk,  lest  I  should  swell  my  ankle  with  a  sprain. 
At  night  I  was  accurately  surveyed  from  head  to 
foot,  lest  I  should  have  suffered!  any  diminution 
of  my  charms  in  the  adventures  of  the  day  ;  and 
was  never  permitted  to  sleep  till  I  had  passed 
through  the  cosmetic  discipline,  part  of  which 
was  a  regular  lustration  performed  with  bean- 
flower  water  and  May  dews ;  my  hair  was  per- 
fumed with  variety  of  unguents,  by  some  of 
which  it  was  to  be  thickened,  and  by  others  to 
be  curled.  The  softness  of  my  hands  was  se- 
cured by  medicated  gloves,  and  my  bosom  rub- 
bed with  a  pomade  prepared  by  my  mother,  of 
virtue  to  discuss  pimples,  and  clear  discoloura- 
tions. 

I  was  always  called  up  early,  because  the 
morning  air  gives  a  freshness  to  the  cheeks :  but 
I  was  placed  behind  a  curtain  in  my  mother's 
chamber,  because  the  neck  is  easily  tanned  by 
the  rising  sun.  I  was  then  dressed  with  a  thou- 
sand precautions,  and  again  heard  my  own 
praises,  and  triumphed  in  the  compliments  and 
prognostications  of  all  that  approached  me. 

My  mother  was  not  so  much  prepossessed 
with  an  opinion  of  my  natural  excellences  as 
not  to  think  some  cultivation  necessary  to  their 
completion.  She  took  care  that  I  should  want 
none  of  the  accomplishments  included  in  female 
education,  or  considered  as  necessary  in  fa- 
shionable life.  I  was  looked  upon  in  my  ninth 
year  as  the  chief  ornament  of  the  dancing-mas- 
ter's ball,  and  Mr.  Ariet  used  to  reproach  his 
other  scholars  with  my  performances  on  the 
harpsichord.  At  twelve  I  was  remarkable  for 
playing  my  cards  with  great  elegance  of  man- 
ner, and  accuracy  of  judgment. 

At  last  the  time  came  when  my  mother 
thought  me  perfect  in  my  exercises,  and  qualified 
to  display  in  the  open  world  those  accomplish- 
ments which  had  yet  only  been  discovered  in 
select  parties,  or  domestic  assemblies.  Prepar- 
ations were  therefore  made  for  my  appearance 
on  a  public  night,  which  she  considered  as  the 
most  important  and  critical  moment  of  my  life. 
She  cannot  be  charged  with  neglecting  any 
means  of  recommendation,  or  leaving  any  thing 
to  chance  which  prudence  could  ascertain.  Every 
ornament  was  tried  in  every  position,  every  friend 
was  consulted  about  the  colour  of  my  dress,  and 
the  mantua-makers  were  harassed  with  direc- 
tions and  alterations. 

At  last  the  night  arrived  from  which  my  fu- 
ture life  was  to  be  reckoned.  I  was  dressed  and 
sent  out  to  conquer,  with  a  heart  beating  like  that 


of  an  old  knight-errant  at  his  first  sally.  Scho- 
lars have  told  me  of  a  Spartan  matron,  who, 
when  she  armed  her  son  for  battle,  bade  him 
bring  back  his  shield,  or  be  brought  upon  it. 
My  venerable  parent  dismissed  me  to  a  field,  in 
her  opinion,  of  equal  glory,  with  a  command  to 
show  that  I  was  her  daughter,  and  not  to  return 
without  a  lover. 

I  went,  and  was  received,  like  other  pleasing 
novelties,  with  a  tumult  of  applause.  Every 
man  who  valued  himself  upon  the  graces  of  his 
person,  or  the  elegance  of  his  addtess,  crowded 
about  me,  and  wit  and  splendour  contended  for 
my  notice.  I  was  delightfully  fatigued  with  in- 
cessant civilizes,  which  were  made  more  pleas- 
ing by  the  apparent  envy  of  those  whom  my 
presence  exposed  to  neglect,  and  returned  with 
an  attendant  equal  in  rank  and  wealth  to  my 
utmost  wishes,  and  from  this  time  stood  in  the 
first  rank  of  beauty,  was  followed  by  gazers  in 
the  Mall,  celebrated  in  the  papers  of  the  day, 
imitated  by  all  who  endeavoured  to  rise  into 
fashion,  and  censured  by  those  whom  age  or 
disappointment  forced  to  retire. 

My  mother,  who  pleased  herself  with  the 
hopes  of  seeing  my  exaltation,  dressed  me  with 
all  the  exuberance  of  finery ;  and  when  I  re- 
presented to  her  that  a  fortune  might  be  ex- 
pected proportionate  to  my  appearance,  told  me 
that  she  should  scorn  the  reptile  who  could  in- 
quire after  the  fortune  of  a  girl  like  me.  She 
advised  me  to  prosecute  my  victories,  and  time 
would  certainly  bring  me  a  captive  who  might 
deserve  the  honour  of  being  enchained  for  ever. 

My  lovers  were  indeed  so  numerous,  that  I 
had  no  other  care  than  that  of  determining  to 
whom  I  should  seem  to  give  the  preference. 
But  having  been  steadily  and  industriously  in- 
structed to  preserve  my  heart  from  any  impres- 
sions which  might  hinder  me  from  consulting 
my  interest,  I  acted  with  less  embarrassment, 
because  my  choice  was  regulated  by  principles 
more  clear  and  certain  than  the  caprice  of  ap- 
probation. When  I  had  singled  out  one  from 
the  rest  as  more  worthy  of  encouragement,  I 
proceeded  in  my  measures  by  the  rules  of  art ; 
and  yet,  when  the  ardour  of  the  first  visits  was 
spent,  generally  found  a  sudden  declension  of 
my  influence ;  I  felt  in  myself  the  want  of  some 
power  to  diversify  amusement,  and  enliven  con- 
versation, and  could  not  but  suspect  that  my 
mind  failed  in  performing  the  promises  of  my 
face.  This  opinion  was  soon  confirmed  by  one 
of  my  lovers,  who  married  Lavinia  with  less 
beauty  and  fortune  than  mine,  because  he 
thought  a  wife  ought  to  have  qualities  which 
might  make  her  amiable  when  her  bloom  was 
past. 

The  vanity  of  my  mother  would  not  suffer  her 
to  discover  any  defect  in  one  that  had  been  form- 
ed by  her  instructions,  and  had  all  the  excellence 
which  she  herself  could  boast.  She  told  me  that 
nothing  so  much  hindered  the  advancement  of 
women  as  literature  and  wit,  which  generally 
frightened  away  those  that  could  make  the  best 
settlements,  and  drew  about  them  a  needy  tribe 
of  poets  and  philosophers,  that  filled  their  heads 
with  wild  notions  of  content,  and^ontemplation, 
and  virtuous  obscurity.  She  therefore  enjoined 
me  to  improve  my  minuet-step  with  a  new  French 
dancing-master  and  wait  the  event  of  the  next 
birth-night. 


204 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  131. 


I  had  now  almost  completed  my  nineteentl 
year  •  if  my  charms  had  lost  any  of  their  softness, 
it  was  more  than  compensated, 'by  additional  dig- 
nitv ;  and  if  the  attractions  of  innocence  were 
impaired,  their  place  was  supplied  by  the  arts  of 
allurement.  I  was  therefore  preparing  for  a  new 
attack,  without  any  abatement  of  my  confidence, 
when,  in  the  midst  of  my  hopes  and  schemes,  I 
was  seized  by  that  dreadful  malady  which  has 
so  often  put  a  sudden  end  to  the  tyranny  of  beau- 
ty. I  recovered  my  health  after  a  long  confine- 
ment; but  when  I  looked  again  on  that  face 
which  had  been  often  flushed  with  transport  at  its 
own  reflection,  and  saw  all  that  I  had  learned  to 
value,  all  that  I  had  endeavoured  tb  improve,  all 
that  had  procured  me  honours  or  praises,  irreco- 
verably destroyed,  1  sunk  at  once  into  melancholy 
and  despondence.  My  pain  was  not  much  con- 
eoled  or  alleviated  by  my  mother,  who  grieved 
that  I  had  not  lost  my  life  together  with  my  beau- 
ty ;  and  declared,  that  she  thought  a  young  wo- 
man divested  of  her  charms  had  nothing  for  which 
those  who  loved  her  could  desire  to  save  her  from 
the  grave. 

Having  thus  continued  my  relation  to  the  pe- 
riod from  which  my  life  took  a  new  course,  I 
shall  conclude  it  in  another  letter,  if  by  publish- 
ing this  you  show  any  regard  for  the  correspond- 
ence of, 

Sir,  &c.  VICTORIA. 


No.  131.]     TUESDAY,  JUNE  18,  1751. 


-Fatia  accede  deisgue, 


Et  coleftlices ;  miserosfuge.     Sidera  ceelo 

Ut  distant,  flamma  mari,  sic  utile  recto.        LUCAN. 

Still  follow  where  auspicious  fates  invite ; 
Caress  the  happy,  and  the  wretched  slight. 
Sooner  shall  jarring  elements  unite, 
Than  truth  with  gain,  thai,  interest  with  right. 

LEWIS. 

THERE  is  scarcely  any  sentiment  in  which, 
amidst  the  innumerable  varieties  of  inclination, 
that  nature  or  accident  have  scattered  in  the 
world,  we  find  greater  numbers  concurring,  than 
in  the  wish  for  riches ;  a  wish  indeed  so  preva- 
lent, that  it  may  be  considered  as  universal  and 
transcendental,  as  the  desire  in  which  all  other 
desires  are  included,  and  of  which  the  various 
purposes  which  actuate  mankind  are  only  subor- 
dinate species  and  different  modifications. 

Wealth  is  the  general  centre  of  inclination,  the 
point  to  which  all  minds  preserve  an  invariable 
tendency,  and  from  which  they  afterwards  di- 
verge in  numberless  directions.  Whatever  is  the 
remote  or  ultimate  design,  the  immediate  care  is 
to  be  rich ;  and  in  whatever  enjoyment  we  in- 
tend finally  to  acquiesce,  we  seldom  consider  it 
as  attainable  but  by  the  means  of  money.  Of 
wealth  therefore  all  unanimously  confess  the 
value,  nor  is  there  any  disagreement  but  about 
the  use. 

No  desire  can  be  formed  which  riches  do  not 
assist  to  gratify.  He  that  places  his  happiness 
jn  splendid  equipage  or  numerous  dependents, 
in  refined  praise  or  popular  acclamations,  in  the 
accumulation  of  curiosities  or  the  revels  of  lux- 
ury, in  splci^rid  edifices  or  wide  plantations, 
must  still,  either  by  birth  or  acquisition,  possess 
riches.  They  may  be  considered  as  the  elemental 
principles  of  pleasure,  which  may  be  combined 
with  endless  diversity  ;  as  the  essential  and  ne- 


cessary substance  of  which  only  the  form  is  left 
to  be  adjusted  by  choice. 

The  necessity  of  riches  being  thus  apparent,  it 
is  not  wonderful  that  almost  every  mind  has  been 
employed  in  endeavours  to  acquire  them ;  that 
multitudes  have  vied  in  arts  by  which  life  is  fur- 
nished with  accommodations,  and  which  there- 
fore mankind  may  reasonably  be  expected  to 
reward. 

It  had  indeed  been  happy,  if  this  predominant 
appetite  had  operated  only  in  concurrence  with 
virtue,  by  influencing  none  but  those  who  were 
zealous  to  deserve  what  they  were  eager  to  pos- 
sess, and  had  abilities  to  improve  their  own  for- 
tunes by  contributing  to  the  ease  or  happiness  of 
others.  To  have  riches  and  to  have  merit  would 
then  have  been  the  same,  and  success  might  rea- 
sonably have  been  considered  as  a  proof  of  excel- 
lence. 

But  we  do  not  find  that  any  of  the  wishes  of  men 
keep  a  stated  proportion  to  their  powers  of  attain- 
ment. Many  envy  and  desire  wealth,  who  can 
never  procure  it  by  honest  industry  or  useful 
knowledge.  They  therefore  turn  their  eyes 
about  to  examine  what  other  methods  can  be 
found  of  gaining  that  which  none,  however  im- 
potent or  worthless,  will  be  content  to  want. 

A  little  inquiry  will  discover  that  there  are 
nearer  ways  to  profit  than  through  the  intricacies 
of  art,  or  up  the  steeps  of  labour  ;  what  wisdom 
and  virtue  scarcely  receive  at  the  close  of  life,  as 
the  recompense  of  long  toil,  and  repeated  efforts, 
is  brought  within  the  reach  of  subtilty  and  dis- 
honesty by  more  expeditious  and  compendious 
measures :  the  wealth  of  credulity  is  an  open 
prey  to  falsehood;  and  the  possessions  of  igno- 
rance and  imbecility  are  easily  stolen  away  by 
the  conveyances  of  secret  artifice,  or  seized  by 
the  gripe  of  unresisted  violence. 

It  is  likewise  not  hard  to  discover  that  riches 
always  procure  protection  for  themselves,  that 
they  dazzle  the  eyes  of  inquiry,  divert  the  cele- 
irity  of  pursuit,  or  appease  the  ferocity  of  ven- 
jeance.  When  any  man  is  incontestably  known 
x»  have  large  possessions,  very  few  think  it  re- 
quisite to  inquire  by  what  practices  they  were 
obtained  ;  the  resentment  of  mankind  rages  only 
against  the  struggles  of  feeble  and  timorous  cor- 
ruption, but  when  it  has  surmounted  the  first  op- 
position, it  is  afterwards  supported  by  favour,  and 
animated  by  applause. 

The  prospect  of  gaining  speedily  what  is  ar- 
dently desired,  and  the  certainty  of  obtaining  by 
very  accession  of  advantage  an  addition  of  se- 
curity, have  so  far  prevailed  upon  the  passions 
of  mankind,  that  the  peace  of  life  is  destroyed 
)y  a  general  and  incessant  struggle  for  riches, 
't  is  observed  of  gold,  by  an  old  epigrammatist, 
that  to  have  it  is  to  be  in  fear,  and  to  want  it  is  to  be 
>i  sorrow.  There  is  no  condition  which  is  not  dis- 
quieted either  with  the  care  of  gaining  or  of  keep- 
ng  money ;  and  the  race  of  man  may  be  divided 
n  a  political  estimate  between  those  who  are 
practising  fraud,  and  those  who  are  repelling  it. 

If  we  consider  the  present  state  of  the  world, 
t  will  be  found,  that  all  confidence  is  lost  among 
mankind,  that  no  man  ventures  to  act  where 
money  can  be  endangered  upon  the  faith  of 
another.  It  is  impossible  to  see  the  long  scrolls 
n  which  every  contract  is  concluded,  with  all 
their  appendages  of  seals  and  attestation,  without 
wondering  at  the  depravity  of  those  beings,  who 


No.   132.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


205 


must  be  restrained  from  violation  of  promise  by 
such  formal  and  public  evidences,  and  precluded 
from  equivocation  and  subterfuge  by  such  punc- 
tilious minuteness.  Among  all  the  satires  lo 
which  foliy  and  wickedness  have  given  occasion, 
none  is  equally  severe  with  a  bond  or  a  settlement. 

Of  the  various  arts  by  which  riches  may  be  ob- 
tained, the  greater  part  are  at  the  first  view  irre- 
concileable  with  the  laws  of  virtue ;  some  are 
openly  flagitious,  and  practised  not  only  in  ne- 
glect, but  in  defiance  of  faith  and  justice;  and  the 
rest  are  on  every  side  so  entangled  with  dubious 
tendencies,  and  so  beset  with  perpetual  tempta- 
tions, that  very  few,  even  of  those  who  are  not 
yet  abandoned,  are  able  to  preserve  their  inno- 
cence, or  can  produce  any  other  claim  to  pardon, 
than  that  they  have  deviated  from  the  right  less 
than  others,  and  have  sooner  and  more  diligently 
endeavoured  to  return. 

One  of  the  chief  characteristics  of  the  golden 
age,  of  the  age  in  which  neither  care  nor  danger 
had  intruded  on  mankind,  is  the  community  of 
possessions :  strife  and  fraud  were  totally  ex- 
cluded, and  every  turbulent  passion  was  stilled 
by  plenty  and  equality.  Such  were  indeed  happy 
times,  but  such  times  can  return  no  more.  Com- 
munity of  possession  must  include  spontaneity 
of  production ;  for  what  is  obtained  by  labour 
will  be  of  right  the  property  of  him  by  whose  la- 
bour it  is  gained.  And  while  a  rightful  claim  to 
pleasure  or  to  affluence  must  be  procured  either 
by  slow  industry  or  uncertain  hazard,  there  will 
always  be  multitudes  whom  cowardice  or  impa- 
tience incites  to  more  safe  and  more  speedy  me- 
thodf,  who  strive  to  pluck  the  fruit  without  cul- 
tivating the  tree,  and  to  share  the  advantages  of 
victory  without  partaking  the  danger  of  the  battle. 

In  latter  ages,  the  conviction  of  the  danger  to 
which  virtue  is  exposed  while  the  mind  continues 
open  to  the  influence  of  riches,  has  determined 
many  to  vows  of  perpetual  poverty;  they  have 
suppressed  desire  by  cutting  off" the  possibility  of 
gratification,  and  secured  their  peace  by  destroy- 
ing the  enemy  whom  they  had  no  hope  of  re- 
ducing to  quiet  subjection.  But,  by  debarring 
themselves  from  evil,  they  have  rescinded  many 
opportunities  of  good :  they  have  too  often  sunk 
into  inactivity  and  uselessriess ;  and,  though  they 
have  forborne  to  injure  society,  have  not  fully 
paid  their  contributions  to  its  happiness. 

While  riches  are  so  necessary  to  present  con- 
venience, and  so  much  more  easily  obtained  by 
crimes  than  virtues,  the  mind  can  only  be  se- 
cured from  yielding  to  the  continual  impulse  of 
covetousness  by  the  preponcleration  of  unchange- 
able and  eternal  motives.  Gold  will  turn  the  in- 
tellectual balance,  when  weighed  only  against 
reputation;  but  will  be  light  and  ineffectual  when 
the  opposite  scale  is  charged  with  justice,  vera- 
city, and  piety. 


No.  132.]     SATURDAY,  JUNE  22,  1751. 

Docilcs  imitandis 

Turpibus  uc  pruvis  omnes  sumus.  juv. 

The  mind  of  mortals,  in  perversencss  strong 
Imbibes  with  dire  docility  the  wrong. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 
MR.  RAMBLER, 

I  WAS  bred  a  scholar,  and  after  the  usual  course 
of  education,  found  it  necessary  to  employ  for 


the  support  of  life  that  learning  which  I  had  al- 
most exhausted  my  little  fortune  in  acquiring. 
The  lucrative  professions  drew  my  regard  with 
equal  attraction  ;  each  presented  ideas  which 
excited  my  curiosity,  and  each  imposed  duties 
which  terrified  my  apprehension. 

There  is  no  temper  more  unpropitious  to  in- 
terest than  desultory  application  and  unlimited 
inquiry,  by  which  the  desires  are  held  in  a  per- 
petual equipoise  and  the  mind  fluctuates  between 
different  purposes  without  determination.  I  had 
books  of  every  kind  round  me,  among  which  I 
divided  my  time  as  caprice  or  accident  directed. 
I  often  spent  the  first  hours  of  the  day  in  consi- 
dering to  what  study  I  should  devote  the  rest ; 
and  at  last  snatched  up  any  author  that  lay  upon 
the  table,  or  perhaps  fled  to  a  coffee-house  for 
deliverance  from  the  anxiety  of  irresolution,  and 
the  gloominess  of  solitude. 

Thus  my  little  patrimony  grew  imperceptibly 
less,  till  I  was  roused  from  my  literary  slumber 
by  a  creditor,  whose  importunity  obliged  me  to 
pacify  him  with  so  large  a  sum,  that  what  re- 
mained was  not  sufficient  to  support  me  more 
than  eight  months.  I  hope  you  will  not  reproach 
me  with  avarice  or  cowardice,  if  I  acknowledge 
that  I  now  thought  myself  in  danger  of  distress, 
and  obliged  to  endeavour  after  some  certain 
competence. 

There  have  been  heroes  of  negligence,  who 
have  laid  the  price  of  their  last  acre  in  a  drawer, 
and,  without  the  least  interruption  of  their  tran- 
quillity, or  abatement  of  their  expenses,  taken 
out  one  piece  after  another,  till  there  was  no 
more  remaining.  But  I  was  not  born  to  such 
dignity  of  imprudence,  or  such  exaltation  above 
the  cares  and  necessities  of  life :  I  therefore  im- 
mediately engaged  my  friends  to  procure  me  a 
little  employment,  which  might  set  me  free  from 
the  dread  of  poverty,  and  afford  me  time  to  plan 
out  some  final  scheme  of  lasting  advantage. 

My  friends  were  struck  with  honest  solicitude, 
and  immediately  promised  their  endeavours  for 
my  extrication.  They  did  not  suffer  their  kind- 
ness to  languish  by  delay,  but  prosecuted  their 
inquiries  with  such  success,  that  in  less  than  a 
month  I  was  perplexed  with  variety  of  offers  and 
contrariety  of  prospects, 

I  had  however  no  time  for  long  pauses  of  con- 
sideration; and  therefore  soon  resolved  to  ac- 
cept the  office  of  instructing  a  young  nobleman 
in  the  house  of  his  father:  I  went  to  the  seat  at 
which  the  family  then  happened  to  reside,  was 
received  with  great  politeness,  and  invited  lo  en- 
ter immediately  on  my  charge.  The  terms  of- 
fered were  such  as  I  should  willingly  have  ac- 
cepted, though  my  fortune  had  allowed  me  great- 
er liberty  of  choice:  the  respect  with  which  I  was 
treated  flattered  my  vanity;  and  perhaps  the 
splendour  of  the  apartments,  and  the  luxury  of 
the  table,  were  not  wholly  without  their  influ- 
ence. I  immediately  complied  with  the  propo- 
sals, and  received  the  young  lord  into  my  care. 

Having  no  desire  to  gain  more  than  I  should 
truly  deserve,  I  very  diligently  prosecuted  my 
undertaking,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  disco- 
vering in  my  pupil  a  flexible  temper,  a  quick  ap- 
prehension, and  a  retentive  memory.  I  did  not 
much  doubt  that  my  care  would,  in  time,  pro- 
duce a  wise  and  useful  counsellor  to  the  state, 
though  my  labours  were  somewhat  obstructed 
by  want  of  authority,  and  the  necessity  of  corn 


206 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  133. 


plvin<r  with  the  freaks  of  negligence,  and  of 
wailing  patiently  for  the  lucky  moment  of  vo- 
luntary attention.  To  a  man  whose  imagina- 
tion was  filled  with  the  dignity  of  knowledge, 
and  to  whom  a  studious  life  had  made  all  the 
common  amusements  insipid  and  contemptible, 
it  was  not  very  easy  to  suppress  his  indignation, 
when  he  saw  himself  forsaken  in  the  midst  of 
his  lecture,  for  an  opportunity  to  catch  an  in- 
sect, and  found  his  instructions  debarred  from 
access  to  the  intellectual  faculties,  by  the  me- 
mory of  a  childish  frolic,  or  the  desire  of  a  new 
plaything. 

Those  vexations  would  have  recurred  less  fre- 
quently, had  not  his  mamma,  by  entreating  at 
one  time  that  he  should  be  excused  from  his 
task  as  a  reward  for  some  petty  compliance, 
and  withholding  him  from  his  book  at  another, 
to  gratify  herself  or  her  visitants  with  his  viva- 
city, shown  him  that  every  thing  was  more 
phasing  and  more  important  than  knowledge, 
and  that  study  was  to  be  endured  rather  than 
chosen,  and  was  only  the  business  of  those 
hours  which  pleasure  left  vacant,  or  discipline 
usurped. 

I  thought  it  my  duty  to  complain,  in  tender 
terms,  of  these  frequent  avocations  ;  but  was  an- 
swered, that  rank  and  fortune  might  reasonably 
hope  for  some  indulgence  ;  that  the  retardation 
of  my  pupil's  progress  would  not  be  imputed  to 
any  negligence  or  inability  of  mine;  that  with 
the  success  which  satisfied  every  body  else,  I 
might  surely  satisfy  myself.  I  had  now  done 
my  duty,  and  without  more  remonstrances  con- 
tinued to  inculcate  my  precepts  whenever  they 
would  be  heard,  gained  every  day  new  influence, 
and  found  that  by  degrees  my  scholar  began  to 
feel  the  quick  impulses  of  curiosity,  and  the  ho- 
nest ardour  of  studious  ambition. 

At  length  it  was  resolved  to  pass  a  winter  in 
London.  The  lady  had  too  much»fondness  for 
her  son  to  live  five  months  without  him,  and  too 
high  an  opinion  of  his  wit  and  learning  to  refuse 
her  vanity  the  gratification  of  exhibiting  him  to 
the  public.  I  remonstrated  against  too  eaily  an 
acquaintance  with  cards  and  company ;  but  with 
a  soft  contempt  of  my  ignorance  and  pedantry, 
she  said  that  he  had  been  already  confined  too 
long  to  solitary  study,  and  it  was  now  time  to 
show  him  the  world  ;  nothing  was  more  a  brand 
of  meanness  than  bashful  timidity  ;  gay  freedom 
and  elegant  assurance  were  only  to  be  gained  by 
mixed  conversation,  a  frequent  intercourse  with 
strangers,  and  a  timely  introduction  to  splendid 
assemblies;  and  she  had  more  than  once  ob- 
served, that  his  forwardness  and  complaisance 
began  to  desert  him,  that  he  was  silent  when  he 
had  not  something  of  consequence  to  say,  blush- 
ed whenever  he  happened  to  find  himself  mis- 
taken, and  hung  down  his  head  in  the  presence 
of  the  ladies,  without  the  readiness  of  reply,  and 
activity  of  officiousness,  remarkable  in  young 
gentlemen  that  are  bred  in  London. 

Again  I  found  resistance  hopeless,  and  again 
thought  it  proper  to  comply.  We  entered  the 
coach,  and  in  (our  days  were  placed  in  the  gayest 
and  most  magnificent  region  of  the  town.  My 
\:  |  il,  who  had  for  several  yrars  lived  at  a  remote 
scat,  was  immediately  dazzled  with  a  thousand 
beams  of  novelty  and  show.  His  imagination 
was  filled  with  the  perpetual  tumult  of  pleasure 
that  passed  before  him,  and  it  was  impossible  to 


allure  him  from  the  window,  or  to  overpower  by 
any  charm  of  eloquence  the  rattle  of  coaches,  and 
the  sounds  which  echoed  from  the  doors  in  the 
neighbourhood.  In  three  days  his  attention, 
which  he  began  to  regain,  was  disturbed  by  a 
rich  suit,  in  which  he  was  equipped  for  the  re- 
ception of  company,  and  which,  having  been 
long  accustomed  to  a  plain  dress,  he  could  not 
at  first  survey  without  ecstacy. 

The  arrival  of  the  family  was  now  formally 
notified  ;  every  hour  of  every  day  brought  more 
intimate  or  more  distant  acquaintances  to  the 
door;  and  my  pupil  was  indiscriminately  intro- 
duced to  all,  that  he  might  accustom  himself  to 
change  effaces,  and  be  rid  with  speed  of  his  rus- 
tic diffidence.  He  soon  endeared  himself  to  his 
mother  by  the  speedy  acquisition  or  recovery  of 
her  darling  qualities ;  his  eyes  sparkle  at  a  nu 
merous  assembly,  and  his  heart  dances  at  the 
mention  of  a  ball.  He  has  at  once  caught  the 
infection  of  high  life,  and  has  no  other  test  of 
principles  or  actions  than  the  quality  of  ihose 
to  whom  they  are  ascribed.  He  begins  already 
to  look  down  on  me  with  superiority,  and  sub- 
mits to  one  short  lesson  in  a  week,  as  an  act  of 
condescension  rather  than  obedience  ;  for  he  is 
of  opinion,  that  no  tutor  is  properly  qualified 
who  cannot  speak  French  ;  and  having  formerly 
learned  a  few  familiar  phrases  from  his  sister's 
governess,  he  is  every  day  soliciting  his  mamma 
to  procure  him  a  foreign  footman,  that  he  may 
grow  polite  by  his  conversation.  I  am  not  yet 
insulted,  but  find  myself  likely  to  become  soon 
a  superfluous  iricumbrance,  for  my  scholar  has 
now  no  time  for  science  or  for  virtue  ;  and  the 
lady  yesterday  declared  him  so  much  the  fa- 
vourite of  every  company,  that  she  was  afraid 
he  would  not  have  an  hour  in  the  day  to  dance 


and  fence. 


I  am,  &c. 


EUMATHES. 


No.  133.]       TUESDAY,  JUNE  25,  1751. 

Magna  guidcm  sacris  qua  datpracepta  libcllia 
Victrix  jbrtv.no:  sapientia.    Dicimus  autem 
Has  quoqve  frlicce,  quiferre  incommoda  vital, 
ffecjactarejuffumvitadidicere  magistra.  JUV. 

Let  Stoics  ethics'  haughty  rules  advance 

To  combat  fortune,  and  to  conquer  chance  : 

Yet  happy  those,  though  not  so  learn'd  are  thought, 

Whom  life  instructs,  whoby  experience  taught 

For  new  to  come  from  past  misfortunes  look, 

Nor  shake  the  joke,  which  galls  the  more  'tis  shook. 

CREECH. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

You  have  shown,  by  the  publication  of  my  let- 
ter, that  you  think  the  life  of  Victoria  not  wholly 
unworthy  of  the  notice  of  a  philosopher:  I  shall 
therefore  continue  my  narrative,  without  any 
apology  for  unimportance  which  you  have  dig- 
nified, or  for  inaccuracies  which  you  are  to  cor- 
rect. 

When  my  life  appeared  to  be  no  longer  in 
danger,  and  as  much  of  my  strength  was  reco- 
vered as  enabled  me  to  bear  the  agitation  of  a 
coach,  I  was  placed  at  a  lodging  in  a  neighbour- 
ing village,  to  which  my  mother  dismissed  me 
with  a  faint  embrace,  having  repeated  her  com- 
mand net  to  expose  my  face  too  soon  to  the  sun 


No.  133.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


207 


or  wind,  and  told  me,  that  with  care  I  might  per- 
haps become  tolerable  again.  The  prospect  of 
being  tolerable  had  very  little  power  to  elevate 
the  imagination  of  one  who  had  so  long  been  ac- 
customed to  praise  and  ecstacy ;  but  it  was  some 
satisfaction  to  bo  separated  from  my  mother,  who 
was  incessantly  ringing  the  knell  of  departed 
beauty,  and  never  entered  my  room  without  the 
whine  of  condolence,  or  the  growl  of  anger.  She 
often  wandered  over  my  face,  as  travellers  over 
the  ruins  of  a  celebrated  city  to  note  every  place 
which  had  once  been  remarkable  for  a  happy 
feature.  She  condescended  to  visit  my  retire- 
ment, but  always  left  me  more  melancholy ;  for 
after  a  thousand  trifling  inquiries  about  my  diet, 
and  a  minute  examination  of  my  looks,  she  ge- 
nerally concluded  with  a  sigh,  that  I  should  ne- 
ver more  be  fit  to  be  seen. 

At  last  I  was  permitted  to  return  home,  but 
found  no  great  improvement  of  my  condition ; 
for  I  was  imprisoned  in  my  chamber  as  a  crimi- 
nal, whose  appearance  would  disgrace  my  friends, 
and  condemn  me  to  be  tortured  into  new  beauty. 
Ever,  experiment  which  the  officiousness  of 
folly  could  communicate,  or  the  credulity  of  ig- 
norance admit,  was  tried  upon  me.  Sometimes 
I  was  covered  with  emollients,  by  which  it  was 
expected  that  all  the  scars  would  be  filled,  and  my 
cheeks  plumped  up  to  their  former  smoothness; 
and  sometimes  I  was  punished  with  artificial 
excoriations,  in  hopes  of  gaining  new  graces  with 
a  new  skin.  The  cosmetic  science  was  ex- 
hausted upon  me  ;  but  who  can  repair  the  ruins 
of  nature  ?  My  mother  was  forced  to  give  me 
rest  at  last,  and  abandon  me  to  the  fate  of  a  fallen 
toast,  whose  fortune  she  considered  as  a  hopeless 
game,  no  longer  worthy  of  solicitude  or  atten- 
tion. 

The  condition  of  a  young  woman  who  has 
never  thought  or  heard  of  any  other  excellence 
than  beauty,  and  whom  the  .sudden  blast  of  dis- 
ease wrinkles  in  her  bloom,  is  indeed  sufficiently 
calamitous.  She  is  at  once  deprived  of  all  that 
gave  her  eminence  or  power;  of  all  that  elated 
her  pride,  or  animated  her  activity;  all  that  filled 
her  clays  with  pleasure,  and  her  nights  with 
hope ;  all  that  gave  gladness  to  the  present  hour, 
or  brightened  her  prospects  of  futurity.  It  is 
perhaps  not  in  the  power  of  a  man  whose  atten- 
tion has  been  divided  by  diversity  of  pursuits,  and 
who  has  not  been  accustomed  to  derive  from 
others  much  of  his  happiness,  to  image  to  him- 
self such  helpless  destitution,  such  dismal  ina- 
nity. Every  object  of  pleasing  contemplation 
is  at  once  snatched  away,  and  the  soul  finds 
every  receptacle  of  ideas  empty,  or  filled  only 
with  the  memory  of  joys  that  can  return  no  more. 
All  is  gloomy  privation,  or  impotent  desire;  the 
faculties  of  anticipation  slumber  in  despondency, 
or  the  powers  of  pleasure  mutiny  for  employ- 
ment. 

I  was  so  little  able  to  find  entertainment  for 
myself,  that  I  was  forced  in  a  short  time  to  ven- 
ture abroad,  as  the  solitary  savage  is  driven  by 
hunger  from  his  cavern.  I  entered  with  all  the 
humility  of  disgrace  into  assemblies,  where  I  had 
lately  sparkled  with  gayety,  and  towered  with 
triumph.  I  was  not  wholly  without  hope,  that 
dejection  had  misrepresented  me  to  myself,  and 
that  the  remains  of  my  former  face  might  yet 
have  some  attraction  and  influence ;  but  the  first , 


circle  of  visits  convinced  me,  that  my  reign  was 
at  an  end;  that  life  and  death  were  no  longer  in 
my  hands  ;  that  I  was  no  more  to  practise  the 
glance  of  command,  or  the  frown  of  prohibition  ; 
to  receive  the  tribute  of  sighs  and  praises,  or  be 
soothed  with  the  gentle  murmurs  of  amorous 
timidity.  My  opinion  was  now  unheard,  and  my 
proposals  were  unregarded  ;  the  narrowness  of 
my  knowledge,  and  the  meanness  of  my  senti- 
ments, were  easily  discovered,  when  the  eyes 
were  no  longer  engaged  against  the  judgment ; 
and  it  was  observed,  by  those  who  had  formerly 
been  charmed  with  my  vivacious  loquacity,  that 
my  understanding  was  impaired  as  well  as  my 
face,  and  that  I  was  no  longer  qualified  to  fill  a 
place  in  any  company  but  a  party  at  cards. 

It  is  scarcely  to  be  imagined  how  soon  the 
mind  sinks  to  a  level  with  the  condition.  I,  who 
had  long  considered  all  who  approached  me  as 
vassals  condemned  to  regulate  their  pleasures  by 
my  eyes,  and  harass  their  inventions  for  my 
entertainment,  was  in  less  than  three  weeks 
reduced  to  receive  a  ticket  with  professions  of 
obligation  ;  to  catch  with  eagerness  at  a  compli- 
ment; and  to  watch  with  all  the  anxiousness  of 
dependence,  lest  any  little  civility  that  was  paid 
me  should  pass  unacknowledged. 

Though  the  negligence  of  the  men  was  not 
very  pleasing  when  compared  with  vows  and 
adoration,  yet  it  was  far  more  supportable  than 
the  insolence  of  my  own  sex.  For  the  first  ten 
months  after  my  return  into  the  world,  I  never 
entered  a  single  house  in  which  the  memory  of 
my  downfal  was  not  revived.  At  one  place  I 
was  congratulated  on  my  escape  with  life  ;  at 
another  I  heard  of  the  benefits  of  early  inocula- 
tion ;  by  some  I  have  been  told  in  express  terms, 
that  I  am  not  yet  without  my  charms ;  others 
have  whispered  at  my  entrance,  This  is  the  cele- 
brated beauty.  One  told  me  of  a  wash  that 
would  smooth  the  skin  ;  and  another  offered  me 
her  chair  that  I  might  not  front  the  light  Some 
soothed  me  with  the  observation  that  none  can 
tell  how  soon  my  case  may  be  her  own  ;  and 
some  thought  it  proper  to  receive  me  with 
mournful  tenderness,  formal  condolence,  and 
consolatory  blandishments. 

Thus  was  I  every  day  harassed  with  all  the 
stratagems  of  well-bred  malignity;  yet  insolence 
was  more  tolerable  than  solitude,  and  I  therefore 
persisted  to  keep  my  time  at  tfie  doors  of  my 
acquaintance,  without  gratifying  them  with  any 
appearance  of  resentment  or  depression.  I  ex- 
pected that  their  exultation  would  in  time  vapour 
away ;  that  the  joy  of  their  superiority  would 
end  with  its  novelty  ;  and  that  I  should  be  suf- 
fered to  glide  along  in  my  present  form  among 
the  nameless  multitude,  whom  nature  never  in- 
tended to  excite  envy  or  admiration,  nor  enabled 
to  delight  the  eye  or  inflame  the  heart. 

This  was  naturally  to  be  expected,  and  this  I 
began  to  experience.  But  when  I  was  no  longei 
agitated  by  the  perpetual  ardour  of  resistance, 
and  effortof  perseverance,  I  found  more  sensibly 
the  want  of  those  entertainments  which  had  for- 
merly delighted  me ;  the  day  rose  upon  me 
without  an  engagement;  and  the  evening  closed 
in  its  natural  gloom,  without  summoning  me  to 
a  concert  or  a  ball.  None  had  any  care  to  find 
amusements  for  me,  and  I  had  no  power  of 
amusing  myself.  Idleness  exposed  me  to  me- 


208 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  134. 


lancholy,  and  life  began  to  languish  in  motion- 
less indifference. 

Misery  and  shame  are  nearly  allied.  It  was 
nut  w.:noMt  many  struggles  that  I  prevailed  on 
mvsi'lf  to  confess  my  uneasiness  to  Euphemia, 
the  only  friend  who  had  never  pained  me  with 
comfort  or  with  pity.  I  at  last  laid  my  calami- 
ties before  her,  rather  to  ease  my  heart  than  re- 
ceive assistance.  "  We  must  distinguish,"  said 
she,  "my  Victoria,  those  evils  which  are  imposed 
by  Providence,  from  those  to  which  we  ourselves 
give  the  power  of  hurting  us.  Of  your  calamity 
a  small  part  is  the  infliction  of  Heaven,  the  rest 
is  little  more  than  the  corrosion  of  idle  discon- 
tent. You  have  lost  that  which  may  indeed 
sometimes  contribute  to  happiness,  but  to  which 
happiness  is  by  no  means  inseparably  annexed. 
You  have  lost  what  the  greater  number  of  the 
human  race  never  have  possessed ;  what  those 
on  whom  it  is  bestowed  for  the  most  part  possess 
in  vain ;  and  what  you,  while  it  was  yours,  knew 
not  how  to  use ;  you  have  only  lost  early  what 
the  laws  of  nature  forbid  you  to  keep  long,  and 
have  lost  it  while  your  mind  is  yet  flexible,  and 
while  you  have  time  to  substantiate  more  valu- 
able and  more  durable  excellences.  Consider 
yourself,  my  Victoria,  as  a  being  born  to  know, 
to  reason,  and  to  act. ;  rise  at  once  from  your 
dream  of  melancholy  to  wisdom  and  to  piety  ; 
you  will  find  that  there  are  other  charms  than 
those  of  beauty,  and  other  joys  than  the  praise 
of  fools."  I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

VICTORIA. 


No.  134,]       SATURDAY,  JUNE  29,  1751. 

Quia  scit,  an  adjiciant  hodicrna  crastina  summa 
Tempora  Dii  tuperi  ?  HOR. 

Who  knows  if  Heaven,  with  ever-bounteous  power, 
Shall  add  to-morrow  to  the  present  hour  ? 

FRANCIS. 

I  PAT  yesterday  morning  employed  in  deliberat- 
ing on  which,  among  the  various  subjects  that 
occurred  to  my  imagination,  I  should  bestow  the 
paper  of  to-day.  After  a  short  effort  of  medita- 
tion, by  which  nothing  was  determined,  I  grew 
every  moment,  more  irresolute,  my  ideas  wan- 
dered from  the  first  intention,  and  I  rather  wished 
to  think,  than  thought,  upon  any  settled  subject ; 
till  at  last  I  was  awakened  from  this  dream  of 
study  by  a  summons  from  the  press  ;  the  time 
was  come  for  which  I  had  been  thus  negligently 
purposing  to  provide,  and,  however  dubious  or 
elusrgish,  I  was  now  necessitated  to  write. 

Though  to  a  writer  whoso  design  is  so  com- 
prehensive and  miscellaneous,  that  he  may  ac- 
commodate himself  with  a  topic  from  every  scene 
oflifi',  or  view  of  nature,  it  is  no  great  aggrava- 
tion of  his  task  to  be  obliged  to  a  sudden  compo- 
sition ;  yet  I  could  not  forbear  to  reproach  my- 
delf  for  having  so  long  neglected  what  was  un- 
avoidably to  be  done,  and  of  which  every  mo- 
ment's idleness  increased  the  difficulty.  There 
was  however  some  pleasure  in  reflecting  that  I, 
who  had  only  trifled  till  diligence  was  necessary, 
might  still  congratulate  myself  upon  my  superi- 
ority to  multitudes,  who  have  trifled  till  diligence 
is  vain  ;  who  can  by  no  degree  of  activity  or  re- 
wolution  recover  the  opportunities  which  have 
slipped  away ;  and  who  are  condemned  by  their 


own  carelessness  to  hopeless  calamity  and  barren 
sorrow. 

The  folly  of  allowing  ourselves  to  delay  what 
we  know  cannot  be  finally  escaped,  is  one  of  the 
general  weaknesses,  which,  in  spite  of  the  in- 
struction of  moralists,  and  the  remonstrances  of 
reason,  prevail  to  a  greater  or  less  degree  in 
every  mind  ;  even  they,  who  most  steadily  with- 
stand it,  find  it,  if  not  the  most  violent,  the  most 
pertinacious  of  the  passions,  always  renewing  its 
attacks,  and,  though  often  vanquished,  never  de- 
stroyed. 

It  is  indeed  natural  to  have  particular  regard 
to  the  time  present,  and  to  be  most  solicitous  for 
that  which  is  by  its  nearness  enabled  to  make 
the  strongest  impressions.  When  therefore  any 
sharp  pain  is  to  be  suffered,  or  any  formidable 
danger  to  be  incurred,  we  can  scarcely  exempt 
ourselves  wholly  from  the  seducements  of  imagi- 
nation ;  we  readily  believe  that  another  day  will 
bring  some  support  or  advantage  which  we  now 
want;  and  are  easily  persuaded,  that  the  mo- 
ment of  necessity  which  we  desire  never  to  ar- 
rive, is  at  a  great  distance  from  us. 

Thus  life  is  languished  away  in  the  gloom  of 
anxiety,  and  consumed  in  collecting  resolution 
which  the  next  morning  dissipates ;  in  forming 
purposes  which  we  scarcely  hope  to  keep,  and 
reconciling  ourselves  to  our  own  cowardice  by 
excuses,  which,  while  we  admit  them,  we  know 
to  be  absurd.  Our  firmness  is,  by  the  continual 
contemplation  of  misery,  hourly  impaired ;  every 
submission  to  our  fear  enlarges  its  dominion : 
we  not  only  waste  that  time  in  which  the  evil  we 
dread  might  have  been  suffered  and  surmounted, 
but  even  where  procrastination  produces  no  ab- 
solute increase  of  our  difficulties,  make  them  less 
superable  to  ourselves  by  habitual  terrors.  When 
evils  cannot  be  avoided,  it  is  wise  to  contract  the 
interval  of  expectation ;  to  meet  the  mischiefs 
which  will  overtake  us  if  we  fly ;  and  suffer  only 
their  real  malignity,  without  the  conflicts  of 
doubt,  and  anguish  of  anticipation. 

To  act  is  far  easier  than  to  suffer;  yet  we 
every  day  see  the  progress  of  life  retarded  by  the 
vis  inertict,  the  mere  repugnance  to  motion,  and 
find  multitudes  repining  at  the  want  of  that 
which  nothing  but  idleness  hinders  them  from 
enjoying.  The  case  of  Tantalus,  in  the  region 
of  poetic  punishment,  was  somewhat  to  be  pitied 
because  the  fruits  that  hung  about  him  retired 
from  his  hand  ;  but  what  tenderness  can  be 
claimed  by  those  who,  though  perhaps  they  suf- 
fer the  pains  of  Tantalus,  will  never  lift  their 
hands  for  their  own  relief? 

There  is  nothing  more  common  among  this 
torpid  generation  than  murmurs  and  complaints ; 
murmurs  at  uneasiness  which  only  vacancy  and 
suspicion  expose  them  to  feel,  and  complaints  of 
distresses  which  it  is  in  their  power  to  remo'\  e. 
Laziness  is  commonly  associated  with  timidity. 
Either  fear  originally  prohibits  endeavours  by 
infusing  despair  of  success  ;  or  the  frequent  fail- 
ure of  irresolute  struggles,  and  the  constant  de- 
sire of  avoiding  labour,  impress  by  degrees  false 
terrors  on  the  mind.  But  fear,  whether  natural 
or  acquired,  when  once  it  has  full  possession  of 
the  fancy,  never  fails  to  employ  it  upon  visions 
of  calamity,  such  as,  if  they  are  not  dissipated 
by  useful  employment,  will  soon  overcast  it  with 
horrors,  and  embitter  life  not  only  with  those 


No.  135.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


209 


miseries  by  which  all  earthly  beings  are  really 
more  or  less  tormented,  but  with  those  which 
do  not  yet  exist,  and  which  can  only  be  discerned 
by  the  perspicacity  of  cowardice. 

Among  all  who  sacrifice  future  advantage  to 
present  inclination,  scarcely  any  gain  so  little  as 
those  that  suffer  themselves  to  freeze  in  idleness. 
Others  are  corrupted  by  some  enjoyment  of  more 
or  less  power  to  gratify  the  passions  ;  but  to  ne- 
glect our  duties,  merely  to  avoid  the  labour  of 
performing  them,  a  labour  which  is  always  punc- 
tually rewarded,  is  surely  to  sink  under  weak 
tem-ptations.  Idleness  never  can  secure  tran- 
quillity; the  call  of  reason  and  of  conscience 
will  pierce  the  closest  pavilion  of  the  sluggard; 
and  though  it  may  not  have  force  to  drive  him 
from  his  down,  will  be  loud  enough  to  hinder 
him  from  sleep.  Those  moments  which  he  can- 
not resolve  to  make  useful  by  devoting  them 
to  the  great  business  of  his  being,  will  still  be 
usurped  by  powers  that  will  not  leave  them  to 
his  disposal ;  remorse  and  vexation  will  seize 
upon  them,  and  forbid  him  to  enjoy  what  he  is 
so  desirous  to  appropriate. 

There  are  other  causes  of  inactivity  incident 
to  more  active  faculties  and  more  acute  discern- 
ment. He  to  whom  many  objects  of  pursuit 
arise  at  the  same  time,  will  frequently  hesitate 
between  different  desires  till  a  rival  has  pre- 
cluded him,  or  change  his  course  as  new  attrac- 
tions prevail,  and  harass  himself  without  advanc- 
ing. He  who  sees  different  ways  to  the  same 
end,  will,  unless  he  watches  carefully  over  his 
own  conduct,  lay  out  too  much  of  his  attention 
upon  the  comparison  of  probabilities,  and  the 
adjustment  of  expedients,  and  pause  in  the  choice 
of  his  road  till  some  accident  intercepts  his  jour- 
ney. He  whose  penetration  extends  to  remote 
consequences,  and  who,  whenever  he  applies  his 
attention  to  any  design,  discovers  new  prospects 
of  advantage,  and  possibilities  of  improvements, 
will  not  easily  be  persuaded  that  his  project  is 
ripe  for  execution  ;  but  will  superadd  one  con- 
trivance to  another,  endeavour  to  unite  various 
purposes  in  one  operation,  multiply  complica- 
tions, and  refine  niceties,  till  he  is  entangled  in 
his  own  scheme,  and  bewildered  in  the  perplexity 
of  various  intentions.  He  that  resolves  to  unite 
all  the  beauties  of  situation  in  a  new  purchase, 
must  waste  his  life  in  roving  to  no  purpose  from 
province  to  province.  He  that  hopes  in  the  same 
house  to  obtain  every  convenience,  may  draw 
plans  and  study  Palladio,  but  will  never  lay  a 
stone.  He  will  attempt  a  treatise  on  some  im- 
ptfrtant  subject,  and  amass  materials,  consult 
authors,  and  study  all  the  dependant  and  colla- 
teral parts  of  learning,  but  never  conclude  him- 
self qualified  to  write.  He  that  has  abilities  to 
conceive  perfection,  will  not  easily  be  content 
without  it ;  and,  since  perfection  cannot  be 
reached,  will  lose  the  opportunity  of  doing  well 
in  the  vain  hope  of  unattainable  excellence. 

The  certainty  that  life  cannot  be  long,  and  the 
probability  that  it  will  be  much  shorter  than  na- 
ture allows,  ought  to  awaken  every  man  to  the 
active  prosecution  of  whatever  he  is  desirous  to 
perform.  It  is  true  that  no  diligence  can  ascer- 
tain success  ,  death  may  intercept  the  swiftest 
career;  but  he  who  is  cut  off  in  the  execution  of 
an  honest  undertaking,  has  at  least  the  honour 
of  falling  in  his  rank,  and  has  fought  the  battle, 
though  he  missed  the  victory. 
2B 


No.  135.]       TUESDAY,  JULY  2,  1751. 

Ctdum,  non  animum  mutant.—  nun, 

Place  may  be  changed  j  but  who  can  change  his  mind  1 

IT  is  impossible  to  take  a  view  on  any  side,  or 
observe  any  of  the  various  classes  that  form  the 
great  community  of  the  world,  without  discover- 
ing the  influence  of  example,  and  admitting  with 
new  conviction  the  observation  of  Aristotle,  that 
man  is  an  imitative  being.  The  greater,  far  the 
greater  number  follow  the  track  which  others 
have  beaten,  without  any  curiosity  after  new  dis- 
coveries, or  ambition  of  trusting  themselves  to 
their  own  conduct.  And  of  those  who  break  the 
ranks  and  disorder  the  uniformity  of  the  march, 
most  return  in  a  short  time  from  their  deviation, 
and  prefer  the  equal  and  steady  satisfaction  of 
security  before  the  frolics  of  caprice  and  the 
honours  of  adventure. 

In  questions  difficult  or  dangerous  it  is  indeed 
natural  to  repose  upon  authority,  and,  when  fear 
happens  to  predominate,  upon  the  authority  of 
those  whom  we  do  not  in  general  think  wiser 
than  ourselves.  Very  few  have  abilities  requisite 
for  the  discovery  of  abstruse  truth ;  and  of  those 
few  some  want  leisure,  and  some  resolution. 
But  it  is  not  so  easy  to  find  the  reason  of  the  uni- 
versal submission  to  precedent  where  every  mas 
might  safely  judge  for  himself;  where  no  irre~ 
parable  loss  can  be  hazarded,  nor  any  mischief 
of  long  continuance  incurred.  Vanity  might  be 
expected  to  operate  where  the  more  powerful 
passions  are  not  awakened  ;  the  mere  pleasure 
of  acknowledging  no  superior  might  produce 
slight  singularities,  or  the  hope  of  gaining  some 
new  degree  of  happiness  awaken  the  mind  to 
invention  or  experience. 

If  in  any  case  the  shackles  of  prescription 
could  be  wholly  shaken  off,  and  the  imagination 
left  to  act  without  control,  on  what  occasion 
should  it  be  expected,  but  in  the  selection  of 
lawful  pleasure  ?  Pleasure,  of  which  the  es- 
sence is  choice  ;  which  compulsion  dissociates 
from  every  thing  to  which  nature  has  united  it ; 
and  which  owes  not  only  its  vigour  but  its  being 
to  the  smiles  of  liberty.  Yet  we  see  that  the 
senses,  as  well  as  the  reason,  are  regulated  by 
credulity ;  and  that  most  will  feel,  or  say  that 
they  feel,  the  gratifications  which  others  have 
taught  them  to  expect. 

At  this  time  of  universal  migration,  when 
almost  every  one,  considerable  enough  to  attract 
regard,  has  retired,  or  is  preparing  with  all  the 
earnestness  of  distress  to  retire,  into  the  country ; 
when  nothing  is  to  be  heard  but  the  hopes  of 
speedy  departure  or  the  complaints  of  involun- 
tary delay ;  I  have  often  been  tempted  to  inquire 
what  happiness  is  to  be  gained,  or  what  incon- 
venience to  be  avoided,  by  this  stated  recession  ? 
Of  the  birds  of  passage,  some  follow  the  sum- 
mer, and  some  the  winter,because  they  live  upon 
sustenance  which  only  summer  or  winter  can 
supply ;  but  of  the  annual  flight  of  human  rovers 
it  is  much  harder  to  assign  the  reason,  because 
they  do  not  appear  either  to  find  or  seek  any 
thing  which  is  not  equally  afforded  by  the  town 
and  country. 

I  believe  that  many  of  these  fugitives  may 
have  heard  ef  men  whose  continual  wish  was  for 
the  quiet  of  retirement,  who  watched  every  op- 
portunity tu  steal  away  from  observation,  to  for 


210 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  136 


TOke  the  crowd  and  delight  themselves  with  the 
society  of  solitude.  There  is  indeed  scarcely  any 
write?  who  has  not  celebrated  the  happiness  ot 
rural  privacy,  and  delighted  himself  and  his 
reader  with  the  melody  of  birds,  the  whisper  of 
erovcs  and  the  murmur  of  rivulets  :  nor  any 
man,  eminent  for  extent  of  capacity,  or  greatness 
of  exploits,  that  has  not  left  behind  him  some 
memorials  of  lonely  wisdom  and  silent  dignity. 

But  almost  all  absurdity  of  conduct  arises  from 
the  imitation  of  those  whom  we  cannot  resemble. 
Those  who  thus  testified  their  weariness  of  tu- 
mult and  hurry,  and  hasted  with  so  much  eager- 
ness to  the  leisure  of  retreat,  were  either  men 
overwhelmed  with  the  pressure  of  difficult  em- 
ployment, harassed  with  importunities,  and  dis- 
tracted with  multiplicity;  or  men  wholly  en- 
grossed by  speculative  sciences,  who  having  no 
other  end  of  life  but  to  learn  and  teach,  found 
their  searches  interrupted  by  the  common  com- 
merce of  civility,  and  their  reasonings  disjointed 
by  frequent  interruptions.  Such  men  might  rea- 
sonably fly  to  that  ease  and  convenience  which 
thsir  condition  allowed  them  to  find  only  in  the 
country.  The  statesman  who  devoted  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  to  the  public,  was  desirous  of 
Keeping  the  remainder  in  his  own  power.  The 
general  ruffled  with  dangers,  wearied  with  la- 
bours, and  stunned  with  acclamations,  gladly 
enatched  an  interval  of  silence  and  relaxation. 
The  naturalist  was  unhappy  where  the  works  of 
Providence  were  not  always  before  him.  The 
reasoner  could  adjust  his  systems  only  where  his 
mind  was  free  from  the  intrusion  of  outward  ob- 
jects. 

Such  examples  of  solitude  very  few  of  those 
who  are  now  hastening  from  the  town,  have  any 
pretensions  to  plead  in  their  own  justification, 
since  they  cannot  pretend  either  weariness  of 
labour,  or  desire  of  knowledge.  They  purpose 
nothing  more  than  to  quit  one  scene  of  idleness 
for  another,  and,  after  having  trifled  in  public,  to 
sleep  in  secrecy.  The  utmost  that  they  can 
hope  to  gain  is  the  change  of  ridiculousness  to 
obscurity,  and  the  privilege  of  having  fewer  wit- 
nesses to  a  life  of  folly.  He  who  is  not  suffi- 
ciently important  to  be  disturbed  in  his  pursuits, 
but  spends  all  his  hours  according  to  his  own 
inclination,  and  has  more  hours  than  his  mental 
faculties  enable  him  to  fill  either  with  enjoyment 
or  desires,  can  have  nothing  to  demand  of  shades 
and  valleys.  As  bravery  is  said  to  be  a  panoply, 
insignificancy  is  always  a  shelter. 

There  are,  however,  pleasures  and  advantages 
in  a  rural  situation,  which  are  not  confined  to 
philosophers  and  heroes.  The  freshness  of  the 
air,  the  verdure  of  the  woods,  the  paint  of  the 
meadows,  and  the  unexhausted  variety  which 
summer  scatters  upon  the  earth,  may  easily  give 
delight  to  an  unlearned  spectator.  It  is  not 
necessary  that  he  who  looks  with  pleasure  on 
the  colours  of  a  flower  should  study  the  princi- 
ples of  vegetation,  or  that  the  Ptolemaic  and 
Copernican  systems  should  be  compared  before 
the  light  of  the  sun  can  gladden,  or  its  warmth 
invigorate.  Novelty  is  itself  a  source  of  gratifi- 
cation ;  and  Milton  justly  observes,  that  to  him 
who  has  been  long  pent  up  in  cities,  no  rural  ob- 
j"ct  can  be  presented  which  will  not  delight  or 
refresh  some  of  his  senses. 

Yet  even  these  easy  pleasures  are  missed  by 
we  greater  part  of  those  who  waste  their  sum- 


mer in  the  country.  Should  any  man  pursue 
his  acquaintances  to  their  retreats, he  would  find 
few  of  them  listening  to  Philomel,  loitering  in 
the  woods,  or  plucking  daisies,  catching  the 
healthy  gale  of  the  morning,  or  watching  the 
gentle  coruscations  of  declining  dav.  Some  wil/ 
be  discovered  at  a  window  by  the  road  side,  re 
joicing  when  a  new  cloud  of  dust  gathers  to 
wards  them,  as  at  the  approach  of  a  momentarj 
supply  of  conversation,  and  a  short  relief  from 
the  tediousness  of  unideal  vacancy.  Others  are 
placed  in  the  adjacent  villages,  where  they  look 
only  upon  houses  as  in  the  rest  of  the  year,  with 
no  change  of  objects  but  what  a  remove  to  any 
new  street  in  London  might  have  given  them. 
The  same  set  of  acquaintances  still  settle  to- 
gether, and  the  form  of  life  is  not  otherwise  diver- 
sified than  by  doing  the  same  things  in  a  different 
place.  They  pay  and  receive  visits  in  the  usual 
form,  they  frequent  the  walks  in  the  morning, 
they  deal  cards  at  night,  they  attend  to  the  same 
tattle,  and  dance  with  the  same  partners ;  nor 
can  they,  at  their  return  to  their  former  habita- 
tion, congratulate  themselves  on  any  other  ad- 
vantage, than  that  they  have  passed  their  time 
like  others  of  the  same  rank  ;  and  have  the  same 
right  to  talk  of  the  happiness  and  beauty  of  the 
country,  of  happiness  which  they  never  felt,  and 
beauty  which  they  never  regarded. 

To  be  able  to  procure  its  own  entertainments, 
and  to  subsist  upon  its  own  stock,  is  not  the 
prerogative  of  every  mind.  There  are  indeed 
understandings  so  fertile  and  comprehensive, 
that  they  can  always  feed  reflection  with  new 
supplies,  and  suffer  nothing  from  the  preclusion 
of  adventitious  amusements  ;  as  some  cities 
have  within  their  own  walls  enclosed  ground 
enough  to  feed  their  inhabitants  in  a  siege. — 
But  others  live  only  from  day  to  day,  and  must 
be  constantly  enabled,  b}'  foreign  supplies,  to 
keep  out  the  encroachments  of  languor  and  stu- 
pidity. Such  could  not  indeed  be  blamed  for  ho- 
vering within  reach  of  their  usual  pleasure,  more 
than  any  other  animal  for  not  quitting  its  native 
element,  were  not  their  faculties  contracted  by 
their  own  fault.  But  let  not  those  who  go  into 
the  country,  merely  because  they  dare  not  be  left 
alone  at  home,  boast  their  love  of  nature,  or  their 
qualifications  for  solitude  ;  nor  pretend  that  they 
receive  instantaneous  infusions  of  wisdom  from 
the  Dryads,  and  are  able,  when  they  leave  smoke 
and  noise  behind,  to  act,  or  think,  or  reason  for 
themselves. 


No.  136.]     SATURDAY,  JULY  6,  1751. 


ailao 


Who  dares  think  one  thinjr,  and  another  tell, 
My  heart  detests  him  as  the  gates  of  hell.  — 


THE  regard  which  they  whose  abilities  are  em- 
ployed in  the  works  of  imagination  claim  from 
the  rest  of  mankind,  arises  in  a  great  measure 
from  their  influence  on  futurity.  Rank  may  be 
conferred  by  princes,  and  wealth  bequeathed  by 
misers  or  by  robbers ;  but  the  honours  of  a  lasting 
name,  and  the  veneration  of  distant  ages,  only 


No.  136.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

the  sor>3  of  learning  have  the  power  of  bestow- 
ing. While,  therefore,  it  continues  one  of  the 
characteristics  of  rational  nature  to  decline  obli- 
vion, authors  never  can  be  wholly  overlooked  in 
the  search  after  happiness,  nor  become  con- 
temptible but  by  their  own  fault. 

The  man  who  considers  himself  as  constitut- 
ed the  ultimate  judge  of  disputable  characters, 
and  entrusted  with  the  distribution  of  the  last 
terrestrial  rewards  of  merit,  ought  to  summon  all 
his  fortitude  to  the  support  of  his  dignity  with  the 
most  vigilant  caution  and  scrupulous  justice. — 
To  deliver  examples  to  posterity,  and  to  regulate 
the  opinion  of  future  times,  is  no  slight  or  trivial 
undertaking  ;  nor  is  it  easy  to  commit  more  atro- 
cious treason  against  the  great  republic  of  huma- 
nity, than  by  falsifying  its  records  and  misguiding 
its  decrees. 

To  scatter  praise  or  blame  without  regard  to 
justice,  is  to  destroy  the  distinction  of  good  and 
evil.  Many  have  no  other  test  of  actions  than 
general  opinion  ;  and  all  are  so  far  influenced  by 
a  sense  of  reputation,  that  they  are  often  re- 
strained by  fear  of  reproach,  and  excited  by  hope 
of  honour,  when  other  principles  have  lost  their 
power ;  nor  can  any  species  of  prostitution  pro- 
mote general  depravity  more  than  that  which  de- 
stroys the  force  of  praise,  by  showing  that  it  may 
be  acquired  without  deserving  it,  and  which  by 
setting  free  the  active  and  ambitious  from  the 
dread  of  infamy,  lets  loose  the  rapacity  of  power, 
and  weakens  the  only  authority  by  which  great- 
ness is  controlled. 

Praise,  like  gold  and  diamonds,  owes  its  value 
only  to  its  scarcity.  It  becomes  cheap  as  it  be- 
comes vulgar,  and  will  no  longer  raise  expecta- 
tion, or  animate  enterprise.  It  is  therefore  not 
only  necessary,  that  wickedness,  even  when  it 
is  not  safe  to  censure  it,  be  denied  applause,  but 
that  goodness  be  commended  only  in  proportion 
to  its  degree  ;  and  that  the  garlands  due  to  the 
great  benefactors  of  mankind,  be  not  suffered  to 
fade  upon  the  brow  of  him  who  can  boast  only 
petty  services  and  easy  virtues. 

Had  these  maxims  been  universally  received, 
how  much  would  have  been  added  to  the  task  of 
dedication,  the  work  on  which  all  the  power  of 
modern  wit  has  been  exhausted.  How  few  of 
these  initial  panegyrics  had  appeared,  if  the  au- 
thor had  been  obliged  first  to  find  a  man  of  virtue, 
then  to  distinguish  the  distinct  species  and  degree 
of  his  desert,  and  at  last  to  pay  him  only  the  ho- 
nours which  he  might  justly  claim.  It  is  much 
easier  to  learn  the  name  of  the  last  man  whom 
chance  has  exalted  to  wealth  and  power,  to  ob- 
tain by  the  intervention  of  some  of  his  domestics 
the  privilege  of  addressing  him,  or  in  confidence 
of  the  general  acceptance  of  flattery,  to  venture 
on  an  address  without  any  previous  solicitation  ; 
and,  after  having  heaped  upon  him  all  the  virtues 
to  which  philosophy  has  assigned  a  name,  inform 
him  how  much  more  might  be  truly  said,  did  not 
the  fear  of  giving  pain  to  his  modesty  repress  the 
raptures  of  wonder  and  the  zeal  of  veneration. 

Nothing  has  so  much  degraded  literature  from 
Us  natural  rank,  as  the  practice  of  indecent  and 
promiscuous  dedication :  for  what  credit  can  he 
expect  who  professes  himself  the  hireling  of  va- 
nity, however  profligate,  and,  without  shame  or 
scruple,  celebrates  the  worthless,  dignifies  the 
mean,  and  gives  to  the  corrupt,  licentious,  and 
oppressive,  the  ornaments  which  ought  only  to 
add  grace  to  truth,  and  loveliness  to  innocence  ? 


211 

Every  other  kind  of  adulteration,  however  shame- 
ful, however  mischievous,  is  less  detestable  than 
the  crime  of  counterfeiting  characters,  and  fixing 
the  stamp  of  literary  sanction  upon  the  dross  and 
refuse  of  the  world. 

Yet  I  would  not  overwhelm  the  authors  with 
the  whole  load  of  infamy,  of  which  part,  perhaps 
the  greater  part,  ought  to  fall  upon  their  patrons. 
If  he  that  hires  a  bravo,  partakes  the  guilt  of  mur- 
der, why  should  he  who  bribes  a  flatterer,  hope 
to  be  exempted  from  the  shame  of  falsehood? — 
The  unhappy  dedicator  is  seldom  without  some 
motives  which  obstruct,  though  not  destroy,  the 
liberty  of  choice ;  he  is  oppressed  by  miseries 
which  he  hopes  to  relieve,  or  inflamed  by  ambi- 
tion which  he  expects  to  gratify.  But  the  patron 
has  no  incitements  equally  violent ;  he  can  re- 
ceive only  a  short  gratification,  with  which  no- 
thing but  stupidity  could  dispose  him  to  be 
pleased.  The  real  satisfaction  which  praise  can 
afford  is  by  repeating  aloud  the  whispers  of  con- 
science, and  by  showing  us  that  we  have  not 
endeavoured  to  deserve  well  in  vain.  Every 
other  encomium  is,  to  an  intelligent  mind,  satire 
and  reproach ;  the  celebration  of  those  virtues 
which  we  feel  ourselves  to  want,  can  only  impress 
a  quicker  sense  of  our  own  defects,  and  show 
that  we  have  not  yet  satisfied  the  expectations  of 
the  world,  by  forcing  us  to  observe  how  much 
fiction  must  contribute  to  the  completion  of  our 
character. 

Yet  sometimes  the  patron  may  claim  indul- 
gence ;  for  it  does  not  always  happen,  that  the 
encomiast  has  been  much  encouraged  to  his  at- 
tempt. Many  a  hapless  author,  when  his  book, 
and  perhaps  his  dedication,  was  ready  for  the 
press,  has  waited  long  before  any  one  would  pay 
the  price  of  prostitution,  or  consent  to  hear  the 
praises  destined  to  insure  his  name  against  the 
casualties  of  time ;  and  many  a  complaint  has 
been  vented  against  the  decline  of  learning,  and 
neglect  of  genius,  when  either  parsimonious  pru- 
dence has  declined  expense,  or  honest  indigna- 
tion rejected  falsehood.  But  if  at  last,  after  long 
inquiry  and  innumerable  disappointments,  he 
find  a  lord  willing  to  hear  of  his  own  eloquence 
and  taste,  a  statesman  desirous  of  knowing  how 
a  friendly  historian  will  represent  his  conduct,  or 
a  lady  delighted  to  leave  to  the  world  some  me- 
morial of  her  wit  and  beauty,  such  weakness 
cannot  be  censured  as  an  instance  of  enormous 
depravity.  The  wisest  man  may,  by  a  diligent 
solicitor,  be  surprised  in  the  hour  of  weakness, 
and  persuaded  to  solace  vexation,  or  invigorate 
hope,  with  the  music  of  flattery. 

To  censure  all  dedications  as  adulatory  and 
servile  would  discover  rather  envy  than  justice. 
Praise  is  the  tribute  of  merit,  and  he  that  has  in- 
contestably  distinguished  himself  by  any  public 
performance  has  a  right  to  all  the  honours  which 
the  public  can  bestow.  To  men  thus  raised 
above  the  rest  of  the  community,  there  is  no  need 
that  the  book  or  its  author  should  have  any  par- 
ticular relation  :  that  the  patron  is  known  to  de- 
serve respect,  is  sufficient  to  vindicate  him  that 
pays  it.  To  the  same  regard  from  particular 
persons,  private  virtue  and  less  conspicuous  excel- 
lence may  be  sometimes  entitled.  An  author  may 
with  great  propriety  inscribe  his  work  to  him  by 
whose  encouragement  it  was  undertaken,  or  by 
whose  liberality  he  has  been  enabled  to  prose- 
cute it,  and  he  may  justly  rejoice  in  his  own  for- 
titude that  dares  to  rescue  merit  from  obscurity. 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  137. 


Acribtu  exemplit  videor  te  cludere :  misce 

Ergo  aliquid  nostris  de  moribiu.  MART. 

Thus  much  I  will  indulge  theo  for  tliy  ease, 
And  miuglo  something  of  our  times  to  please. 

DRYDEN,jun. 

I  know  not  whether  greater  relaxation  may 
not  be  indulged,  and  whether  hope  as  well  as 
gratitude  may  not  unblamcably  produce  a  dedi- 
cation ;  but  let  the  writer  who  pours  out  his 
praises  only  to  propitiate  power,  or  attract  the 
attention  of  greatness,  be  cautious  lest  his  desire 
betray  him  to  exuberant  eulogies.  We  are  na- 
turally more  apt  to  please  ourselves  with  the  fu- 
ture than  the  past,  and,  while  we  luxuriate  in 
expectation,  may  be  easily  persuaded  to  purchase 
what  we  yet  rate,  only  by  imagination,  at  a  high- 
er price  than  experience  will  warrant. 

But  no  private  views  of  personal  regard  can 
discharge  any  man  from  his  general  obligations 
to  virtue  and  to  truth.  It  may  happen  in  the  va- 
rious combinations  of  life,  that  a  good  man  may 
receive  favours  from  one,  who,  notwithstanding 
his  accidental  beneficence,  cannot  be  justly  pro- 
posed to  the  imitation  of  others,  and  whom  there- 
fore he  must  find  some  other  way  of  rewarding 
than  by  public  celebrations.  Self-love  has  indeed 
many  powers  of  seducement,  but  it  surely  ought 
not  to  exalt  any  individual  to  equality  with  the 
collective  body  of  mankind,  or  persuade  him  that 
a  benefit  conferred  on  him  is  equivalent  to  every 
other  virtue.  Yet  many,  upon  false  principles 
of  gratitude,  have  ventured  to  extol  wretches, 
whom  all  but  their  dependents  numbered  among 
the  reproaches  of  the  species,  and  whom  they 
would  likewise  have  beheld  with  the  same  scorn, 
had  they  not  been  hired  to  dishonest  appro- 
bation. 

To  encourage  merit  with  praise,  is  the  great 
business  of  literature ;  but  praise  must  lose  its 
influence,  by  unjust  or  negligent  distribution  ; 
and  he  that  impairs  its  value  may  be  charged 
with  misapplication  of  the  power  that  genius  puts 
into  his  hands,  and  with  squandering  on  guilt  the 
recompense  of  virtue* 


No.  137.]        TUESDAY,  JULY  9,  1751. 

Dum  vitant  stulti  vitia,  in  contraria  cnrrunt. 

HOR. 

Whilst  fools  one  vice  condemn, 

They  run  into  the  opposite  extreme.  CREECH. 

THAT  wonder  is  the  effect  of  ignorance,  has  been 
often  observed.  The  awful  stillness  of  attention, 
with  which  the  mind  is  overspread  at  the  first 
view  of  an  unexpected  effect,  ceases  when  we 
Lave  leisure  to  disentangle  complications  and 
investigate  causes.  Wonder  is  a  pause  of  rea- 
son, a  sudden  cessation  of  the  mental  progress, 
which  lasts  only  while  the  understanding  is  fixed 
upon  some  single  idea,  and  is  at  an  end  when  it 
recovers  force  enough  to  divide  the  object  into  its 
parts,  or  mark  the  intermediate  gradations  from 
the  first  agent  to  the  last  consequence. 

It  may  be  remarked  with  equal  truth,  that  ig- 
norance is  often  the  effect  of  wonder.  It  is  com- 
mon for  those  who  have  never  accustomed 
themselves  to  the  labour  of  inquiry,  nor  invig- 
orated their  confidence  by  conquests  over  diffi- 
culty, to  sleep  in  the  gloomy  quiescence  of  as- 


tonishment, without  any  effort  to  animate  inqui- 
ry, or  dispel  obscurity.  What  they  cannot 
immediately  conceive,  they  consider  as  too  high 
to  be  reached,  or  too  extensive  to  be  comprehend- 
ed ;  they  therefore  content  themselves  with  the 
gaze  of  folly,  forbear  to  attempt  what  they  have 
no  hopes  of  performing,  and  resign  the  pleasure 
of  rational  contemplation  to  more  pertinacious 
study  or  more  active  faculties. 

Among  the  productions  of  mechanic  art,  man} 
are  of  a  form  so  different  from  that  of  their  first 
materials,  and  many  consist  of  parts  so  numerous 
and  so  nicely  adapted  to  each  other,  that  it  is  not 
possible  to  view  them  without  amazement.  But 
when  we  enter  the  shops  of  artificers,  observe  the 
various  tools  by  which  every  operation  is  facili- 
tated, and  trace  the  progress  of  a  manufacture 
through  the  different  hands,  that,  in  succession  to 
each  other,  contribute  to  its  perfection,  we  soon 
discover  that  every  single  man  has  an  easy  task, 
and  that  the  extremes,  however  remote,  of  na- 
tural rudeness  and  artificial  elegance,  are  joined 
by  a  regular  concatenation  of  effects,  of  which 
every  one  is  introduced  by  that  which  precedes  it, 
and  equally  introduces  that  which  is  to  follow. 

The  same  is  the  state  of  intellectual  and  manu- 
al performances.  Long  calculations  or  complex 
diagrams  affright  the  timorous  and  unexperienc- 
ed from  a  second  view ;  but  if  we  have  skill 
sufficient  to  analyze  them  into  simple  principles, 
it  will  be  discovered  that  our  fear  was  ground- 
less. Divide  and  conquer,  is  a  principle  equally 
just  in  science  as  in  policy.  Complication  is  a 
species  of  confederacy  which,  while  it  continues 
united,  bids  defiance  to  the  most  active  and  vigo- 
rous intellect ;  but  of  which  every  member  is 
separately  weak,  and  which  may  therefore  be 
quickly  subdued,  if  it  can  once  be  broken. 

The  chief  art  of  learning,  as  Locke  has  ob- 
served, is  to  attempt  but  little  at  a  time.  The 
widest  excursions  of  the  mind  are  made  by  short, 
flights  frequently  repeated :  the  most  lofty  fabrics 
of  science  are  formed  by  the  continued  accumu- 
lation of  single  propositions. 

It  often  happens,  whatever  be  the  cause,  that 
impatience  of  labour,  or  dread  of  miscarriage, 
seizes  those  who  are  most  distinguished  for 
quickness  of  apprehension;  and  that  they  who 
might  with  greatest  reason  promise  themselves 
victory  are  least  willing  to  hazard  the  encounter. 
This  diffidence,  where  the  attention  is  not  laid 
asleep  by  laziness,  or  dissipated  by  pleasures,  can 
arise  only  from  confused  and  general  views,  such 
as  negligence  snatches  in  haste,  or  from  the  dis- 
appointment of  the  first  hopes  formed  by  arro- 
gance without  reflection.  To  expect  that  the 
intricacies  of  science  will  be  pierced  by  a  careless 
glance,  or  the  eminences  of  fame  ascended  with- 
out labour,  is  to  expect  a  peculiar  privilege,  a 
power  denied  to  the  rest  of  mankind ;  but  to 
suppose  that  the  maze  is  inscrutable  to  diligence 
or  the  heights  inaccessible  to  perseverance,  is  to 
submit  tamely  to  the  tyranny  of  fancy,  and  en- 
chain the  mind  in  voluntary  shackles. 

It  is  the  proper  ambition  of  the  heroes  of  liter- 
ature to  enlarge  the  boundaries  of  knowledge  by 
discovering  and  conquering  new  regions  of  the 
intellectual  world.  To  the  success  of  such  un- 
dertakings, perhaps,  some  degree  of  fortuitous 
happiness  is  necessary,  which  no  man  can  pro- 
mise or  procure  to  himself;  and  therefore  doubt 
and  irresolution  may  be  forgiven  in  him  that  ven- 
tures into  the  unexplored  abysses  of  truth,  ana 


No.  138.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


213 


attempts  to  find  his  way  through  the  fluctuations 
of  uncertainty,  and  the  conflicts  of  contradiction. 
But  when  nothing  more  is  required,  than  to  pur- 
sue a  path  already  beaten,  and  to  trample  obsta- 
cles which  others  have  demolished,  why  should 
any  man  so  much  distrust  his  own  intellect  as  to 
imagine  himself  unequal  to  the  attempt? 

It  were  to  be  wished  that  they  who  devote 
their  lives  to  study  would  at  once  believe  nothing 
too  great  for  their  attainment,  and  consider  no- 
thing as  too  little  for  their  regard;  that  they 
would  extend  their  notice  alike  to  science  and  to 
life,  and  unite  some  knowledge  of  the  present 
world  to  their  acquaintance  with  past  ages  and 
remote  events. 

Nothing  has  so  much  exposed  men  of  learning 
to  contempt  and  ridicule,  as  their  ignorance  of 
things  which  are  known  to  all  but  themselves. — 
Those  who  have  been  taught  to  consider  the  in- 
stitutions of  the  schools,  as  giving  the  last  per- 
fection to  human  abilities,  are  surprised  to  see 
men  wrinkled  with  study,  yet  wanting  to  be  in- 
structed in  the  minute  circumstances  of  propriety, 
or  the  necessary  forms  of  daily  transaction;  and 
quickly  shake  off  their  reverence  for  modes  of 
education,  which  they  find  to  produce  no  ability 
above  the  rest  of  mankind. 

Books,  says  Bacon,  can  never  teach  the  use  of 
books.  The  student  must  learn  by  commerce 
with  mankind  to  reduce  his  speculations  to  prac- 
tice, and  accommodate  his  knowledge  to  the  pur- 
poses of  life. 

It  is  too  common  for  those  who  have  been  bred 
to  scholastic  professions,  and  passed  much  of 
their  time  in  academies  where  nothing  but  learn- 
ing confers  honours,  to  disregard  every  other 
qualification,  and  to  imagine  that  they  shall  find 
mankind  ready  to  pay  homage  to  their  know- 
ledge, and  to  crowd  about  them  for  instruction. — 
They  therefore  step  out  from  their  cells  into  the 
open  world  with  all  the  confidence  of  authority 
and  dignity  of  importance ;  they  look  round 
about  them  at  once  with  ignorance  and  scorn  on 
a  race  of  beings  to  whom  they  are  equally  un- 
known and  equally  contemptible,  but  whose 
manners  they  must  imitate,  and  with  whose 
opinions  they  must  comply,  if  they  desire  to  pass 
their  time  happily  among  them. 

To  lessen  that  disdain  with  which  scholars  are 
inclined  to  look  on  the  common  business  of  the 
world,  and  the  unwillingness  with  which  they 
condescend  to  learn  what  is  not  to  be  found  in 
any  system  of  philosophy,  it  may  be  necessary  to 
consider  that,  though  admiration  is  excited  by 
abstruse  researches  and  remote  discoveries,  yet 
pleasure  is  not  given,  nor  affection  conciliated, 
but  by  softer  accomplishments,  and  qualities  more 
easily  communicable  to  those  about  us.  He  that 
can  only  converse  upon  questions,  about  which 
only  a  small  part  of  mankind  has  knowledge  suf- 
ficient to  make  them  curious,  must  lose  his  days 
in  unsocial  silence,  and  live  in  the  crowd  of  life 
without  a  companion.  He  that  can  only  be  use- 
ful on  great  occasions,  may  die  without  exerting 
his  abilities,  and  stand  a  helpless  spectator  of  a 
thousand  vexations  which  fret  away  happiness, 
and  which  nothing  is  required  to  remove  but  a 
little  dexterity  of  conduct  and  readiness  of  expe- 
dients. 

No  degree  of  knowledge  attainable  by  man  is 
able  to  set  him  above  the  want  of  hourly  assist- 
ance, or  to  extinguish  the  desire  of  fond  endear- 


ments and  tender  officiousness ;  and  therefore 
no  one  should  think  it  unnecessary  to  learn  those 
arts  by  which  friendship  may  be  gained.  Kind- 
ness is  preserved  by  a  constant  reciprocation  of 
benefits  or  interchange  of  pleasures;  but  such 
benefits  only  can  be  bestowed,  as  others  are  ca- 
pable to  receive,  and  such  pleasures  only  im- 
parted, as  others  are  qualified  to  enjoy. 

By  this  descent  from  the  pinnacles  of  art  no 
honour  will  be  lost ;  for  the  condescensions  of 
learning  are  always  overpaid  by  gratitude.  An 
elevated  genius  employed  in  little  things,  ap- 
pears, to  use  the  simile  of  Longinus,  like  the  sun 
in  his  evening  declination;  he  remits  his  splen- 
dour but  retains  his  magnitude,  and  pleases  more 
though  he  dazzles  less. 


No.  138.]        SATURDAY,  JCLT  13,  1751. 

O  tantum  libeat  mccum  tibi  sordida  rum 
Aigue  humiles  habitare  casas,  etjigere  eervoi. 

VIRO. 

With  me  retire,  and  leave  the  pomp  of  courts 

For  bumble  cottages  and  rural  sports. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

Sm, 

THOUGH  the  contempt  with  which  you  have 
treated  the  annual  migrations  of  the  gay  and 
busy  part  of  mankind,  is  justified  by  daily  obser- 
vation, since  most  of  those  who  leave  the  town, 
neither  vary  their  entertainments  nor  enlarge 
their  notions ;  yet  I  suppose  you  do  not  intend 
to  represent  the  practice  itself  as  ridiculous,  or  to 
declare  that  he  whose  condition  puts  the  distri- 
bution of  his  time  into  his  own  power,  may  not 
properly  divide  it  between  the  town  and  country. 

That  the  country,  and  only  the  country,  dis- 
plays the  inexhaustible  varieties  of  nature,  and 
supplies  the  philosophical  mind  with  matter  for 
admiration  and  inquiry,  never  was  denied ;  but 
my  curiosity  is  very  little  attracted  by  the  colour 
of  a  flower,  the  anatomy  of  an  insect,  or  the 
structure  of  a  nest ;  I  am  generally  employed 
upon  human  manners,  and  therefore  fill  up  the 
months  of  rural  leisure  with  remarks  on  those 
who  live  within  the  circle  of  my  notice.  If  wri- 
ters would  more  frequently  visit  those  regions  of 
negligence  and  liberty,  they  might  diversify  their 
representations,  and  multiply  their  images,  for  in 
the  country  are  original  characters  chiefly  to  be 
found.  In  cities,  and  yet  more  in  courts,  the  mi- 
nute discriminations  which  distinguish  one  from 
another  are  for  the  most  part  effaced,  the  pecu 
liarities  of  temper  and  opinion  are  gradually  worn 
away  by  promiscuous  converse,  as  angular  bo- 
dies, and  uneven  surfaces,  lose  their  points  and 
asperities  by  frequent  attrition  against  one  an 
other,  and  approach  by  degrees  to  uniform  roturi- 
ditv.  The  prevalence  of  fashion,  the  influence 
of  example,  the  desire  of  applause,  and  the  dread 
of  censure,  obstruct  the  natural  tendencies  of  the 
mind,  and  check  the  fancy  in  its  first  efforts  to 
break  forth  into  experiments  of  caprice. 

Few  inclinations  are  so  strong  as  to  grow  np 
nto  habits,  when  they  must  struggle  with  the  con- 
stant opposition  of  settled  forms  and  established 
customs.  But  in  the  country  every  man  is  a  se- 
Darate  and  independent  being:  solitude  flatters 
rregularity  with  hopes  of  secrecy,  and  wealth, 
removed  from  the  mortification  of  comparison, 


214 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  133. 


and  the  awe  of  equality,  swells  into  contemptu- 
ous confidence,  and  sets  blame  and  laughter  at 
defiance;  the  impulses  of  nature  act  unrestrain- 
ed and  tiic  disposition  dares  to  show  itself  in  its 
true  form,  without  any  disguise  of  hypocrisy,  or 
decorations  of  elegance.  Every  one  indulges  the 
full  enjoyment  of  his  own  choice,  and  talks  and 
lives  with  no  other  view  than  to  please  himself, 
without  inquiring  how  far  he  deviates  from  the 
general  practice,  or  considering  others  as  entitled 
to  any  account  of  his  sentiments  or  actions.  If 
he  builds  or  demolishes,  opens  or  encloses,  de- 
luges or  drains,  it  is  not  his  care  what  may  be  the 
opinion  of  those  who  are  skilled  in  perspective 
or  architecture,  it  is  sufficient  that  he  has  no 
landlord  to  control  him,  and  that  none  has  any 
right  to  examine  in  what  projects  the  lord  of 
the  manor  spends  his  own  money  on  his  own 
grounds. 

For  this  reason  it  is  not  very  common  to  want 
subjects  for  rural  conversation.  Almost  every 
man  is  daily  doing  something  which  produces 
merriment  wonder  or  resentment,  among  his 
neighbours.  This  utter  exemption  from  restraint 
leaves  every  anomalous  quality  to  operate  in  its 
full  extent,  and  suffers  the  natural  character  to 
diffuse  itself  to  every  part  of  life.  The  pride 
which,  under  the  check  of  public  observation, 
would  have  been  only  vented  among  servants 
and  domestics,  becomes  in  a  country  baronet  the 
torment  of  a  province,  and,  instead  of  terminating 
in  the  destruction  of  China  ware  and  glasses, 
ruins  tenants,  dispossesses  cottagejs,  and  ha- 
rasses villagers  with  actions  of  trespass  and  bills 
of  indictment. 

It  frequently  happens  that,  even  without  v,io- 
lent  passions,  or  enormous  corruption,  the  free- 
dom and  laxity  of  a  rustic  life  produce  remarkable 
particularities  of  conduct  or  manner.  In  the 
province  where  I  now  reside,  we  have  one  lady 
eminent  for  wearing  a  gown  always  of  the  same 
cut  and  colour ;  another  for  shaking  hands  with 
those  that  visit  her ;  and  a  third  for  her  unshaken 
resolution  never  to  let  tea  or  coffee  enter  her 
house. 

But  of  all  the  female  characters  which  this 
place  affords,  I  have  found  none  so  worthy  of 
attention  as  that  of  Mrs.  Busy,  a  widow,  who 
lost  her  husband  in  her  thirtieth  year,  and  has 
since  passed  her  time  at  the  manor-house  in  the 
government  of  her  children,  and  the  manage- 
ment of  the  estate. 

Mrs.  Busy  was  married  at  eighteen  from  a 
hoarding-school,  where  she  had  passed  her  time, 
like  other  young  ladies,  in  needle  work,  with  a 
few  intervals  of  dancing  and  reading.  When 
she  became  a  bride  she  spent  one  winter  with 
her  husband  in  town,  where  having  no  idea  of 
any  conversation  beyond  the  formalities  of  a 
visit,  she  found  nothing  to  engage  her  passions; 
and  when  she  had  been  one  night  at  court,  and 
two  at  an  opera,  and  seen  the  Monument,  the 
Tombs  and  the  Tower,  she  concluded  that  Lon- 
ion  had  nothing  more  to  show,  and  wondered 
that  when  women  had  once  seen  the  world  they 
could  not  be  content  to  stay  at  home.  She 
therefore  went  willingly  to  the  ancient  seat,  and 
foi-  some  years  studied  housewifery  under  Mr. 
Busy's  mother,  with  so  much  assiduity,  that  the 
old  lady,  when  she  died,  bequeathed  her  a  caur 
die-cup,  a  soup-dish,  two  beakers,  and  a  chest 
of  table  linen  spun  by  herself. 


Mr.  Busy,  finding  the  economical  qualities  of 
his  lady,  resigned  his  affairs  wholly  into  her 
hands,  and  devoted  his  life  to  his  pointers  and 
his  hounds.  He  never  visited  his  estates,  but  to 
destroy  the  partridges  or  foxes  ;  and  often  com- 
mitted such  devastations  in  the  range  of  pleasure, 
that  some  of  his  tenants  refused  to  hold  their 
lands  at  the  usual  rent.  Their  landlady  per- 
suaded them  to  be  satisfied,  and  entreate'd  her 
husband  to  dismiss  his  dogs,  with  many  exact 
calculations  of  the  ale  drank  by  his  companions, 
and  corn  consumed  by  his  horses,  and  remon- 
strances against  the  insolence  of  the  huntsman, 
and  the  frauds  of  the  groom.  The  huntsman 
was  too  necessary  to  his  happiness  to  be  discard- 
ed; and  he  had  still  continued  to  ravage  his 
own  estate,  had  he  not  caught  a  cold  and  a  fever 
by  shooting  mallards  in  the  fens.  His  fever  was 
followed  by  a  consumption,  which  in  a  few 
months  brought  him  to  the  grave. 

Mrs.  Busy  was  too  much  an  economist  to  feel 
either  joy  or  sorrow  at  his  death.  She  received 
the  compliments  and  consolations  of  her  neigh- 
bours in  a  dark  room,  out  of  which  she  stole  pri- 
vately every  night  and  morning  to  see  the  cows 
milked  ;  and,  after  a  few  days,  declared  that  she 
thought  a  widow  might  employ  herself  better 
than  in  nursing  grief:  and  that,  for  her  part,  she 
was  resolved  that  the  fortunes  of  her  children 
should  not  be  impaired  by  her  neglect. 

She  therefore  immediately  applied  herself  to 
the  reformation  of  abuses.  She  gave  away  the 
dogs,  discharged  the  servants  of  the  kennel  and 
stable,  and  sent  the  horses  to  the  next  fair,  but 
rated  at  so  high  a  price  that  they  returned  un- 
sold. She  was  resolved  to  have  nothing  idle 
about  her,  and  ordered  them  to  be  employed  in 
common  drudgery.  They  lost  their  sleekness 
and  grace,  and  were  soon  purchased  at  half  the 
value. 

She  soon  disencumbered  herself  from  her 
weeds,  and  put  on  a  riding-hood,  a  coarse  apron, 
and  short  petticoats,  and  has  turned  a  large 
manor  into  a  farm,  of  which  she  takes  the  ma- 
nagement wholly  upon  herself.  She  rises  before 
the  sun  to  order  the  horses  to  their  goers,  and 
sees  them  well  rubbed  down  at  their  return  from 
work  ;  she  attends  the  dairy  morning  and  even- 
ing, and  watches  when  a  calf  falls  that  it  maybe 
carefully  nursed ;  she  walks  out  among  the 
sheep  at  noon,  counts  the  Iambs,  and  observes 
the  fences,  and  where  she  finds  a  gap,  stops  it 
with  a  bush  till  it  can  be  better  mended.  In  har- 
vest she  rides  a-field  in  the  wagon,  and  is  very 
liberal  of  her  ale  from  a  wooden  bottle.  At  her 
leisure  hours  she  looks  goose  eggs,  airs  the  wool 
room,  and  turns  the  cheese. 

When  respect  or  curiosity  brings  visitants  to 
her  house,  she  entertains  them  with  prognostics 
of  a  scarcity  of  wheat,  or  a  rot  among  the  sheep, 
and  always  thinks  herself  privileged  to  dismiss 
them  when  she  is  to  see  the  hogs  fed,  or  to  count 
her  poultry  on  the  roost. 

The  only  things  neglected  about  her  are  her 
children,  whom  she  has  taught  nothing  hut  the 
lowest  household  duties.  In  my  last  visit  I  met 
\!  iss  Busy  carrying  grains  to  a  sick  cow,  and 
was  entertained  with  the  accomplishments  of 
her  eldest  son,  a  youth  of  such  early  maturity, 
that,  though  he  is  only  sixteen,  she  can  trust  him 
to  sell  corn  in  the  market.  Her  younger  daugh- 
ter, who  is  eminent  for  her  beauty,  though  some- 


No.  139.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


215 


what  tanned  in  making  hay,  was  busy  in  pouring 
out  ale  to  the  ploughmen,  that  every  one  might 
have  an  equal  share. 

I  could  not  but  look  with  pity  on  this  young 
family,  doomed,  by  the  absurd  prudence  ot'  their 
mother,  to  ignorance  and  meanness  ;  but,  when 
I  recommended  a  more  elegant  education,  was 
answered,  that  she  never  saw  bookish  or  finical 
people  grow  rich,  and  that  she  was  good  for  no- 
thing herself  till  she  had  forgotten  the  nicety  of 
the  boarding-school. 

I  am  yours,  &c. 

BUCOLUS. 


No.  139.]       TUESDAY,  JULT  16, 1751. 

Sit  quod  vis  simplex  duntaxat  et  unum. 

HOI 

Let  every  piece  be  simple  and  be  one. 

IT  is  required  by  Aristotle  to  the  perfection  of  a 
tragedy,  and  is  equally  necessary  to  every  other 
species  of  regular  composition,  that  it  should 
have  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end.  "  The 
beginning,"  says  he,  "  is  that  which  has  nothin. 
necessarily  previous,  but  to  which  that  whicl 
follows  is  naturally  consequent ;  the  end,  on  the 
contrary,  is  that  which  by  necessity,  or  at  least 
according  to  the  common  course  of  things,  suc- 
ceeds something  else,  but  which  implies  nothing 
consequent  to  itself;  the  middle  is  connected  on 
one  side  to  something  that  naturally  goes  before, 
and  on  the  other  to  something  that  naturally  fol- 
lows it." 

Such  is  the  rule  laid  down  by  this  great  critic, 
for  the  disposition  of  the  different  parts  of  a  well- 
constituted  fable.  It  must  begin,  where  it  may 
be  made  intelligible  without  introduction;  and 
end,  where  the  mind  is  left  in  repose,  without 
expectation  of  any  farther  event.  The  interme- 
diate passages  must  join  the  last  effect  to  the 
first  cause,  by  a  regular  and  unbroken  concate- 
nation ;  nothing  must  be  therefore  inserted 
which  does  not  apparently  arise  from  something 
foregoing,  and  properly  make  way  for  something 
that  succeeds  it. 

This  precept  is  to  be  understood  in  its  rigour 
only  with  respect  to  great  and  essential  events, 
and  cannot  be  extended  in  the  same  force  to  mi- 
nuter circumstances  and  arbitrary  decorations, 
which  yet  are  more  happy,  as  they  contribute 
more  to  the  main  design  ;  for  it  is  always  a  proof 
of  extensive  thought  and  accurate  circumspec- 
tion, to  promote  various  purposes  by  the  same 
act ;  and  the  idea  of  an  ornament  admits  use, 
though  it  seems  to  exclude  necessity. 

Whoever  purposes,  as  it  is  expressed  by  Mil- 
ton, to  build  the  lofty  rhyme,  must  acquaint  him- 
self with  this  law  of  poetical  architecture,  and 
take  care  that  his  edifice  be  solid  as  well  as  beau- 
tiful ;  that  nothing  stand  single  or  independent, 
so  as  that  it  may  be  taken  away  without  injuring 
the  rest ;  but  that,  from  the  foundation  to  the 
pinnacles,  one  part  rest  firm  upon  another. 

This  regular  and  consequential  distribution  is, 
among  common  authors,  frequently  neglected  ; 
but  the  failures  of  those,  whose  example  can  have 
no  influence,  may  be  safely  overlooked,  nor  is  it 
of  much  use  to  recall  obscure  and  unregarded 
names  to  memory  for  the  sake  of  sporting  with 
tiieir  infamy.  But  if  there  is  any  writer  whose 
genius  can  embellish  impropriety,  and  whose 


authority  can  make  error  venerable,  his  works 
are  the  proper  objects  of  critical  inquisition.  To 
expunge  faults  where  there  are  no  excellences,  is 
a  task  equally  useless  with  that  of  the  chemist, 
who  employs  the  arts  of  separation  and  refine- 
ment upon  ore  in  which  no  precious  metal  is 
contained  to  reward  his  preparations. 

The  tragedy  of  Samson  Agonistes  has  been 
celebrated  as  the  second  work  of  the  great  author 
of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  opposed,  with  all  the 
confidence  of  triumph,  to  the  dramatic  perform- 
ances of  other  nations.  It  contains  indeed  just 
sentiments,  maxims  of  wisdom,  and  oracles  of 
piety,  and  many  passages  written  with  the  an- 
cient spirit  of  choral  poetry,  in  which  there  is  a 
just  and  pleasing  mixture  of  Seneca's  moral  de- 
clamation, with  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  the 
Greek  writers.  It  is  therefore  worthy  of  exam- 
ination, whether  a  performance  thus  illuminated 
with  genius,  and  enriched  with  learning,  is  com- 
posed according  to  the  indispensable  laws  of 
Aristotelian  criticism :  and,  omitting  at  present 
all  other  considerations,  whether  it  exhibits  a 
beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end. 

The  beginning  is  undoubtedly  beautiful  and 
proper,  opening  with  a  graceful  abruptness,  and 
proceeding  naturally  to  a  mournful  recital  of 
facts  necessary  to  be  known. 

Samson.  A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 
To  these  dark  steps,  a  little  farther  on  ; 
For  yonder  bank  hath  choice  of  sun  and  shade ; 
There  I  am  wont  to  sit  when  any  chance 
Relieves  me  from  my  task  of  servile  toil, 
Daily  in  the  common  prison  else  enjoin'd  me. — 
— O  wherefore  was  my  birth  from  heaven  foretold 
Twice  by  an  angel ;— 

— Why  was  my  breeding  order'd  and  prescribed, 
As  of  a  person  separate  to  God, 
Design' d  for  great  exploits  ;  if  I  must  die 
B^tray'd,  captived,  and  both  my  eyes  put  out 
— Whom  have  I  to  complain  of  but  myself? 
Who  this  high  gift  of  strength,  committed  to  me, 
In  what  part  lodg'd,  how  easily  bereft  me 
Under  the  seat  of  silence  could  not  keep, 
But  weakly  to  a  woman  must  reveal  it. 

His  soliloquy  is  interrupted  by  a  chorus  or  com- 
pany of  men  of  his  own  tribe,  who  condole  his 
miseries,  extenuate  his  fault,  and  conclude  with 
a  solemn  vindication  of  Divine  justice.  So  that 
£.1  the  conclusion  of  the  first  act  there  is  no  de- 
sign laid,  no  discovery  made,  nor  any  disposition 
formed  towards  the  subsequent  event. 

In  the  second  act,  Manoah,  the  father  of  Sam- 
son, conies  to  seek  his  son,  and,  being  shown 
him  by  the  chorus,  breaks  out  into  lamentations 
of  his  misery,  and  comparisons  of  his  present 
with  his  former  state,  representing  to  him  tho 
ignominy  which  his  religion  suffers,  by  the  festi- 
val this  day  celebrated  in  honour  of  Dagon,  to 
whom  the  idolaters  ascribed  his  overthrow. 

Thou  bear'st 

Enough,  and  more,  the  burden  of  that  fault; 
Bitterly  hast  thou  paid  and  stijl  art  paying 
That  rigid  score.    A  worse  thing  yet  remains : 
This  day  the  Philistines  a  popular  feast 
Here  celebrate  in  Gaza;  and  proclaim 
Great  pomp  aud  sacrifice,  and  praises  louA 
To  Dagon,  as  their  god,  who  hath  deliver'd 
Thee,  Samson,  bound  and  blind,  into  their  hands, 
Them  out  of  thine,  who  slew'st  them  many  a  slain. 

Samson,  touched  with  this  reproach,  makes  a 
reply  equally  penitential  and  pious,  which  hm 
father  considers  as  the  effusion  of  prophetic  con- 
fidence. 


216 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  140. 


Sa:mon. God,  be  sure, 

Will  -ol  connive  or  linger  tlms  provoked, 
But  ».ill  arise  and  his  great  name  assert: 
D.igou  must  Moup,  and  shall  ere  long  receive 
Such  u  discomfit.  u.«  slrill  quite  despoil  him 
Ol'  all  these  buasted  trophies  won  on  me. 

JlanoaA.    With  cause  this  hope  relieves  thee,  and  these 

words 

I  as  a  prophecy  receive ;  for  God, 
Nothiug  more  certain,  will  not  long  defer, 
To  vindicate  the  glory  of  his  name. 

This  part  of  the  dialogue,  as  it  might  tend  to 
animate  or  exasperate  Samson,  cannot,  I  think, 
be  censured  as  wholly  superfluous  ;  but  the  suc- 
ceeding dispute,  in  which  Samson  contends  to 
die,  and  which  his  father  breaks  off,  that  he  may 
go  to  solicit  his  release,  is  only  valuable  for  its 
own  beauties,  and  has  no  tendency  to  introduce 
any  thing  that  follows  it. 

The  next  event  of  the  drama  is  the  arrival  of 
Delilah,  with  all  her  graces,  artifices,  and  allure- 
ments. This  produces  a  dialogue,  in  a  very  high 
degree  elegant  and  instructive,  from  which  she 
retires,  after  she  has  exhausted  her  persuasions, 
and  is  no  more  seen  nor  heard  of;  nor  has  her 
visit  any  effect  but  that  of  raising  the  character 
of  Samson. 

In  the  fourth  act  enters  Harapha,  the  giant  of 
Gath,  whose  name  had  never  been  mentioned 
before,  and  who  has  now  no  other  motive  of  com- 
ing than  to  see  the  man  whose  strength  and  ac- 
tions are  so  loudly  celebrated : 


Haraph.- 


-Much  I  have  heard 


Of  thy  prodigious  might,  ai)d  fcuts  perform'd 
Incredible  to  me  ;  in  this  displeased 
That  I  was  never  present  in  the  place 
Of  those  encounters,  where  we  might  have  tried 
Eacii  other's  force  in  camp  or  listed  fields  : 
And  now  am  come  to  .see  of  whom  such  noise 
Hath  walked  about,  and  each  limb  to  survey, 
If  thy  appearance  answer  loud  report. 

Samson  challenges  him  to  the  combat ;  and,  af- 
ter an  interchange  of  reproaches,  elevated  by  re- 
peated defiance  on  one  side,  and  embittered  by 
contemptuous  insults  on  the  other,  Harapha  re- 
tires ;  we  then  hear  it  determined,  by  Samson 
and  the  chorus,  that  no  consequence  good  or  bad 
will  proceed  from  their  interview : 

Chanu.  He  will  directly  to  tho  lords,  I  fear, 
And  with  malicious  counsel  stir  them  up 
Some  way  or  other  farther  to  afflict  thee. 

Sams.  He  must  allege  some  cause,  and  offered  fight 
Will  not  dare  mention,  lest  a  question  rise, 
Whether  he  durst  accept  the  offer  or  not ; 
And  that  he  durst  not,  plain  enough  appear'd. 

At  last,  in  the  fifth  act,  appears  a  messenger 
from  the  lords,  assembled  at  the  festival  of  Da- 
gon,  with  a  summons  by  which  Samson  is  re- 
quired to  come  and  entertain  them  with  some 
proof  of  his  strength.  Samson,  after  a  short 
expostulation,  dismisses  him  with  a  firm  and 
resolute  refusal ;  but,  during  the  absence  of  the 
messenger,  having  awhile  defended  the  propriety 
of  his  conduct,  he  at  last  declares  himself  moved 
by  a  secret  impulse  to  comply,  and  utters  some 
dark  presages  of  a  great  event  to  be  brought  to 
pass  by  his  agency,  under  the  direction  of  Pro- 
vidence. 

Sams.  Be  of  good  courage;  I  begin  to  feel 
Some  rousing  motions  in  me,  which  dispose 
lo  something  extraordinary  my  thoughts. 
I  with  this  messenger  will  go  along, 
Nothing  to  do,  be  sure,  that  m:iy  dishonour 


Our  law,  or  stain  my  vow  of  Nazarite. 
If  there  be  ought  of  presage  in  the  mind, 
This  day  will  be  remarkable  in  my  life, 
By  some  great  act,  or  of  my  days  the  last; 

While  Samson  is  conducted  off  by  the  messen- 
ger, his  father  returns  with  hopes  of  success  in 
his  solicitation,  upon  which  he  confers  with  the 
chorus  till  their  dialogue  is  interrupted,  first  by  a 
shoutt)f  triumph,  and  afterwards  by  screams  of 
horror  and  agony.  As  they  stand  deliberating 
where  they  shall  be  secure,  a  man  who  had 
been  present  at  the  show  enters,  and  relates  how 
Samson,  having  prevailed  on  his  guide  to  suffer 
him  to  lean  against  the  main  pillars  of  the  thea 
trical  edifice,  tore  down  the  roof  upon  the  spec 
tators  and  himself. 

Those  two  massy  pillars, 

With  horrible  confusion,  to  and  fro 
He  tugg'd,  he  shook,  till  down  they  came,  and  drew 
The  whole  roof  after  them,  with  burst  of  thunder, 
Upon  the  heads  of  all  who  sat  beneath. 

Samson,  with  these  immixt,  inevitably 

Pull'd  down  the  same  destruction  on  himself. 

This  is  undoubtedly  a  just  and  regular  catas- 
trophe, and  the  poem,  therefore,  has  a  beginning 
and  an  end  which  Aristotle  himself  could  not 
have  disapproved  ;  but  it  must  be  allowed  to 
want  a  middle,  since  nothing  passes  between  the 
first  act  and  the  last,  that  either  hastens  or  delays 
the  death  of  Samson.  The  whole  drama,  if  its 
superfluities  were  cut  of,  would  scarcely  fill  a 
single  act ;  yet  this  is  the  tragedy  which  igno 
ranee  has  admired,  and  bigotry  applauded. 


No.  140.]      SATURDAY,  JOLT  20,  1751. 

Quis  tarn  Lucill  fautor  inepte  est, 

Vt  nan  hoc  fatcatur  2  HOR. 

What  doting  bigot,  to  his  faults  so  blind, 
As  not  to  grant  me  this,  can  Milton  find? 

IT  is  common,  says  Bacon,  to  desire  the  end 
without  enduring  the  means.  Every  member  of 
society  feels  and  acknowledges  the  necessity  of 
detecting  crimes  ;  yet  scarce  any  degree  of  virtue 
or  reputation  is  able  to  secure  an  informer  from 
public  hatred.  The  learned  world  has  always 
admitted  the  usefulness  of  critical  disquisitions, 
yet  he  that  attempts  to  show,  however  modestly, 
the  failures  of  a  celebrated  writer,  shall  surely 
irritate  his  admirers,  and  incur  the  imputation  of 
envy,  captiousness  and  malignity. 

"With  this  danger  full  in  my  view,  I  shall  pro- 
ceed to  examine  the  sentiments  of  Milton's  tra- 
gedy, which,  though  much  less  liable  to  censure 
than  the  disposition  of  his  plan,  are,  like  those  of 
other  writers,  sometimes  exposed  to  just  excep- 
tions for  want  of  care,  or  want  of  discernment. 

Sentiments  are  proper  and  improper  as  they 
consist  more  or  less  with  the  character  and  cir- 
cumstances of  the  person  to  whom  they  are  at- 
tributed, with  the  rules  of  the  composition  in 
which  they  are  found,  or  with  the  settled  and  un- 
alterable nature  of  things. 

It  is  common  among  the  tragic  poets  to  intro- 
duce their  persons  alluding  to  events  or  opinions, 
of  which  they  could  not  possibly  have  any  know- 
ledge. The  barbarians  of  remote  or  newly-dis- 
covered regions  often  display  their  skill  in  Euro- 
pean learning.  The  god  of  love  is  mentioned  in 


No.  140.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


217 


Tamerlane  with  all  the  familiarity  of  a  Roman 
epigrammatist ;  and  a  late  writer  has  put  Har- 
vey's doctrine  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood  'ml 
the  mouth  of  a  Turkish  statesman,  who  livet 
near  two  centuries  before  it  was  known  even  to 
philosophers  or  anatomists. 

Milton's  learning,  which  acquainted  him  with 
the  manners  of  the  ancient  eastern  nations,  and 
his  invention,  which  required  no  assistance  from 
the  common  cant  of  poetry,  have  preserved  him 
from  frequent  outrages  of  local  or  chronological 
propriety.  Yet  he  has  mentioned  Chalybean 
steel,  of  which  it  is  not  very  likely  that  his  chorus 
should  have  heard,  and  has  made  Alp  the  gene- 
ral name  of  a  mountain,  in  a  region  where  the 
Alps  could  scarcely  be  known: 

No  medicinal  liquor  can  assuage, 

Nor  breath  of  cooling  air  from  snowy  Alp. 

He  has  taught  Samson  the  tales  of  Circe,  and 
the  Syrenes,  at  which  he  apparently  hints  in  his 
colloquy  with  Delilah: 

1  know  thy  trains, 

Tho'  dearly  to  my  cost,  thy  gins  and  toils ; 
Thy  fair  enchanted  cup  and  warbling  charms, 
No  more  on  me  have  power. 

But  the  grossest  error  of  this  kind  is  the  so- 
lemn introduction  of  the  phoanix  in  the  last 
scene ;  which  is  faulty,  not  only  as  it  is  incon- 
gruous to  the  personage  to  whom  it  is  ascribed, 
but  as  it  is  so  evidently  contrary  to  reason  and 
nature,  that  it  ought  never  to  be  mentioned  but 
as  a  fable  in  any  serious  poem : 

Virtue  giv'n  for  lost, 

Deprest,  and  overthrown,  as  seem'd 

Like  that  self-bfgotten  bird 

In  the  Arabian  woods  embost 

That  no  second  knows,  nor  third, 

And  lay  ere  while  a  holocaust ; 

From  out  our  ashy  womb  now  teem'd 

Revives,  reflourishes,  then  vigorous  most 

AVhen  most  inactive  deem'd. 

And  tho'  her  body  die,  her  fame  survives, 

A  secular  bird  ages  of  lives. 

Another  species  of  impropriety  is  the  unsuita- 
bleness  of  thoughts  to  the  general  character  of 
the  poem.  The  seriousness  and  solemnity  of 
tragedy  necessarily  reject  all  pointed  orepigram- 
matical  expressions,  all  remote  conceits  and  op- 
position of  ideas.  Samson's  complaint  is  there- 
fore too  elaborate  to  be  natural  : 

As  in  the  land  of  darkness,  yet  in  light, 

To  live  a  life  half  dead,  a  living  death, 

And  bury'd  ;  but,  O  yet  more  miserable! 

Myself  my  sepulchre,  a  moving  grave ! 

Bury'd,  yet  not  exempt, 

By  privilege  of  death  and  burial, 

From  worst  of  other  evils,  pains  and  wrongs. 

All  allusions  to  low  and  trivial  objects,  with 
which  contempt  is  usually  associated,  are  doubt- 
less unsuitable  to  a  species  of  composition  which 
ought  to  be  always  awful  though  not  always 
magnificent.  The  remark  therefore  of  the  cho- 
rus on  good  and  bad  news  seems  to  want  ele- 
vation : 

Manoah.  A  little  stay  will  bring  some  notice  hither, 
Chor.  Of  good  or  bad  so  great,  of  bad  the  sooner ; 
For  evil  news  rides  post,  while  good  news  baits. 

But  of  all  meanness,  that  has  least  to  plead 
which  is  produced  by  mere    verbal    conceits. 
2C 


which,  depending  only  upon  sounds,  lose  their 
existence  by  the  change  of  a  syllable.  Of  this 
kind,  is  the  following  dialogue : 

Chor    But  had  we  best  retire?  I  see  a  storm. 

Sams    Fair  days  have  oft  contracted  wind  and  rain 

Chor   But  this  another  kind  of  tempest  brings. 

Sams    Be  less  abstruse,  my  riddling  days  are  past. 

Chor    Look  uow  for  no  enchanting  voice,  nor  fear 
The  bait  of  honied  words  ;  a  rougher  tongue 
Draws  hitherward,  I  know  him  by  his  stride, 
The  giant  Harapha. 

And  yet  more  despicable  are  the  lines  in  which 
Manoah's  paternal  kindness  is  commended  by 
the  chorus: 

Fathers  are  wont  to  Jay  up  for  their  sons. 
Thou  for  thy  son  are  bent  to  lay  out  all ; 

Samson's  complaint  of  the  inconveniences  of 
imprisonment  is  not  wholly  without  verbal 
quaintness : 

1,  a  prisoner  chain'd,  scarce  freely  draw 

The  air,  imprison'd  also,  close  and  damp. 

From  the  sentiments  we  may  properly  descend 
to  the  consideration  of  the  language,  which,  in 
imitation  of  the  ancients,  is  through  the  whole 
dialogue  remarkably  simple  and  unadorned,  sel- 
dom heightened  by  epithets,  or  varied  by  figures ; 
yet  sometimes  metaphors  find  admission,  even 
where  their  consistency  is  not  accurately  pre- 
served. Thus  Samson  confounds  loquacity  with 
a  shipwreck  : 

How  could  I  once  look  up,  or  heave  the  head, 
Who,  like  a  foolish  pilot,  ha.veshipu>reck'd 
My  vessel  trusted  to  me  from  above, 
Gloriously  rigg'd ;  and  for  a  word,  a  tear, 
Fool,  have  divulg'd  the  secret  gift  of  God 
To  a  deceitful  woman ! 

And  the  chorus  talks  of  adding  fuel  to  flame  in  a 
report : 

He's  gone,  and  who  knows  bow  he  may  report 
Thy  words,  by  adding  fuel  to  thcflamt  ? 

The  versification  is  in  the  dialogue  much  more 
smooth  and  harmonious  than  in  the  parts  allotted 
to  the  chorus,  which  are  often  so  harsh  and  dis- 
sonant, as  scarce  to  preserve,  whether  the  lines 
end  with  or  without  rhymes,  any  appearance  of 
metrical  regularity : 

Or  do  my  eyes  misrepresent  ?  Can  this  be  he, 

That  heroic,  that  renown'd, 

Irresistible  Samson  ;  whom  unarmed 

No  strength  of  man,  or  fiercest  wild  beast,  could 

withstand ; 
Who  tore  the  lion,  as  the  lion  tears  the  kid  7         - 

Since  I  have  thus  pointed  out  the  faults  of 

Milton,  critical  integrity  requires  that  I  should 

ndeavour  to  display  his    excellences,  though 

hey  will  not  easily  be  discovered  in  short  quo- 

ations,  because  they  consist  in  the  justness  of 

diffuse  reasonings,  or  in  the  contexture  and  me- 

hod  of  continued  dialogues;   this  play  having 

none  of  those  descriptions,  similes,  or  splendid 

sentences,  with  which  other  tragedies  are  so  la. 

ishly  adorned. 

Yet  some  passages  may  be  selected  which 
seem  to  deserve  particular  notice,  either  as  con. 
:aining  sentiments  of  passion,  representations  of 
ife,  precepts  of  conduct,  or  sallies  of  imagina- 
tion. It  is  not  easy  to  give  a  stronger  represen- 


218 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  141. 


tation  of  the  weariness  of  despondency,  than  in 
the  worJs  of  Samson  to  his  father : 

_I  feel  my  genial  spirits  droop, 

My  hopes  all  flat;  nature  witliin  me  seems 
In  all  her  functions  weary  of  herself; 
My  race  of  glory  run,  and  race  of  shame  ; 
And  I  shall  shortly  be  with  them  that  rest. 

The  reply  of  Samson  to  the  flattering  Delilah 
affords  a  just  and  striking  description  of  the 
stratagems  and  allurements  of  feminine  hypo- 
crisy: 

Thee?  are  thy  wonted  arts, 
And  arts  of  every  woman  false  like  thee, 
To  break  all  faith,  all  vows,  deceive,  betray, 
Then  as  repentant  to  submit,  beseech, 
And  reconcilement  move  with  feign'd  remorse, 
Confess  and  promise  wonders  in  her  change  ; 
Not  truly  penitent,  but  chief  to  try 
Her  husband,  how  far  urg'd  his  patience  bears, 
His  virtue  or  weakness  which  way  to  assail ; 
Then  with  more  cautious  and  instructed  skill 
Again  transgresses  and  again  submits. 

When  Samson  has  refused  to  make  himself  a 
spectacle  at  the  feast  of  Dagon,  he  first  justifies 
his  behaviour  to  the  chorus,  who  charge  him  with 
having  served  the  Philistines,  by  a  very  just  dis- 
tinction ;  and  then  destroys  the  common  excuse 
of  cowardice  and  servility,  which  always  con- 
found temptation  with  compulsion : 

Chor.  Yet  with  thy  strength  thou  servest  the  Philistines. 

Sams.  Not  in  their  idol  worship,  but  by  labour 
Honest  and  lawful,  to  deserve  my  food 
Of  those  who  have  me  in  their  civil  power. 

Chor.  Where  the  heart  joins  not,  outward  acts  defile 
not. 

Sams.  Where  outward  force  constrains,  the  sentence 

holds, 

But  who  constrains  me  to  the  temple  of  Dagon, 
Not  dragging?  the  Philistine  lords  command. 
Commands  are  no  restraints.     Tf  1  obey  them, 
I  do  it  freely,  vent'ring  to  displease 
God  for  the  fear  of  man,  and  man  prefer, 
Set  God  behind. 

The  complaint  of  blindness  which  Samson 
pours  out  at  the  beginning  of  the  tragedy  is 
equally  addressed  to  the  passions  and  the  fancy. 
The  enumeration  of  his  miseries  is  succeeded  by 
a  very  pleasing  train  of  poetical  images,  and  con- 
cluded by  such  expostulations  and  wishes,  as 
teason  too  often  submits  to  learn  from  despair : 

O  first  created  beam,  and  thou  great  word 

Let  there  be  light,  and  light  was  over  all ; 

Why  am  I  thus  bereaved  thy  prime  decree  J 

The  sun  tome  is  dark, 

And  silent  as  the  moon, 

When  she  deserts  the  night, 

Hid  in  her  vacant  interlunar  cave, 

Since  light  so  necessary  is  to  life, 

And  almost  life  itself;  if  it  be  true, 

That  light  is  in  the  soul, 

She  all  in  every  part ;  why  was  the  sight 

To  such  a  tender  ball  as  the  eye  confined, 

Bo  obvious  and  so  easy  to  be  quench'd, 

And  not,  as  feeling,  through  all  parts  diffused 

That  she  may  look  at  will  through  every  pore? 

Such  are  the  faults  and  such  the  beauties  of 

Samson  Agonistes,  which  I  have  shown  with  no 

other  purpose  than  to  promote  the  knowledge  of 

true  criticism.    The  everlasting  verdure  of "Mil- 

s  laurels  has  nothing  to  fear  from  the  blasts  of 

tUgmtjr ;   nor  can   my  attempt  produce    any 

effect,  than  to  strengthen  their  shoots  by 

topping  their  luxuriance. 


No.  141.]       TUESDAY,  JULY  23,  1751. 

Hilarisque,  tamen  cum  pondere,  virtus.        STAT. 
Greatness  with  ease,  and  gay  severity. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

POLITICIANS  have  long  observed  that  the  greatest 
events  may  be  often  traced  back  to  slender  caus- 
es. Petty  competition  or  casual  friendship,  th*. 
prudence  of  a  slave,  or  the  garrulity  of  a  woman, 
have  hindered  or  promoted  the  most  important 
schemes,  and  hastened  or  retarded  the  revolu- 
tions of  empires. 

Whoever  shall  review  his  life  will  generally 
find  that  the  whole  tenor  of  his  conduct  has  been 
determined  by  some  accident  of  no  apparent  mo- 
ment, or  by  a  combination  of  inconsiderable  cir- 
cumstances, acting  when  his  imagination  was 
unoccupied,  and  his  judgment  unsettled ;  and 
that  his  principles  and  actions  have  taken  their 
colour  from  some  secret  infusion,  mingled  with- 
out design  in  the  current  of  his  ideas.  The  de- 
sires that  predominate  in  our  hearts  are  instilled 
by  imperceptible  communications  at  the  time 
when  we  look  upon  the  various  scenes  of  the 
world,  and  the  different  employments  of  men, 
with  the  neutrality  of  inexperience ;  and  we 
come  forth  from  the  nursery  or  the  school,  inva- 
riably destined  to  the  pursuit  of  great  acquisi- 
tions, or  petty  accomplishments. 

Such  was  the  impulse  by  which  I  have  been 
kept  in  motion  from  my  earliest  years.  I  was 
born  to  an  inheritance  which  gave  my  childhood 
a  claim  to  distinction  and  caresses,  and  was  ac- 
customed to  hear  applauses  before  they  had 
much  influence  on  my  thoughts.  The  first  praise 
of  which  I  remember  myself  sensible  was  that  of 
good-humour,  which,  whether  I  deserved  it  or  not 
when  it  was  bestowed,  I  have  since  made  it  my 
whole  business  to  propagate  and  maintain. 

When  I  was  sent  to  school,  the  gayety  of  my 
look,  and  the  liveliness  of  my  loquacity,  soon 
gained  me  admission  to  hearts  not  yet  fortified 
against  affection  by  artifice  or  interest.  I  wag 
entrusted  with  every  stratagem,  and  associated 
in  every  sport. ;  my  company  gave  alacrity  to  a 
frolic  and  gladness  to  a  holiday.  I  was  indeed 
so  much  employed  in  adjusting  or  executing 
schemes  of  diversion,  that  I  had  no  leisure  for  my 
tasks,  but  was  furnished  with  exercises,  and  in- 
structed in  my  lessons  by  some  kind  patron  of 
the  higher  classes.  My  master  not  suspecting 
my  deficiency,  or  unwilling  to  detect  what  his 
kindness  would  not  punish  nor  his  impartiality 
excuse,  allowed  me  to  escape  with  a  slight  ex- 
amination, laughed  at  the  pertness  of  my  igno- 
rance and  the  sprightliness  of  my  absurdities,  and 
could  not  forbear  to  show  that  he  regarded  me 
with  such  tenderness  as  genius  and  learning  can 
seldom  excite. 

From  school  I  was  dismissed  to  the  university, 
where  I  soon  drew  upon  me  the  notice  of  the 
younger  students,  and  was  the  constant  partner 
of  their  morning  walks  and  evening  compota- 
tions.  I  was  not  indeed  much  celebrated  for  lite- 
rature, but  was  looked  on  with  indulgence  as  a 
man  of  parts,  who  wanted  nothing  hut  the  dul- 
ness  of  a  scholar,  and  might  become  eminent 
whenever  he  should  condescend  to  labour  and 
attention.  My  tutor  a  while  reproached  me  with 


No.  142.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


negligence,  and  repressed  my  sallies  with  super- 
cilious gravity  ;  yet  having  natural  good-humour 
^lurking  in  his  heart,  he  could  not  long  hold  out 
against  the  power  of  hilarity,  but  after  a  few 
months  began  to  relax  the  muscles  of  disciplina- 
rian moroseness,  received  me  with  smiles  after 
an  elopement,  and  that  he  might  not  betray  his 
trust  to  his  fondness,  was  content  to  spare  my 
dMijrence  by  increasing  his  own. 

Thus  I  continued  to  dissipate  the  gloom  of  col- 
legiate austerity,  to  waste  my  own  life  in  idle- 
ness, and  lure  others  from  their  studies,  till  the 
happy  hour  arrived  when  I  was  sent  to  London. 
I  soon  discovered  the  town  to  be  the  proper  ele- 
ment of  youth  and  gayety,  and  was  quickly  dis- 
tinguished as  a  wit  by  the  ladies,  a  species  of 
beings  only  heard  of  at  the  university,  whom  I 
had  no  sooner  the  happiness  of  approaching  than 
I  devoted  all  my  faculties  to  the  ambition  of 
pleasing  them. 

A  wit,  Mr.  Rambler,  in  the  dialect  of  ladies,  is 
not  always  a  man  who  by  the  action  of  a  vigor- 
ous fancy  upon  comprehensive  knowledge  brings 
distant  ideas  unexpectedly  together,  who  by  some 
peculiar  acuteness  discovers  resemblances  in 
objects  dissimilar  to  common  eyes,  or,  by  mixing 
heterogeneous  notions, dazzles  the  attention  with 
sudden  scintillations  of  conceit,  A  lady's  wit  is 
a  man  who  can  make  ladies  laugh,  to  which, 
however  easy  it  may  seem,  many  gifts  of  nature 
and  attainments  of  art  must  commonly  concur. 
He  that  hopes  to  be  received  as  a  wit  in  female 
assemblies  should  have  a  form  neither  so  amiable 
as  to  strike  with  admiration,  nor  so  coarse  as  to 
raise  disgust,  with  an  understanding  too  feeble 
to  be  dreaded,  and  too  forcible  to  be  despised. 
The  other  parts  of  the  character  are  more  sub- 
ject to  variation :  it  was  formerly  essential  to  a 
wit,  that  half  his  back  should  be  covered  with  a 
snowy  fleece ;  and  at  a  time  yet  more  remote, 
no  man  was  a  wit  without  his  boots.  -  In  the 
davs  of  the  "  Spectator"  a  snuffbox  seems  to  be 
indispensable  ;  but  in  my  time  an  embroidered 
coat  was  sufficient,  without  any  precise  regula- 
tion of  the  rest  of  his  dress. 

But  wigs  and  boots  and  snuffboxes  are  vain, 
without  a  perpetual  resolution  to  be  merry,  and 
who  can  always  find  supplies  of  mirth  ?  Juve- 
nal, indeed,  in  his  comparison  of  the  two  oppo- 
site philosophers,  wonders  only  whence  an  un- 
exhausted fountain  of  tears  could  be  discharged  ; 
but  had  Juvenal,  with  all  his  spirit,  undertaken 
my  province,  he  would  have  found  constant 
gayety  equally  difficult  to  be  supported.  Con- 
sider, Mr.  Rambler,  and  compassionate  the  con- 
dition of  a  man  who  has  taught  every  company 
to  expect  from  him  a  continual  feast  of  laughter, 
an  unintennitted  stream  of  jocularity.  The  task 
of  every  other  slave  has  an  end.  The  rower  in 
tim'3  reaches  the  port ;  the  lexicographer  at  last 
finds  the  conclusion  of  his  alphabet ;  only  the 
hanlcss  wit  has  his  labour  always  to  begin  ;  the 
call  for  novelty  is  never  satisfied,  and  one  jest 
only  raises  expectation  of  another. 

I  know  that  among  men  of  learning  and  as- 
perity the  retainers  to  the  female  world  are  not 
much  regarded  :  yet  I  cannot  but  hope  that,  if 
you  knew  at  how  dear  a  rate  our  honours  are 
purchased,  you  would  look  w  ith  some  gratula- 
tion  on  our  success,  and  with  some  pity  on  our 
miscarriages.  Think  on  the  misery  of  him  who 
is  condemned  to  cultivate  barrenness  and  ran- 


sack vacuity ;  who  is  obliged  to  continue  his  talk 
when  his  meaning  is  spent,  to  raise  merriment 
without  images,  to  harass  his  imagination  in 
quest  of  thoughts  which  he  cannot  start,  and 
his  memory  in  pursuit  of  narratives  which  he 
cannot  overtake  ;  observe  the  effort  with  which 
he  strains  to  conceal  despondency  by  a  smile, 
and  the  distress  in  which  he  sits  while  the  eyes 
of  the  company  are  fixed  upon  him  as  their  last 
refuge  from  silence  and  dejection. 

It  were  endless  to  recount  the  shifts  to  which 
I  have  been  reduced,  or  to  enumerate  the  differ- 
ent species  of  artificial  wit.  I  regularly  fre- 
quented coffee-houses,  and  have  often  lived  a 
week  upon  an  expression,  of  which  he  who  drop- 
ped it  did  not  know  the  value.  When  fortune 
did  not  favour  my  erratic  industry,  I  gleaned  jests 
at  home  from  obsolete  farces.  To  collect  wit 
was  indeed  safe,  for  I  consorted  with  none  that 
looked  much  into  books,  but  to  disperse  it  was 
the  difficulty.  A  seeming  negligence  was  often 
useful,  and  I  have  very  successfully  made  a 
reply  not  to  what  the  lady  had  said,  but  to  what 
it  was  convenient  for  me  to  hear ;  for  very  few 
were  so  perverse  as  to  rectify  a  mistake  which 
had  given  occasion  to  a  burst  of  merriment. 
Sometimes  I  drew  the  conversation  up  by  de- 
grees to  a  proper  point,  and  produced  a  conceit 
which  I  had  treasured  up,  like  sportsmen  who 
boast  of  killing  the  foxes  which  they  lodge  in  the 
covert.  Eminence  is  however,  in  some  happy 
moments,  gained  at  less  expense  ;  I  have  de- 
lighted a  whole  circle  at  one  time  with  a  series 
of  quibbles,  and  made  myself  good  company  at 
another  by  scalding  my  fingers,  or  mistaking  a 
lady's  lap  for  my  own  chair. 

These  are  artful  deceits  and  useful  expedients  ; 
but  expedients  are  at  length  exhausted,  and  de- 
ceits detected.  Time  itself,  among  other  inju- 
ries, diminishes  the  power  of  pleasing,  and  I  now 
find,  in  my  forty-fifth  year,  many  pranks  and 
pleasantries  very  coldly  received,  which  had  for- 
merly filled  a  whole  room  with  jollity  and  accla- 
mation. I  am  under  the  melancholy  necessity 
of  supporting  that  character  by  study,  which  I 
gained  by  levity,  having  learned  too  late  that 
gayety  must  be  recommended  by  higher  quali- 
ties, and  that  mirth  can  never  please  long  but  as 
the  efflorescence  of  a  mind  loved  for  its  luxu- 
riance, but  esteemed  for  its  usefulness. 
I  am,  &c. 

PAPILIUS. 


No.  142.]    SATURDAY,  JULY  27,  1751. 

Ei»0a  £'  i.vhp  tvlave  irsXtS 


Ka?  yap  Bavji^  IrfroKTO  irtXcSptov,  oiSe  liixet 
Avept  atToQayui.  HO 

A  giant  shepherd  here  his  flock  maintain^ 
Far  from  the  rest,  and  solitary  reigrns, 
In  shelter  thick  of  horrid  shade  reclined: 
And  gloomy  mischiefs  labour  in  his  mind. 
A  form  enormous  !  far  unlike  the  race 
Of  human  birth,  in  stature  or  in  face. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


HAVING  been  accustomed  to  retire  annually 
from  the  town,  I  lately  accepted  the  invitation 
of  Eugenio,  who  has  an  estate  and  seat  in  a  dis- 
tant  county.  As  we  ^ere  unwilling  to  travel 


220 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  142. 


vithout  improvement,  we  turned  often  from  the 
direct  road  to  please  ourselves  with  the  view  ot 
nature  or  of  art;  we  examined  every  wild  moun- 
tain and  medicinal  spring,  criticised  every  edifice, 
contemplated  every  ruin,  and  compared  every 
scene  of  action  with  the  narratives  of  historians. 
By  this  succession  of  amusements  we  enjoyed 
the  exercise  of  a  journey  without  suffering  the 
fatigue,  and  had  nothing  to  regret  but  that  by  a 
progress  so  leisurely  and  gentle  we  missed  the 
adventures  of  a  post-chaise,  and  the  pleasure  of 
alarming  villages  with  the  tumult  of  our  passage, 
and  of  disguising  our  insignificancy  by  the  dig- 
nity of  hurry. 

The  first  week  after  our  arrival  at  Eugenie's 
house,  was  passed  in  receiving  visits  from  his 
neighbours,  who  crowded  about  him  with  all  the 
eagerness  of  benevolence ;  some  impatient  to 
learn  the  news  of  the  court  in  town,  that  they 
might  be  qualified  by  authentic  information  to 
dictate  to  the  rural  politicians  on  the  next  bowl- 
ing day ;  others  desirous  of  his  interest  to  accom- 
modate disputes,  or  of  his  advice  in  the  settle- 
ment of  their  fortunes  and  the  marriage  of  their 
children. 

The  civilities  which  he  had  received  were  soon 
to  be  returned ;  and  I  passed  some  time  with 
great  satisfaction  in  roving  through  the  country, 
and  viewing  the  seats,  gardens,  and  plantations 
which  are  scattered  over  iL  My  pleasure  would 
indeed  have  been  greater  had  I  been  sometimes 
allowed  to  wander  in  a  park  or  wilderness  alone ; 
but  to  appear  as  the  friend  of  Eugenio  was  an 
honour  not  to  be  enjoyed  without  some  inconve- 
niences ;  so  much  was  every  one  solicitous  for 
my  regard,  that  I  could  seldom  escape  to  soli- 
tude, or  steal  a  moment  from  the  emulation  of 
complaisance,  and  the  vigilance  of  officiousness. 

In  these  rambles  of  good  neighbourhood,  we 
frequently  passed  by  a  house  of  unusual  magni- 
ficence. When  I  had  my  curiosity  yet  distracted 
among  many  novelties,  it  did  not  much  attract 
my  observation ;  but  in  a  short  time  I  could  not 
forbear  surveying  it  with  particular  notice  ;  for 
the  length  of  the  wall  which  inclosed  the  gar- 
dens, the  disposition  of  the  shades  that  waved 
over  it,  and  the  canals  of  which  I  could  obtain 
some  glimpses  through  the  trees  from  our  own 
windows,  gave  me  reason  to  expect  more  gran- 
deur and  beauty  than  I  had  yet  seen  in  that 
province.  I  therefore  inquired  as  we  rode  by  it, 
why  we  never,  amongst  our  excursions,  spent  an 
hour  where  there  was  such  an  appearance  of 
splendour  and  affluence  ?  Eugenio  told  me  that 
the  seat  which  I  so  much  admired  was  com- 
monly called  in  the  country  the  haunted  house, 
and  that  no  visits  were  paid  there  by  any  of  the 
gentlemen  whom  I  had  yet  seen.  As  the  haunts 
of  incorporeal  beings  are  generally  ruinous,  ne- 
glected and  desolate,!  easily  conceived  that  there 
was  something  to  be  explained,  and  told  him 
that  I  supposed  it  only  fairy  ground,  on  which 
we  might  venture  by  daylight  without  danger. 
The  danger,  says  he,  is  indeed  only  that  of  ap- 
pearing to  solicit  the  acquaintance  of  a  man, 
with  whom  it  is  not  possible  to  converse  without 
infamy,  and  who  has  driven  from  him,  by  his 
insolence  or  malignity,  every  human  being  who 
can  live  without  him. 

Our  conversation  was  then  accidentally  inter- 
rupted, but  my  inquisitive  humour  being  now  in 
motion,  could  not  rest  without  a  full  account  of 


this  newly-discovered  prodigy.  I  was  soon  in- 
formed that  the  fine  house  and  spacious  gardens 
were  haunted  by  squire  Bluster,  of  whom  it  was 
very  easy  to  learn  the  character,  since  nobody 
had  regard  for  him  sufficient  to  hinder  them  from 
telling  whatever  they  could  discover. 

Squire  Bluster  is  descended  of  an  ancient  fa- 
mily. The  estate  which,  his  ancestors  had  im- 
memorially  possessed  was  much  augmented  by 
Captain  Bluster,  who  served  under  Drake  in  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth ;  and  the  Blusters,  who  were 
before  only  petty  gentlemen,  have  from  that 
time  frequently  represented  the  shire  in  parlia- 
ment, been  chosen  to  present  addresses,  and 
given  laws  at  hunting-matches  and  races.  They 
were  eminently  hospitable  and  popular,  till  the 
father  of  this  gentleman  died  of  an  election. 
His  lady  went  to  the  grave  soon  after  him,  and 
left  the  heir,  then  only  ten  years  old,  to  the  care 
of  his  grandmother,  who  would  not  suffer  him  to 
be  controlled,  because  she  could  not  bear  to  hear 
him  cry;  and  never  sent  him  to  school,  because 
she  was  not  able  to  live  without  his  company. 
She  taught  him  however  very  early  to  inspect 
the  steward's  accounts,  to  dog  the  butler  from 
the  cellar,  and  to  catch  the  servantsat  a  junket; 
so  that  he  was  at  the  age  of  eighteen  a  complete 
master  of  all  the  lower  arts  of  domestic  policy, 
had  often  on  the  road  detected  combinations  be- 
tween the  coachman  and  the  ostler,  and  pro- 
cured the  discharge  of  nineteen  maids  for  illicit 
correspondence  with  cottagers  and  char-women. 

By  the  opportunities  of  parsimony  which  mi- 
nority affords,  and  which  the  probity  of  his  guar- 
dians had  diligently  improved,  a  very  large  sum 
of  money  was  accumulated,  and  he  found  him- 
self when  he  took  his  affairs  into  his  own  hands 
the  richest  man  in  the  county.  It  has  been  long 
the  custom  of  this  family  to  celebrate  the  heir's 
completion  of  his  twenty-first  year  by  an  enter- 
tainment, at  which  the  house  is  thrown  opr:n  to 
all  that  are  inclined  to  enter  it,  and  the  whole 
province  flocks  together  as  to  a  general  festivity. 
On  this  occasion  young  Bluster  exhibited  the 
first  tokens  of  his  future  eminence,  by  shaking 
his  purse  at  an  oM  gentleman  who  had  been  the 
intimate  friend  of  his  father,  and  offering  to 
wager  a  greater  sum  than  he  could  afford  to 
venture  ;  a  practice  with  which  he  has  at  one 
time  or  other  insulted  every  freeholder  within  ten 
miles  round  him. 

His  next  acts  of  offence  were  committed  in  a 
contentious  and  spiteful  vindication  of  the  privi- 
leges of  his  manors,  and  a  rigorous  and  relentless 
prosecution  of  every  man  that  presumed  to  vio- 
late his  game.  As  he  happens  to  have  no  estate 
adjoining  equal  to  his  own,  his  oppressions  are 
often  borne  without  resistance  for  fear  of  a  long 
suit,  of  which  he  delights  to  count  the  expenses 
without  the  least  solicitude  about  the  event ;  for 
he  knows  that  where  nothing  but  an  honorary 
right  is  contested,  the  poorer  antagonist  must  al- 
ways suffer,  whatever  shall  be  the  last  decision  of 
the  law. 

By  the  success  of  some  of  these  disputes  he  has 
so  elated  his  insolence,  and  by  reflection  upon  the 
general  hatred  which  they  have  brought  upon 
him  so  irritated  his  virulence,  that  his  whole  life 
is  spent  in  meditating  or  executing  mischief.  It 
is  his  common  practice  to  procure  his  hedges  to 
be  broken  in  the  night,  and  then  to  demand  satis- 
faction  for  damages  which  his  grounds  have  suf- 


No.  143.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


221 


fered  from  his  neighbour's  cattle.  An  old  widow 
was  yesterday  soliciting  Eugenio  to  enable  her  to 
replevin  her  only  cow,  then  in  the  pound  by 
squire  Bluster's  order,  who  had  sent  one  of  his 
agents  to  take  advantage  of  her  calamity,  and 

Eersuade  her  to  stll  the  cow  at  an  under-rate.  He 
as  driven  a  day-labourer  from  his  cottage  for 
gathering  blackberries  in  a  hedge  for  his  children, 
and  has  now  an  old  woman  in  the  county-jail  for 
a  trespass  which  she  committed,  by  coming  into 
his  ground  to  pick  up  acorns  for  her  hog. 

Money,  in  whatever  hands,  will  confer  power. 
Distress  will  fly  to  immediate  refuge  without 
much  consideration  of  remote  consequences. 
Bluster  has  therefore  a  despotic  authority  in 
many  families,  whom  he  has  assisted,  on  press- 
ing occasions,  with  larger  sums  than  they  can 
easily  repay.  The  only  visits  that  he  makes  are 
to  these  houses  of  misfortune,  where  he  enters 
with  the  insolence  of  absolute  command,  enjoys 
the  terrors  of  the  family,  exacts  their  obedience, 
riots  at  their  charge,  and  in  the  height  of  his  joy 
insults  the  father  with  menaces,  and  the  daugh- 
ters with  obscenity. 

He  is  of  late  somewhat  less  offensive ;  for  one 
of  his  debtors,  after  gentle  expostulations,  by 
which  he  was  only  irritated  to  grosser  outrage, 
seized  him  by  the  sleeve,  led  him  trembling  into 
the  court-yard,  and  closed  the  door  upon  him  in 
a  stormy  night.  He  took  his  usual  revenge  next 
morning  by  a  writ ;  but  the  debt  was  discharged 
by  the  assistance  of  Eugenio. 

It  is  his  rule  to  suffer  his  tenants  to  owe  him 
rent,  because  by  this  indulgence  he  secures  to 
himself  the  power  of  seizure  whenever  he  has 
an  inclination  to  amuse  himself  with  calamity, 
and  feast  his  ears  with  entreaties  and  lamenta- 
tions. Yet  as  he  is  sometimes  capriciously  libe- 
ral to  those  whom  he  happens  to  adopt  as  fa- 
vourites, and  lets  his  lands  at  a  cheap  rate,  his 
farms  are  never  long  unoccupied ;  and  when 
one  is  ruined  by  oppression,  the  possibility  of 
better  fortune  quickly  lures  another  to  supply  his 
place. 

Such  is  the  life  of  Squire  Bluster ;  a  man  in 
whose  power  fortune  has  liberally  placed  the 
means  of  happiness,  but  who  has  defeated  all  her 
gifts  of  their  end  by  the  depravity  of  his  mind. 
He  is  wealthy  without  followers  ;  he  is  magnifi- 
cent, without  witnesses  ;  he  has  birth  without  al- 
liance, and  influence  without  dignity.  His  neigh- 
bours scorn  him  as  a  brute;  his  dependants  dread 
him  as  an  oppressor;  and  he  has  only  the  gloomy 
comfort  of  reflecting,  that  if  he  is  hated  he  is  like- 
wise feared. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

VAGULUS. 


No.  143.]      TUESDAY,  JULY  30,  1751. 

— Movcat  eornicula  risum 
Furticisnudata  caloribus. HOR. 

Lest  v/hon  the  birds  their  various  colours  claim 
Stripp'd  of  his  stolen  pride,  the  crow  forlorn 
Should  stand  the  laughter  of  the  public  scorn. 

FRANCIS. 

AMONG  the  innumerable  practices  by  which  in- 
terest or  envy  has  taught  those  who  live  upon 
literary  fame  to  disturb  each  other  at  their  airy 
banquets,  one  of  the  most  common  is  the  charge 


of  plagiarism.  When  the  excellence  of  a  new 
composition  can  no  longer  be  contested,  and 
malice  is  compelled  to  give  way  to  the  unani- 
mity of  applause,  there  is  yet  this  one  expedient 
to  be  tried,  by  which  the  author  may  be  do 
graded,  though  his  work  be  reverenced ;  and  the 
excellence  which  we  cannot  obscure,  may  be  set 
at  such  a  distance  as  not  to  overpower  our  faint- 
er lustre. 

This  accusation  is  dangerous,  because,  even 
when  it  is  false,  it  may  be  sometimes  urged  with 
probability.  Bruyere  declares  that  we  are  come 
into  the  world  too  late  to  produce  any  thing  new, 
that  nature  and  life  are  preoccupied,  and  that 
description  and  sentiment  have  been  long  fx 
hausted.  It  is  indeed  certain,  that  whoever  at- 
tempts any  common  topic,  will  find  unexpected 
coincidences  of  his  thoughts  with  those  of  other 
writers  ;  nor  can  the  nicest  judgment  always  dis- 
tinguish accidental  similitude  from  artful  imita- 
tion. There  is  likewise  a  common  stock  of  ima- 
ges, a  settled  mode  of  arrangement,  and  a  beaten 
track  of  transition,  which  all  authors  suppose 
themselves  at  liberty  to  use,  and  which  produce 
the  resemblance  generally  observable  among 
contemporaries.  So  that  in  books  which  best 
deserve  the  name  of  originals,  there  is  little  new 
beyond  the  disposition  of  materials  already  pro- 
vided ;  the  same  ideas  and  combinations  of  ideas 
have  been  long  in  the  possession  of  other  hands  ; 
and,  by  restoring  to  every  man  his  own,  as  the 
Romans  must  have  returned  to  their  cots  from 
the  possession  of  the  world,  so  the  most  inventive 
and  fertile  genius  would  reduce  his  folios  to  a  few 
pages.  Yet  the  author  who  imitates  his  prede- 
cessors only  by  furnishing  himself  with  thoughts 
and  elegances  out  of  the  same  general  magazine 
of  literature,  can  with  little  more  propriety  be  re- 
proached as  a  plagiary,  than  the  architect  can  be 
censured  as  a  mean  copier  of  Angelo  or  Wren, 
because  he  digs. his  marble  from  the  same  quarry, 
squares  his  stones  by  the  same  art,  and  unites 
them  in  columns  of  the  same  orders. 

Many  subjects  fall  under  the  consideration  of 
an  author,  which  being  limited  by  nature,  can 
admit  only  of  slight  and  accidental  diversities. 
All  definitions  of  the  same  thing  must  be  nearly 
the  same ;  and  descriptions,  which  are  defini 
tions  of  a  more  lax  and  fanciful  kind,  must  al 
ways  have  in  some  degree  that  resemblance  to 
each  other  which  they  all  have  to  their  object. 
Different  poets  describing  the  spring  or  the  sea 
would  mention  the  zephyrs  and  the  flowers,  the 
billows  and  the  rocks ;  reflecting  on  human  life, 
they  would,  without  anv  communication  of  opi- 
nions, lament  the  deceitfulness  of  hope,  the  fu- 
gacity  of  pleasure,  the  fragility  of  beauty,  and 
the  frequency  of  calamity :  and  for  palliatives  of 
these  incurable  miseries,  they  would  concur  in 
recommending  kindness,  temperance,  caution, 
and  fortitude. 

When  therefore  there  are  found  in  Virgil  and 
Horace  two  similar  passages : 

JJa.  tibi  ervnt  aries 

Parcere  subjectis,  et  debellarc  ruperbot. 

TIM. 

To  tame  the  proud,  the  fetter'd  slave  to  freet 
These  are  imperial  arts,  and  worthy  tliee. 

DRTDBW. 

Imperil  bettante  prior,  jacentem 

Lenis  in  hottem.  HORC 


222 


THE  RAMBLER. 


LNo.  143. 


Let  Ctesar  spread  bis  conquests  far. 
Less  pleased  to  triumph  than  to  spare. 


it  is  surely  not  necessary  to  suppose  with  a  late 
critic,  that  one  is  copied  from  the  other,  since 
neither  Virgil  nor  Horace  can  be  supposed  ig- 
norant of  the  common  duties  of  humanity,  and 
the  virtue  of  moderation  in  success. 

Cicero  and  Ovid  have  on  very  different  occa- 
sions remarked  how  little  of  the  honour  of  a  vic- 
tory belongs  to  the  general,  when  his  soldiers 
and  his  fortune  have  made  their  deductions;  yet 
why  should  Ovid  be  suspected  to  have  owed  to 
Tully  an  observation  which  perhaps  occurs  to 
every  man  that  sees  or  hears  of  military  glories  ? 

Tully  observes  of  Achilles,  that  had  not 
Homer  written,  his  valour  had  been  without 
praise. 

[fisi  Tlia»  ilia  eztitisset,  idem  tumulus  qui  corpus  ejua 
contezerct,  nomen  ejus  obruisset. 

Unless  the  Iliad  had  been  published,  his  name  had  been 
lost  in  the  tomb  that  covered  his  body. 

Horace  tells  us  with  more  energy  that  there 
were  brave  men  before  the  wars  of  Troy,  but 
they  were  lost  in  oblivion  for  want  of  a  poet: 

yixere  fortes  ante  Agamemnona 

Multi ;  ted  omnr.s  illachrymabilet 

Urgenttir,  ignotique  longa 

AocJe,  carent  quid  vote  sacra. 

Before  great  Agamemnon  reign'd, 
Reigu'd  kings  us  great  as  he,  and  brave, 

Whose  huge  ambition's  now  coutain'd 
In  the  small  compass  of  a  grave  ; 

In  endless  night  they  sleep,  unwept,  unknown, 

No  bard  had  they  to  make  all  time  their  own. 

FRANCIS. 

Tully  inquires,  in  the  same  oration,  why,  but 
for  fame,  we  disturb  a  short  life  with  so  many 
fatigues  ? 

Quid  at  quod  in  hoc  tarn  exipuo  rittt  curricula  et  tarn 
brevi,  tantit  noiinlaboribus  ezerceamus? 

Why  in  so  small  a  circuit  of  life  should  we  employ  our- 
selves in  so  many  fatigues  3 

Horace  inquires  in  the  same  manner, 

Qmrf  breti  fortes jaculamur  sea 
Multa? 

Why  do  we  aim,  with  eager  strife, 

At  things  beyoud  the  mark  of  life  3  FRANCIS. 

when  our  life  is  of  so  short  duration,  why  we  form 
such  numerous  designs?  Rut  Horace,  as  well  as 
Tully,  might  discover  that  records  are  needful  to 
{freserve  the  memory  of  actions,  and  that  no  re- 
cords were  so  durable  as  poems  ;  either  of  them 
might  find  out  that  life  is  short,  and  that  we  con- 
sume it  in  unnecessary  labour. 

There  are  other  flowers  of  fiction  so  widely 
scattered  and  so  easily  cropped,  that  it  is  scarcely 
just  to  tax  the  use  of  them  as  an  act  by  which  any 
particular  writer  is  despoiled  of  his  garland ;  for 
they  may  be  said  to  have  been  planted  by  the  an- 
cierts  in  the  open  road  of  poetry  for  the  accom- 
modation of  their  successors,  and  to  be  the  right 
of  every  one  that  has  art  to  pluck  them  without 
injuring  their  colours  or  their  fragrance.  The 
passage  of  Orpheus  to  hell,  with  the  recovery  and 
second  loss  of  Eurydice,  have  been  described  af- 


ter Boethius  by  Pope,  in  such  a  manner  as  might 
justly  leave  him  suspected  of  imitation,  were  not 
the  images  such  as  they  might  both  have  derived 
from  more  ancient  writers. 

Qua  sonte.s  agitant  metu 
Uitrices  scelerum  detr. 
Jam  mttstai  lacrymis  madent, 
Non  IxioHium  caput 
Velox  prtccipitat  rota, 

The  powers  of  vengeance,  while  they  he«r, 

Touch'd  with  compassion,  drop  a  tear ; 

Ixion's  rapid  wheel  is  bound, 

Fiz'd  in  attention  to  the  sound.  F.  LEWI* 

Thy  stone,  O  Sysiphus,  stands  still, 
Ixion  rests  upon  his  wheel, 

And  the  pale  spectres  dance! 
The  furies  sink  upon  their  iron  beds. 

Tandem,  vincimur,  arbiter 
Umbrarum,  miicrans,  ait 
Donemus,  comitem  viro, 
Emtam  carmine,  conjugem. 

Subdued  at  length,  Hell's  pitying  monarch  cried. 
The  song  rewarding,  let  us  yield  the  bride. 

F.  LEWIS. 

He  sung,  and  Hell  consented 

To  hear  the  poet's  prayer  j 
Stern  Proserpine  relented, 

And  gave  him  back  the  fair 

Heti,noctisprope  terminot 
Orpheus  Eurydicen  suam 
Vidii,  perdidit,  occidit. 

Nor  yet  the  golden  verge  of  day  begun, 

When  Orpheus,  her  unhappy  lord, 

Eurydice  to  life  restor'd, 
At  once  beheld,  and  lost,  and  was  undone. 

F.  LEWIS. 

But  soon,  too  soon,  the  lover  turns  his  eyes  j 
Again  she  falls,  again  she  dies,  she  dies ! 

No  writer  can  be  fully  convicted  of  imitation, 
except  there  is  a  concurrence  of  more  resem- 
blance than  can  be  imagined  to  have  happened 
by  chance ;  as  where  the  same  ideas  are  conjoin- 
ed without  any  natural  series  or  necessary  cohe- 
rence, or  where  not  only  the  thought  but  the 
words  are  copied.  Thus  it  can  scarcely  be 
doubted,  that  in  the  first  of  the  following  pas- 
sages Pope  remembered  Ovid,  and  that  in  the 
second  he  copied  Crashaw  : 

Sape  pater  dixit,  stadium  quid  inutile  tentas? 

Maonides  nullas  ipse  reliquit  opes 

Sponte  sua  carmen  numeros  venicbat  ad  aptot. 

Et  quod  conabar  scribere,  versus  erat. — OVID 

Quit,  quit  this  barren  trade,  my  father  cried  j 

Even  Homer  left  no  riches  when  he  died 

In  verse  spontaneous  flowed  my  native  strain, 
Forced  by  no  sweat  or  labour  of  the  brain. 

F.  LEWIS 

I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade ; 

No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobey'd ; 

While  yet  a  child,  ere  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 

I  lisp'd  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came. — POPE. 


-This  plain  floor, 


Believe  me,  reader,  can  say  more 
Than  many  a  braver  marble  can, 
Here  lies  a  truly  honest  man.  CRASHAW 

This  modest  stone,  what  few  vain  marbles  can, 

May  truly  gay,  Here  lies  an  honest  man.  POPE. 

Conceits,  or   thoughts  not  immediately  im- 
pressed by  sensible  objects,  or  necessarily  arising 


No.  144.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


223 


from  the  coalition  or  comparison  of  common 
sentiments,  may  be  with  great  justice  suspected 
whenever  they  are  found  a  second  time.  Thus 
Waller  probably  owed  to  Grotius  an  elegant 
compliment:  • 

Here  lies  the  learned  Savil's  heir, 

So  early  wise,  and  lasting  fair, 

That  nuiie,  except  her  years  they  told, 

Thought  her  a  child,  or  thought  her  old. 

WALLER. 

Unica  lux  sacli,  genitoris  gloria,  nemo 
QUCIH  pucrum,  nemo  credidit  esse  senem. 

GROTIUS. 

The  nge's  miracle,  his  father's  joy ! 

Nor  old  you  would  prouounce  him,  nor  a  boy. 

F.  LEWIS. 

And  Prior  was  indebted  for  a  pretty  illustra- 
(v?n  to  Allejwe's  poetical  history  of  Henry  the 
Seventh. 

For  nought  but  light  itself,  itself  can  show, 
And  only  kings  can  write,  what  kings  can  do. 

^LLEYNE. 

Your  music's  power,  your  music  must  disclose, 
For  what  light  is,  'tis  only  light  that  shows. 

PRIOR. 

And  with  yet  more  certainty  may  the  same 
rt-riter  be  censured  for  endeavouring  the  clan- 
destine appropriation  of  a  thought  which  he  bor- 
rowed, surely  without  thinking  himself  disgraced, 
from  an  epigram  of  Plato : 

Ti;  flatplrj  rb  Kdroitrpov'  IKU  Toirj  fjiev  boacQat 
QiiK  iOlXia,  oirj  &'  ijv  irdoos,  oil  ivvanai. 

Venus  take  my  votive  glass, 
Since  I  am  not  what  1  was  ; 
What  from  this  day  I  shall  be, 
Venus,  let  me  never  see. 

As  not  every  instance  of  similitude  can  be  con- 
sidered as  a  proof  of  imitation,  so  not  every  imi- 
tation ought  to  be  stigmatized  as  plagiarism. 
The  adoption  of  a  noble  sentiment,  or  the  in- 
sertion of  a  borrowed  ornament,  may  sometimes 
display  so  much  judgment  as  will  almost  com- 
pensate for  invention :  and  an  inferior  genius 
may,  without  any  imputation  of  servility,  pursue 
the  path  of  the  ancients,  provided  he  declines  to 
tread  in  their  footsteps. 


No.  144.]       SATURDAY,  AUG.  3,  1751. 

Dapfmidis  arcum 

Frgisti  et  calamos  :  gu<z  tu,  perverse  Menalca, 
Et  cum  rAdistipuero  donata,  dolcbas ; 
Et  si  non  aliqua  nocuisses,  mortuus  esses. — VIRG. 

The  bow  of  Daphnis  and  the  shafts  you  broke  ; 
When  the  fair  boy  receiv'd  the  gift  of  right ; 
find  but  for  mischief,  you  had  died  for  spite. 

DRTDEN. 

IT  is  impossible  to  mingle  in  conversation  with- 
out observing  the  difficulty  with  which  a  new 
name  makes  its  way  into  the  world.  The  first 
appearance  of  excellence  unites  multitudes 
against  it ;  unexpected  opposition  rises  upon 
every  side ;  the  celebrated  and  the  obscure  join 
in  the  confederacy ;  subtilty  furnishes  arms  to 
impudence,  and  invention  leads  on  credulity. 


The  strength  and  unanimity  of  this  alliance  is 
not  easily  conceived.  It  might  be  expected  that 
no  man  should  suffer  his  heart  to  be  inflamed 
with  malice,  but  by  injuries ;  that  none  should 
busy  himself  in  contesting  the  pretensions  of  an- 
other, but  whan  some  right  of  his  own  was  involv- 
ed in  the  question ;  that  at  least  hostilities  com- 
menced without  cause,  should  quickly  cease ; 
that  the  armies  of  malignity  should  soon  dis 
perse,  when  no  common  interest  could  be  found 
to  hold  them  together ;  and  that  the  attack  upon 
a  rising  character  should  be  left  to  those  who  had 
something  to  hope  or  fear  from  the  event. 

The  hazards  of  those  that  aspire  to  eminence, 
would  be  much  diminished  if  they  had  none 
but  acknowledged  rivals  to  encounter.  Their 
enemies  would  then  be  few,  and  what  is  of  yet 
greater  importance,  would  be  known.  But  what 
caution  is  sufficient  to  ward  off  the  blows  of  invi- 
sible assailants,  or  what  force  can  stand  against 
unremitted  attacks,  and  a  continual  succession 
of  enemies  ?  Yet  such  is  the  state  of  the  woild, 
that  no  sooner  can  any  man  emerge  from  the 
crowd,  and  fix  the  eyes  of  the  public  upon  him, 
than  he^ands  as  a  mark  to  the  arrows  of  lurking 
calumny,  and  receives  in  the  tumult  of  hostility, 
from  distant  and  from  nameless  hands,  wounds 
not  always  easy  to  be  cured. 

It  is  probable  that  the  onset  against  the  candi- 
dates for-  renown  is  originally  incited  by  those 
who  imagine  themselves  in  danger  of  suffering 
by  their  success ;  but,  when  war  is  once  declar- 
ed, volunteers  flock  to  the  standard,  multitudes 
follow  the  camp  only  (or  want  of  employment, 
and"*rlying  squadrons  are  dispersed  to  every  part, 
so  pleased  with  an  opportunity  of  mischief,  that 
they  toil  without  prospect  of  praise,  and  pillage 
without  hope  of  profit. 

When  any  man  has  endeavoured  to  deserve 
distinction,  he  will  be  surprised  to  hear  himself 
censured  where  he  could  not  expect  to  have  been 
named  ;  he  will  find  the  utmost  acrimony  of  ma- 
lice among  those  whom  he  never  could  have  of- 
fended. 

As  there  are  to  be  found  in  the  service  of  envy 
men  of  every  diversity  of  temper  and  degree  of 
understanding,  calumny  is  diffused  by  all  arts 
and  methods  of  propagation.  Nothing  is  too 
gross  or  too  refined,  too  cruel  or  too  trifling  to  be 
practised ;  <very  little  regard  is  had  to  the  rules  of 
honourable  hostility,  but  every  weapon  is  ac- 
counted lawful,  and  those  that  cannot  make  a 
thrust  at  life  are  content  to  keep  themselves  in 
play  with  petty  malevolence,  to  teaze  with  fee- 
ble blows  and  impotent  disturbance. 

But  as  the  industry  of  observation  has  divided 
the  most  miscellaneous  and  confused  assemblages 
into  proper  classes,  and  ranged  the  insects  of  the 
summer,  that  torment  us  with  their  drones  or 
stings,  by  their  several  tribes ;  the  persecutors  ot 
merit,  notwithstanding  their  numbers  may  be 
likewise  commodiously  distinguished  into  Roar- 
ers, Whisperers,  and  Moderators. 

The  Roarer  is  an  enemy  rather  terrible  than 
dangerous.  He  has  no  other  qualification  for  a 
champion  of  controversy  than  a  hardened  front 
and  strong  voice.  Having  seldom  so  much  de- 
sire to  confute  as  to  silence,  he  depends  rather 
upon  vociferation  than  argument,  and  has  very 
little  care  to  adjust  one  part  of  his  accusation  to 
another,  to  preserve  decency  in  his  language,  or 
probability  in  his  narratives.  He  has  always  a 


224 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  145. 


store  of  reproachful  epithets  and  contemptuous 
appellations,  ready  to  be  produced  as  occasion 
may  require,  which  by  constant  use  he  pours  out 
with  resistless  volubility.  If  the  wealth  of  a  trader 
is  mentioned,  he  without  hesitation  devotes  him 
to  bankruptcy  ;  if  the  beauty  and  elegance  of  a 
lady  be  commended,  he  wonders  how  the  town 
can  full  in  love  with  rustic  deformity ;  if  a  new 
performance  of  genius  happens  to  be  celebrated, 
he  pronounces  the  writer  a  hopeless  idiot,  without 
knowledge  of  books  or  life,  and  without  the  un- 
derstanding by  which  it  must  be  acquired.  His 
exaggerations  are  generally  without  effect  upon 
those  whom  he  compels  to  hear  them ;  and 
though  it  will  sometimes  happen  that  the  timc- 
rous  are  awed  by  his  violence,  and  the  credulous 
mistake  his  confidence  for  knowledge,  yet  the 
opinions  which  he  endeavours  to  suppress  soon 
recover  their  former  strength,  as  the  trees  that 
bend  to  the  tempest  erect  themselves  again  when 
its  force  is  past. 

The  Whisperer  is  more  dangerous.  He  easily 
gains  attention  by  a  soft  address,  and  excites  cu- 
riosity by  an  air  of  importance.  As  secrets  are 
not  to  be  made  cheap  by  promiscuou»ubhca- 
tion,  he  calls  a  select  audience  about  mm,  and 
gratifies  their  vanity  with  an  appearance  of  trust 
by  communicating  his  intelligence  in  a  low  voice. 
Of  the  trader  he  can  tell  that,  though  he  seems 
to  manage  an  extensive  commerce,  and  talks  in 
high  terms  of  the  funds,  yet  his  wealth  is  not 
equal  to  his  reputation  -,  he  has  lately  suffer- 
ed much  by  an  expensi  'e  project,  and  had  a 
greater  share  than  is  acknowledged  in  the  rich 
ship  that  perished  by  the  storm.  Of  the  beauty 
he  has  little  to  say,  but  that  they  who  see  her  in  a 
morning  do  not  discover  all  those  graces  which 
are  admired  in  the  park.  Of  the  writer  he  affirms 
v/ith  great  certainty,  that  though  the  excellence 
of  the  work  be  incontestable,  he  can  claim  but  a 
small  part  of  the  reputation  ;  that  he  owed  most 
of  the  images  and  sentiments  to  a  secret  friend  ; 
and  that  the  accuracy  and  equality  of  the  style 
was  produced  by  the  successive  correction  of  the 
chief  critics  of  the  age. 

As  every  one  is  pleased  with  imagining  that  he 
knows  something  not  yet  commonly  divulged, 
secret  history  easily  gains  credit ;  but  it  is  for  the 
most  part  believed  only  while  it  circulates  in 
whispers  ;  and  when  once  it  is  openly  told,  is 
openly  confuted. 

The  most  pernicious  enemy  is  the  man  of  Mo- 
deration. Without  interest  in  the  question,  or 
any  motive  but  honest  curiosity,  this  impartial 
and  zealous  inquirer  after  truth  is  ready  to  hear 
either  side,  and  always  disposed  to  kind  interpre- 
tations and  favourable  opinions.  He  has  heard 
the  trader's  affairs  reported  with  great  variation, 
and,  after  a  diligent  comparison  of  the  evidence, 
concludes  it  probable  that  the  splendid  super- 
structure of  business,  being  originally  built  upon 
a  narrow  basis,  has  lately  been  found  to  totter; 
but  between  dilatory  payment  and  bankruptcy 
there  is  a  great  distance ;  many  merchants  have 
supported  themselves  by  expedients  for  a  time, 
without  any  final  injury  to  their  creditors ;  and 
what  is  lost  by  one  adventure  may  be  recovered 
by  another.  He  believes  that  a  young  lady 
pleased  with  admiration,  and  desirous  to  make 
perfect  what  is  already  excellent,  may  heighten 
her  charms  by  artificial  improvements,  but  surely 
most  of  her  beauties  must  be  genuine,  and  who 


can  say  that  he  is  wholly  what  he  endeavours  to 
appear?  The  author  he  knows  to  be  a  man  of 
diligence,  who  perhaps  does  not  sparkle  with  the 
fire  of  Homer,  but  who  has  the  judgment  to  dis- 
cover his  own  deficiencies,  and  to  supply  them  by 
the  help  of  others ;  and,  in  his  opinion,  modesty 
is  a  quality  so  amiable  and  rare,  that  it  ought  to 
find  a  patron  wherever  it  appears,  and  may  justly 
be  preferred  by  the  public  suffrage  to  petulant 
wit  and  ostentatious  literature. 

He  who  thus  discovers  failings  with  unwilling- 
ness, and  extenuates  the  faults  which  cannot  be 
denied,  puts  an  end  at  once  to  doubt  or  vindica- 
tion ;  his  hearers  repose  upon  his  candour  and 
veracity,  and  admit  the  charge  without  allowing 
the  excuse. 

Such  are  the  arts  by  which  the  envious,  the 
idle,  the  peevish,  and  the  thoughtless,  obstruct  that 
worth  which  they  cannot  equal,  and  by  artifices 
thus  easy,  sordid,  and  detestable,  is  industry  de- 
feated, beauty  blasted,  and  genius  depressed. 


No.  145.]     TUESDAY,  AUG.  6,  1751. 

Jfon,  ti  priores  Maonius  tenet 
Sedea  Homerus,  Pindaricce  latent, 

Ccaqiif  et  Alctci  minuets, 

Sttsichorique  graves  Canucna.  HOR. 

What  though  the  muse  her  Homer  thrones 

High  above  all  th'  immortal  quire; 
Nor  Pindar's  rapture  she  disowns, 

Nor  hides  the  plaiutive  Csean  lyre : 
Alcueus  strikes  the  tyrant  soul  with  dread, 
Nor  yet  is  grave  Stesichorus  unread.          FRANCIS 

IT  is  allowed  that  vocations  and  employments  of 
least  dignity  are  of  the  most  apparent  use  ;  that 
the  meanest  artisan  or  manufacturer  contributes 
more  to  the  accommodation  of  life  than  the  pro- 
found scholar  and  argumentative  theorist ;  and 
that  the  public  would  suffer  less  present  incon- 
venience from  the  banishment  of  philosophers 
than  from  the  extinction  of  any  common  trade. 

Some  have  been  so  forcibly  struck  with  this  ob- 
servation, that  they  have,  in  the  first  warmth  of 
their  discovery,  thought  it  reasonable  to  alter  the 
common  distribution  of  dignity,  and  ventured  to 
condemn  mankind  of  universal  ingratitude.  For 
justice  exacts,  that  those  by  whom  we  are  most 
benefited  should  be  most  honoured.  And  what 
labour  can  be  more  useful  than  that  which  pro- 
cures to  families  and  communities  those  necessa- 
ries which  supply  the  wants  of  nature,  or  those 
conveniences  by  which  ease,  security,  and  ele- 
gance, are  conferred  ? 

This  is  one  of  the  innumerable  theories  which 
the  first  attempt  to  reduce  them  into  practice  cer- 
tainly destroys.  If  we  estimate  dignity  by  imme- 
diate usefulness,  agriculture  is  undoubtedly  the 
first  and  noblest  science ;  yet  we  see  the  plough 
driven,  the  clod  broken,  the  manure  spread,  the 
seeds  scattered,  and  the  harvest  reaped,  by  men 
whom  those  that  feed  upon  their  industry  will  ne- 
ver be  persuaded  to  admit  into  the  same  rank 
with  heroes  or  with  sages ;  and  who,  after  all  the 
confessions  which  truth  may  extort  in  favour  of 
their  occupation,  must  be  content  to  fill  up  the 
lowest  class  of  the  commonwealth,  to  form  the 
base  of  the  pyramid  of  subordination,  and  lie  bu- 
ried in  obscurity  themselves,  while  they  support 
all  that  is  splendid,  conspicuous,  or  exalted. 

It  will  be  found,  upon  a  closer  inspection,  that 


No.  146.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


225 


this  part  of  the  conduct  of  mankind  is  by  no  means 
contrary  to  reason  or  equity.  Remuneratory  ho- 
nours are  proportioned  at  once  to  the  usefulness 
and  difficulty  of  performances,  and  are  properly 
adjusted  by  comparison  of  the  mental  and  corpo- 
real abilities,  which  they  appear  to  employ.  That 
work,  however  necessary,  which  is  carried  on 
only  by  muscular  strength  and  manual  dexterity, 
is  not  of  equal  esteem,  in  the  consideration  of  ra- 
tional beings,  with  the  tasks  that  exercise  the  in- 
tellectual powers,  and  require  the  active  vigour  ol 
imagination,  or  the  gradual  and  laborious  investi- 
gations of  reason. 

The  merit  of  all  manual  occupations  seems  to 
terminate  in  the  inventor ;  and  surely  the  first 
ages  cannot  be  charged  with  ingratitude  ;  since 
those  who  civilized  barbarians,  and  taught  them 
how  to  secure  themselves  from  cold  and  hunger, 
were  numbered  amongst  their  deities.  But  these 
arts  once  discovered  by  philosophy,  and  facilitated 
by  experience,  are  afterwards  practised  with  very 
little  assislance  from  the  faculties  of  the  soul; 
nor  is  any  thing  necessary  to  the  regular  discharge 
of  these  inferior  duties,  beyond  that  rude  observ- 
ation which  the  most  sluggish  intellect  may  prac- 
tise, and  that  industry  which  the  stimulations  of 
necessity  naturally  enforce. 

Yet  though  the  refusal  of  statues  and  pane- 
gyric to  those  who  employ  only  their  hands  and 
feet  in  the  service  of  mankind  may  be  easily  justi- 
fied, I  am  far  from  intending  to  incite  the  petu- 
lance of  pride,  to  justify  the  superciliousness  of 
grandeur,  or  to  intercept  any  part  of  that  tender- 
ness and  benevolence,  which  by  the  privilege  of 
their  common  nature,  one  may  claim  from  ano- 
ther. 

That  it  would  be  neither  wise  nor  equitable  to 
discourage  the  husbandman,  the  labourer,  the  mi- 
ner, or  the  smith,  is  generally  granted ;  but  there  is 
another  race  of  beings  equally  obscure  and  equally 
indigent,  who,  because  their  usefulness  is  less  ob- 
vious to  vulgar  apprehensions,  live  unrewarded 
and  die  unpitied,  and  who  have  been  long  expos- 
ed to  insult  without  a  defender,  and  to  censure 
without  an  apologist. 

The  authors  of  London  were  formerly  com- 
puted by  Swift  at  several  thousands,  and  there  is 
not  any  reason  for  suspecting  that  their  number 
has  decreased.  Oftheseonlyaveryfewcanbesaid 
to  produce,  or  endeavour  to  produce,  new  ideas, 
to  extend  any  principle  of  science,  or  gratify  the 
imagination  with  any  uncommon  train  of  images 
or  contexture  of  events  ;  the  rest,  however  labo- 
rious, however  arrogant,  can  only  be  consi- 
dered as  the  drudges  of  the  pen,  the  manufac- 
turers of  literature,  who  have  set  up  for  authors, 
either  with  or  without  a  regular  initiation,  and, 
like  other  artificers,  have  no  other  care  than  to 
deliver  their  tale  of  wares  at  the  stated  time. 

It  has  been  formerly  imagined,  that  he  who  in- 
tends the  entertainment  or  instruction  of  others, 
must  feel  in  himself  some  peculiar  impulse  of 
genius ;  that  he  must  watch  the  happy  minute  in 
which  his  natural  fire  is  excited,  in  whichhis  mind 
is  elevated  with  nobler  sentiments,  enlightened 
with  clearer  views,  and  invigorated  with  stronger 
comprehension ;  that  he  must  carefully  select  his 
thoughts  and  polish  his  expressions ;  and  ani- 
mate his  efforts  with  the  hope  of  raising  a  monu- 
ment of  learning,  which  neither  time  nor  envy 
ohall  be  able  to  destroy. 

But  the  authors  whom  I  am  now  endeavouring 
2D 


to  recommend,  have  been  too  long  hacknied  in  the 
ways  of  men  to  indulge  the  chimerical  ambition 
of  immortality;  they  have  seldom  any  claim  to 
the  trade  of  willing,  but  that  they  have  tried  some 
other  without  success  ;  they  perceive  no  particu- 
lar summons  to  composition,  except  the  sound  of 
the  clock  ;  they  have  no  other  rule  than  the  la\v 
or  the  fashion  for  admitting  their  thoughts  or  re- 
jecting them  ;  and  about  the  opinion  of  posteri- 
ty they  have  little  solicitude,  for  their  productions 
are  seldom  intended  to  remain  in  the  world  lon- 
ger than  a  week. 

That  such  authors  are  not  to  be  rewarded  with 
praise  is  evident,  since  nothing  can  be  admired 
when  it  ceases  to  exist ;  but  surely,  though  they 
cannot  aspire  to  honour,  they  may  be  exempted 
from  ignominy,  and  adopted  in  that  order  of  men 
which  deserves  our  kindness,  though  not  our  re- 
verence. These  papers  of  the  day,  the  Ephemerae 
of  learning,  have  uses  more  adequate  to  the  pur- 
poses of  common  life  than  more  pompous  and  du- 
rable volumes.  If  it  is  necessary  for  every  man 
to  be  more  acquainted  with  his  contemporaries 
than  with  past  generations,  and  to  rather  know 
the  events  which  may  immediately  affect  his  for- 
tune or  quiet,  than  the  revolutions  of  ancient 
kingdoms,  in  which  he  has  neither  possessions 
nor  expectations ;  if  it  be  pleasing  to  hear  of  the 
preferment  and  dismission  of  statesmen,  the  birth 
of  heirs,  and  the  marriage  of  beauties,  the  hum- 
ble author  of  journals  and  gazettes  must  be  con 
sidered  as  a  liberal  dispenser  of  beneficial  know 
ledge. 

Even  the  abridger,  compiler,  and  translator, 
though  their  labours  cannot  be  ranked  with  those 
of  the  diurnal  historiographer,  yet  must  not  be 
rashly  doomed  to  annihilation.  Every  size  of 
readers  requires  a  genius  of  correspondent  capa- 
city ;  some  delight  in  abstracts  and  epitomes,  be- 
cause they  want  room  in  their  memory  for  long 
details,  and  content  themselves  with  effects,  with- 
out inquiry  after  causes ;  some  minds  are  over- 
powered by  splendour  of  sentiment,  as  some  eyes 
are  offended  by  a  glaring  light ;  such  will  gladly 
contemplate  an  author  in  an  humble  imitation, 
as  we  look  without  pain  upon  the  sun  in  the 
water. 

As  every  writer  has  his  use,  every  writer  ought 
to  have  his  patrons ;  and  since  no  man,  however 
high  he  may  now  stand,  can  be  certain  that  he 
shall  not  be  soon  thrown  down  from  his  eleva- 
tion by  criticism  or  caprice,  the  common  interest 
of  learning  requires  that  her  sons  should  cease 
from  intestine  hostilities,  and,  instead  of  sacri- 
ficing each  other  to  malice  and  contempt,  endea- 
vour to  avert  persecution  from  the  meanest  of 
their  fraternity. 


No.  146.]     SATURDAY,  AUG.  10,  1751. 

Sun*  ittie  duo,  trene,  qui  revolvanl 
Nostrarum  tineas  ineptiarum ; 
Sed  cum  sponsio,  fabul&que  alasitf 
De  Scorpo  fuerint,  et  Incitato. 

'Tis  possible  that  one  or  two 
These  fooleries  of  mine  may  view; 
But  then  the  bettings  must  be  o'er, 
Nor  Crab  or  Guilders  talk'd  of  more.      P 

NONE  of  the  projects  or  designs  which  exercise 
the  mind  of  man  are  equally  subject  to  obstruc- 
tions and  disappointments  with  the  pursuit  of  fame. 


226 


THE  RAMBLER. 


{No.  146. 


Riches  cannot  easily  be  denied  to  them  who  have 
something  of  greater  value  to  offer  in  exchange  ; 
he  whoseTortune  is  endangered  by  litigation,  will 
not  refuse  to  augment  the  wealth  of  the  lawyer; 
he  whose  days  are  darkened  by  languor,  or  whose 
nerves  are  excruciated  by  pain,  is  compelled  to 
pay  tribute  to  the  science  of  healing.  But  praise 
may  be  always  omitted  without  inconvenience. 
When  once  a  man  has  made  celebrity  necessary 
to  his  happiness,  he  has  put  it  in  the  power  of  the 
weakest  and  most  timorous  malignity,  if  not  to 
take  away  his  satisfaction,  at  least  to  withhold  it. 
His  enemies  may  indulge  their  pride  by  airy  ne- 
gligence, and  gratify  their  malice  by  quiet  neu 
trality.  They  that  could  never  have  injured  a  cha- 
racter by  invectives,  may  combine  to  annihilate  it 
by  silence ;  as  the  women  of  Rome  threatened 
to  put  an  end  to  conquest  and  dominion,  by  sup- 
plying no  children  to  the  commonwealth. 

When  a  writer  has  with  long  toil  produced  a 
work  intended  to  burst  upon  mankind  with  un- 
expected lustre,  and  withdraw  the  attention  of 
the  learned  world  from  every  other  controversy 
or  inquiry,  he  is  seldom  contented  to  wait  long 
without  the  enjoyment  of  his  new  praises.  With 
an  imagination  full  of  his  own  importance,  he 
walks  out  like  a  monarch  in  disguise  to  learn  the 
various  opinions  of  his  readers.  Prepared  to  feast 
upon  admiration  ;  composed  to  encounter  cen- 
sures without  emotion  ;  and  determined  not  to 
suffer  his  quiet  to  be  injured  by  a  sensibility  too 
exquisite  of  praise  or  blame,  but  to  laugh  with 
equal  contempt  at  vain  objections  and  injudicious 
commendations,  he  enters  the  places  of  mingled 
conversation,  sits  down  to  his  tea  in  an  obscure 
corner,  and  while  he  appears  to  examine  a  file 
of  antiquated  journals,  catches  the  conversation 
of  the  whole  room.  He  listens,  but  hears  no 
mention  of  his  book,  and  therefore  supposes  that 
he  has  disappointed  his  curiosity  by  delay  ;  and 
that  as  men  of  learning  would  naturally  begin 
their  conversation  with  such  a  wonderful  novelty, 
they  had  digressed  to  other  subjects  before  his  ar- 
rival. The  company  disperses,  and  their  places 
are  supplied  by  others  equally  ignorant,  or  equal- 
ly careless.  The  same  expectation  hurries  him 
to  another  place,  from  which  the  same  disap- 
pointment drives  him  soon  away.  His  impatience 
then  grows  violent  and  tumultuous ;  he  ranges 
over  the  town  with  restless  curiosity,  and  hears 
in  one  quarter  of  a  cricket-match,  in  another  of  a 
pickpocket;  is  told  by  some  of  an  unexpected 
bankruptcy  ;  by  others  of  a  turtle-feast ;  is  some- 
times provoked  by  importunate  inquiries  after 
the  white  bear,  and  sometimes  with  praises  of  the 
daneing-dog ;  he  is  afterward  entreated  to  give 
his  judgment  upon  a  wager  about  the  height  of 
the  Monument ;  invited  to  see  a  foot-race  in  the 
adjacent  villages ;  desired  to  read  a  ludicrous  ad- 
vertisement ;  or  consulted  about  the  most  effect- 
ual method  of  making  inquiry  after  a  favourite 
cat  The  whole  world  is  busied  in  affairs,  which 
he  thinks  below  the  notice  of  reasonable  crea- 
tures, and  which  are  nevertheless  sufficient  to 
withdraw  all  regard  from  his  labours  and  his 
merits. 

He  resolves  at  last  to  violate  his  own  modesty, 
and  10  recall  the  talkers  from  their  folly  by  an  in- 
;uiry  after  himself.  He  finds  every  one  provided 
with  an  answer  ;  one  has  seen  the  work  adver- 
.ised  but  never  met  with  any  that  had  read  it ; 
another  has  been  so  often  imposed  upon  by  spe- 


cious titles",  that  he  never  buys  a  book  till  its  cha- 
racter is  established  ;  a  third  wonders  what  any 
man  can  hope  to  produce  after  so  many  writers 
of  greater  eminence ;  the  next  has  inquired  after 
the  author,  but  can  hear  no  account  of  him,  and 
therefore  suspects  the  name  to  be  fictitious  ;  and 
another  knows  him  to  be  a  man  condemned  by 
indigence  to  write  too  frequently  what  he  docs 
not  understand. 

Many  are  the  consolations  with  which  the 
unhappy  author  endeavours  to  allay  his  vexation, 
and  fortify  his  patience.  He  has  written  with 
too  little  indulgence  to  the  understanding  of  com- 
mon readers  ;  he  has  fallen  upon  an  age  in  which 
solid  knowledge,  and  delicate  refinement,  have 
given  way  to  a  low  merriment,  and  idle  buffoone- 
ry, and  therefore  no  writer  can  hope  for  distinc- 
tion, who  has  any  higher  purpose  than  to  raise 
laughter.  He  finds  that  his  enemies,  such  as  su- 
periority will  always  raise,  have  been  industrious, 
while  his  performance  was  in  the  press,  to  vilify 
and  blast  it ;  and  that  the  bookseller,  whom  he 
had  resolved  to  enrich,  has  rivals  that  obstruct 
the  circulation  of  his  copies.  He  at  last  reposes 
upon  the  consideration,  that  ^he  noblest  works 
of  learning  and  genius  have  always  made  their 
way  slowly  against  ignorance  and  prejudice; 
and  that  reputation,  which  is  never  to  be  lost, 
must  be  gradually  obtained,  as  animals  of  longest 
life  are  observed  not  soon  to  attain  their  full  sta 
turc  and  strength. 

By  such  arts  of  voluntary  delusion  does  every 
man  endeavour  to  conceal  his  own  unimportance 
from  himself.  It  is  long  before  we  are  convinced 
of  the  small  proportion  which  every  individual 
bears  to  the  collective  body  of  mankind  ;  or  learn 
how  few  can' be  interested  in  the  fortune  of  any 
single  man  ;  how  little  vacancy  is  left  in  the  world 
for  any  new  object  of  attention  ;  to  how  small  ex- 
tent the  brightest  blaze  of  merit  can  be  spread 
amidst  the  mists  of  business  and  of  folly ;  and 
how  soon  it  is  clouded  by  the  intervention  of 
other  novelties.  Not  only  the  writer  of  books, 
but  the  commander  of  armies,  and  the  deliverer 
of  nations,  will  easily  outlive  all  noisy  and  popu- 
lar reputation  ;  he  may  be  celebrated  for  a  time 
by  the  public  voice ;  but  his  actions  and  his  name 
will  soon  be  considered  as  remote  and  unaffect- 
ing,  and  be  rarely  mentioned  but  by  those  whose 
alliance  gives  them  some  vanity  to  gratify  by  fre- 
quent commemoration. 

It  seems  not  to  be  sufficiently  considered  how 
little  renown  can  be  admitted  in  the  world.  Man- 
kind are  kept  perpetually  busy  by  their  fears  or 
desires,  and  have  not  more  leisure  from  their  own 
affairs,  than  to  acquaint  themselves  with  the  ac- 
cidents of  the  current  day.  Engaged  in  contriv- 
ing some  refuge  from  calamity,  or  in  shortening 
the  way  to  some  new  possession,  they  seldom 
suffer  their  thoughts  to  wander  to  the  past  or  fu- 
ture ;  none  but  a  few  solitary  students  have  leisure 
to  inquire  into  the  claims  of  ancient  heroes  or 
sages ;  and  names  which  hoped  to  range  ovei 
kingdoms  and  continents,  shrink  at  last  into  clois 
ters  or  colleges. 

Nor  is  it  certain,  that  even  of  these  dark  and 
narrow  habitations,  these  last  retreats  of  fame, 
the  possession  will  be  long  kept.  Of  men  de- 
voted to  literature,  very  few  extend  their  views 
beyond  some  particular  science,  and  the  greatei 
part  seldom  inquire,  even  in  their  own  profes- 
sion, for  any  authors  but  those  whom  the  present 


No.  147.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


227 


mode  of  study  happens  to  force  upon  their  notice ; 
they  desire  not  to  till  their  minds  with  unfashion- 
able knowledge,  but  contentedly  resign  to  obli- 
vion those  books  which  they  now  find  censured 
or  neglected. 

The  hope  of  fame  is  necessarily  connected  with 
such  considerations  as  must  abate  the  ardour  of 
confidence,  and  repress  the  vigour  of  pursuit. 
Whoever  claims  renown  from  any  kind  of  ex- 
cellence, expects  to  fill  the  place  which  is  now 
possessed  by  another;  for  there  are  already 
names  of  every  class  sufficient  to  employ  all  that 
will  desire  to  remember  them ;  and  surely  he 
that  is  pushing  his  predecessors  into  the  gulf  of 
obscurity,  cannot  but  sometimes  suspect,  that  he 
must  himself  sink  in  like  manner,  and,  as  he 
stands  upon  the  same  precipice,  be  swept  away 
with  the  same  violence. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  fame  begins  when 
life  is  at  an  end  :  but  far  the  greater  number  of 
candidates  for  applause  have  owed  their  recep- 
tion in  the  world  to  some  favourable  casualties, 
and  have  therefore  immediately  sunk  into  ne- 
glect, when  death  stripped  them  of  their  casual 
influence,  and  neither  fortune  nor  patronage  ope- 
rated in  their  favour.  Among  those  who  have 
better  claims  to  regard,  the  honour  paid  to  their 
memory  is  commonly  proportionate  to  the  repu- 
tation which  they  enjoyed  in  their  lives,  though 
still  growing  fainter,  as  it  is  at  a  greater  distance 
from  the  first  emission  ;  and  since  it  is  so  diffi- 
cult to  obtain  the  notice  of  contemporaries,  how 
little  is  it  to  be  hoped  from  future  times  ?  What 
can  merit  effect  by  its  own  force,  when  the  help 
of  art  or  of  friendship  can  scarcely  support  it? 


No.  147.]    TUESDAY,  AUG.  13,  1751. 

Tu  nihil  invita  dices  faciesve  Minerva. 


HOR. 


—You  are  of  too  quick  a  sight, 

Not  to  discern  which  way  your  talent  lies. 

KOSCOMMON. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


As  little  things  grow  great  by  continual  accu- 
mulation, I  hope  you  will  not  think  the  dignity  of 
your  character  impaired  by  an  account  of  a  ludi- 
crous persecution,  which,  though  it  produces  no 
scenes  of  horror  or  of  ruin,  yet,  by  incessant  im- 
portunity of  vexation,  wears  away  my  happiness, 
and  consumes  those  years  which  nature  seems 
particularly  to  have  assigned  to  cheerfulness,  in 
silent  anxiety  and  helpless  resentment 

I  am  the  eldest  son  of  a  gentleman,  who  hav- 
ing inherited  a  large  estate  from  his  ancestors, 
and  feeling  no  desire  either  to  increase  or  lessen 
it,  has  from  the  time  of  his  marriage  generally  re- 
sided at  his  own  seat ;  where,  by  dividing  his 
time  among  the  duties  of^a  father,  a  master,  and  a 
magistrate,  the  study  of  literature,  and  the  offices 
of  civility,  he  finds  means  to  rid  himself  of  the 
day,  without  any  of  those  amusements,  which  all 
those  with  whom  my  residence  in  this  place  has 
made  me  acquainted,  think  necessary  to  lighten 
the  burden  of  existence. 

When  my  age  made  me  capable  of  instruction, 
my  father  prevailed  upon  a  gentleman,  long 
known  at  Oxford  for  the  extent  of  his  learning 
and  purity  of  his  manners,  to  undertake  my  edu- 
cation. The  regard  with  which  I  saw  him  treat- 


ed, disposed  me  to  consider  his  instructions  as 
important,  and  1  therefore  soon  formed  a  habit 
of  attention,  by  which  I  made  very  quick  advances 
in  different  kinds  of  learning,  and  heard,  perhaps 
too  often,  very  flattering  comparisons  of  my  own 
proficiency  with  that  of  others,  either  less  docile 
by  nature,  or  less  happily  forwarded  by  instruc- 
tion. 1  was  caressed  by  all  that  exchanged  vi- 
sits with  my  father  ;  and  as  young  men  are  with 
little  difficulty  taught  to  judge  favourably  of  them- 
selves, began  to  think  that  close  application  was 
no  longer  necessary,  and  that  the  time  was  now 
come  when  I  was  at  liberty  to  read  onlv  for 
amusement,  and  was  to  receive  the  reward  of  my 
fatigues  in  praise  and  admiration. 

While  I  was  thus  banqueting  upon  my  own 
perfections,  and  longing  in  secret  to  escape  from 
tutorage,  my  father's  brother  came  from  London 
to  pass  a  summer  at  his  native  place.  A  lucra- 
tive employment  which  he  possessed,  and  a  fond- 
ness for  the  conversation  and  diversions  of  the 
gay  part  of  mankind,  had  so  long  kept  him  from 
rural  excursions,  that  I  had  never  seen  him  since 
my  infancy.  My  curiosity  was  therefore  strong- 
ly excited  by  the  hope  of  observing  a  character 
more  nearly,  which  I  had  hitherto  reverenced  only 
at  a  distance. 

From  all  private  and  intimate  conversation,  I 
was  long  withheld  by  the  perpetual  confluence 
of  visitants  with  whom  the  first  news  of  my  un- 
cle's arrival  crowded  the  house  ;  but  was  amply 
recompensed  by  seeing  an  exact  and  punctilious 
practice  of  the  arts  of  a  courtier,  in  all  the  strata- 
gems of  endearment,  the  gradations  of  respect, 
and  variations  of  courtesy.  I  remarked  with 
what  justice  of  distribution  he  divided  his  talk  to 
a  wide  circle  ;  with  what  address  he  offered  to 
every  man  an  occasion  of  indulging  some  favour- 
ite topic,  or  displaying  some  particular  attain- 
ment ;  the  judgment  with  which  he  regulated  his 
inquiries  after  the  absent ;  and  the  care  with 
which  he  showed  all  the  companions  of  his  early 
years  how  strongly  they  were  infixed  in  his  me- 
mory, by  the  mention  of  past  incidents,  and  the 
recital  of  puerile  kindnesses,  dangers  and  frolics. 
I  soon  discovered  that  he  possessed  some  sci- 
ence of  graciousness  and  attraction  which  books 
had  not  taught,  and  of  which  neither  I  nor  my 
father  had  any  knowledge;  that  he  had  the 
power  of  obliging  those  whom  he  did  not  benefit : 
that  he  diffused,  upon  his  cursory  behaviour  and 
most  trifling  actions,  a  gloss  of  softness  and  deli- 
cacy by  which  every  one  was  dazzled  ;  and  that, 
by  some  occult  method  of  captivation,  he  ani- 
mated the  timorous,  softened  the  supercilious, 
and  opened  the  reserved.  I  could  not  but  repine 
at  the  inelegance  of  my  own  manners,  which  left 
me  no  hopes  but  not  to  offend,  and  at  theineffica- 
cy  of  rustic  benevolence,  which  gained  no  friends 
but  by  real  service. 

My  uncle  saw  the  veneration  with  which  I 
caught  every  accent  of  his  voice,  and  watched 
every  motion  of  his  hand  ;  and  the  awkward  dili- 
gence with  which  I  endeavoured  to  imitate  his 
embrace  of  fondness,  and  his  bow  of  respect.  Ho 
was  like  others,  easily  flattered  by  an  imitator  by 
whom  he  could  not  fear  ever  to  be  rivalled,  and 
repaid  my  assiduities  with  compliments  and  pro- 
fessions. Our  fondness  was  so  increased  by  a 
mutual  endeavour  to  please  each  other,  that 
when  we  returned  to  London  he  declared  himself 
unable  to  leave  a  nephew  so  amiable  and  so 


228 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  14b. 


accomplished  behind  him;  and  obtained  my  fa- 
ther's permission  to  enjoy  my  company  lor  u  tew 
months,  In  a  promise  to  initiate  me  in  the  arts  ol 
politeness;  and  introduce  me  into  public  life. 

The  courtier  had  little  inclination  to  fatigue, 
and  therefore,  by  travelling  very  slowly,  afforded 
me  time  for  more  loose  and  familiar  conversa- 
tion ;  but  I  soon  found,  that  by  a  few  inquiries 
which  he  was  not  well  prepared  to  satisfy,  I  had 
made  him  weary  of  his  young  companion.  His 
element  was  a  mixed  assembly,  where  ceremony 
and  healths,  compliments  and  common  topics 
kept  the  tongue  employed  with  very  little  assist- 
ance from  memory  or  reflection ;  but  in  the  cha- 
riot where  he  was  necessitated  to  support  a  regu- 
lar tenor  of  conversation,  without  any  relief  from 
a  new  comer,  or  any  power  of  starting  into  gay 
digressions,  or  destroying  argument  by  a  jest,  he 
soon  discovered  that  poverty  of  ideas  which  had 
been  hitherto  concealed  under  the  tinsel  of  polite- 
ness. The  first  day  he  entertained  me  with  the 
novelties  and  wonders  with  which  I  should  be  as- 
tonished at  my  entrance  into  London,  and  cau- 
tioned me  with  apparent  admiration  of  his  own 
wisdom,  against  the  arts  by  which  rusticity  is  fre- 
quently deluded.  The  same  detail  and  the  same 
advice  he  would  have  repeated  on  the  second  day ; 
but  as  I  every  moment  diverted  the  discourse 
to  the  history  of  the  towns  by  which  we  passed, 
or  some  other  subject  of  learning  or  of  reason,  he 
soon  lost  his  vivacity,  grew  peevish  and  silent, 
wrapped  his  cloak  about  him,  composed  himself 
to  slumber,  and  reserved  his  gayety  for  fitter 
auditors. 

At  length  I  entered  London,  and  my  uncle  was 
reinstated  in  his  superiority.  He  waked  at  once 
to  loquacity  as  soon  as  our  wheels  rattled  on  the 
pavement,  and  told  me  the  name  of  every  street 
as  we  crossed  it,  and  owner  of  every  house  as  we 
passed  by.  He  presented  me  to  my  aunt,  a  lady 
of  great  eminence  for  the  number  of  her  acquaint- 
ances, and  splendour  of  her  assemblies ;  and 
either  in  kindness  or  revenge  consulted  with  her 
in  my  presence,  how  I  might  be  most  advantage- 
ously dressed  for  my  first  appearance,  and  most 
expeditiously  disencumbered  from  villatick  bash- 
fulness.  My  indignation  at  familiarity  thus  con- 
temptuous flushed  in  my  face  ;  they  mistook  an- 
ger for  shame,  and  alternately  exerted  their  elo- 
quence upon  the  benefits  of  public  education,  and 
the  happiness  of  an  assurance  early  acquired. 

Assurance  is  indeed  the  only  qualification  to 
which  they  seem  to  have  annexed  merit,  and  as- 
surance therefore  is  perpetually  recommended  to 
me,  as  the  supply  of  every  defect,  and  the  orna- 
ment of  every  excellence.  I  never  sit  silent  in 
company  when  secret  history  is  circulating,  but  I 
am  reproached  for  want  of  assurance.  If  I  fail 
to  return  the  stated  answer  to  a  compliment ;  if 
I  am  disconcerted  by  unexpected  raillery ;  if  I 
blush  when  I  am  discovered  gazing  on  a  beauty, 
or  hesitate  when  I  find  myself  embarrassed  in  an 
argument;  if  I  am  unwilling  to  talk  of  what  I  do 
not  understand,  or  timorous  in  undertaking  of- 
fices which  I  cannot  gracefully  perform  ;  if  I  suf- 
fer a  more  lively  tattler  to  recount  the  casualties 
of  a  game,  or  a  nimbler  fop  to  pick  up  a  fan,  I 
am  censured  between  pity  and  contempt  as  a 
wretch  doomed  to  grovel  in  obscurity  for  want  of 
assurance. 

I  have  found  many  young  persons  harassed  in 


the  same  manner,  by  those  to  whom  age  has 
given  nothing  but  the  assurance  which  they  re- 
commend ;  and  therefore  cannot  but  think  it  use- 
ful to  inform  them,  that  cowardice  and  delicacy 
are  not  to  be  confounded ;  and  that  he  whose 
stupidity  has  armed  him  against  the  shafts  of  ri- 
dicule, will  always  act  and  speak  with  greater 
audacity  than  they  whose  sensibility  represses 
their  ardour,  and  who  dare  never  let.  their  confi 
dence  outgrow  their  abilities. 


No.  143.]      SATURDAY,  AUG.  17,  1751. 

Me  pater  sacis  oneretcatenis, 
Quod  tiro  clemens  miseropcperci: 
Me  vel  extremes  Numidarum  in  agrot 

Classc  releget.  HOE. 

Me  let  my  father  load  with  chains, 

Or  banish  to  Numidiu's  furthest  plains; 

My  crime,  that  J,  a  loyal  wife, 

In  kind  compassion  spared  my  husband's  life. 

FRANCIS. 

POLITICIANS  remark,  that  no  oppression  is  so 
heavy  or  lasting  as  that  which  is  inflicted  by  the 
perversion  and  exorbitance  of  legal  authority. 
The  robber  may  be  seized,  and  the  invader  re- 
pelled, whenever  they  are  found ;  they  who  pre- 
tend no  right  but  that  of  force,  may  by  force  be 
punished  or  suppressed.  But  when  plunder 
bears  the  name  of  impost,  and  murder  is  perpe- 
trated by  a  judicial  sentence,  fortitude  is  inti- 
midated, and  wisdom  confounded ;  resistance 
shrinks  from  an  alliance  with  rebellion,  and  the 
villain  remains  secure  in  the  robes  of  the  ma- 
gistrate. 

Equally  dangerous  and  equally  detestable  are 
the  cruelties  often  exercised  in  private  families, 
under  the  venerable  sanction  of  parental  autho- 
rity ;  the  power  which  we  are  taught  to  honour 
from  the  first  moments  of  reason  ;  which  is  guard- 
ed from  insult  and  violation  by  all  that  can  im- 
press awe  upon  the  mind  of  man  ;  and  which 
therefore  may  wanton  in  cruelty  without  control, 
and  trample  the  bounds  of  right  with  innumera- 
ble transgressions,  before  duty  and  piety  will 
dare  to  seek  redress,  or  think  themselves  at 
liberty  to  recur  to  any  other  means  of  deliverance 
than  supplications  by  which  insolence  is  elated, 
and  tears  by  which  cruelty  i<  gratified. 

It  was  fora  long  time  imagined  by  the  Romans, 
that  no  son  could  be  the  murderer  of  his  father ; 
and  they  had  therefore  no  punishment  appropri- 
ated to  parricide.  They  seem  likewise  to  have 
believed  with  equal  confidence,  that  no  father 
could  be  cruel  to  his  child  ;  and  therefore  they 
allowed  every  man  the  supreme  judicature  in  his 
own  house,  and  put  the  lives  of  his  offspring  into 
his  hands.  But  experience  informed  them  by 
degrees,  that  they  had  determined  too  hastily  in 
favour  of  human  nature  ;.  they  found  that  instinct 
and  habit  were  not  able  to  contend  with  avarice 
or  malice ;  that  the  nearest  relation  might  be  vio- 
lated ;  and  that  power,  to  whomsoever  intrusted, 
might  be  ill  employed.  They  were  therefore 
obliged  to  supply  and  to  change  their  institutions ; 
to  deter  the  parricide  by  a  new  law,  and  to  trans- 
fer capital  punishments  from  the  parent  to  the 
magistrate. 

There  are  indeed  many  houses  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  enter  familiarly,  without  discovering 


No.  148.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


229 


that  parents  are  by  no  means  exempt  from  the 
intoxications  of  dominion  ;  and  that  he  who  is  in 
no  danger  of  hearing  remonstrances  but  from 
his  own  conscience,  will  seldom  be  long  without 
the  art  of  controlling  his  convictions,  and  modify- 
ing justice  by  his  own  will. 

If  in  any  situation  the  heart  were  inaccessible 
to  malignity,  it  might  be  supposed  to  be  suffi- 
ciently secured  by  parental  relation.  To  have 
voluntarily  become  to  any  being  the  occasion  of 
its  existence,  produces  an  obligation  to  make 
that  existence  happy.  To  see  helpless  infancy 
stretching  out  her  hands  and  pouring  out  her 
cries  in  testimony  of  dependence,  without  any 
powers  to  alarm  jealousy,  or  any  guilt  to  alien- 
ate affection,  must  surely  awaken  tenderness  in 
every  human  mind ;  and  tenderness  once  excited 
will  be  hourly  increased  by  the  natural  contagion 
of  felicity,  by  the  repercussion  of  communicated 
pleasure,  by  the  consciousness  of  the  dignity  of 
benefaction.  I  believe  no  generous  or  benevo- 
lent man  can  see  the  vilest  animal  courting  his 
regard,  and  shrinking  at  his  anger,  playing  his 
gambols  of  delight  before  him,  calling  on  him  in 
distress,  and  flying  to  him  in  danger,  without 
more  kindness  than  he  can  persuade  himself  to 
feel  for  the  wild  and  unsocial  inhabitants  of  the 
air  and  water.  We  naturally  endear  to  ourselves 
those  to  whom  we  impart  any  kind  of  pleasure, 
because  we  imagine  their  affection  and  esteem 
secured  to  us  by  the  benefits  which  they  receive. 

There  is  indeed  another  method  by  which  the 
pride  of  superiority  may  be  likewise  gratified. 
He  that  has  extinguished  all  the  sensations  of  hu- 
manity, and  has  no  longer  any  satisfaction  in  the 
reflection  that  he  is  loved  as  the  distributor  of 
happiness,  may  please  himself  with  exciting  ter- 
ror as  the  inflicter  of  pain  :  he  may  delight  his  eo- 
litude  with  contemplating  the  extent  of  his  power 
and  the  force  of  his  commands  ;  in  imagining  the 
desires  that  flutter  on  the  tongue  which  is  forbid- 
den to  utter  them,  or  the  discontent  which  preys 
on  the  heart  in  which  fear  confines  it ;  he  may 
amuse  himself  with  new  contrivances  of  detec- 
tion, multiplications  of  prohibition,  and  varieties 
of  punishment ;  and  swell  with  exultation  when 
he  considers  how  little  of  the  homage  that  he  re- 
ceives he  owes  to  choice. 

That  princes  of  this  character  have  been 
known,  the  history  of  all  absolute  kingdoms 
will  inform  us ;  and  since  as  Aristotle  observes, 
j}  olxovoptKii  povapxta,  the  government  of  a  family  is 
naturally  monarchical,  it  is,  like  other  monarchies, 
too  often  arbitrarily  administrated.  The  regal 
and  parental  tyrants  differ  only  in  the  extent  of 
their  dominions,  and  the  number  of  their  slaves. 
The  same  passions  cause  the  same  miseries; 
except  that  seldom  any  prince,  however  despotic, 
has  so  far  shaken  ofT  all  awe  of  the  public  eye, 
as  to  venture  upon  those  freaks  of  injustice 
which  are  sometimes  indulged  under  the  secrecy 
of  a  private  dwelling.  Capricious  injunctions, 
partial  decisions,  unequal  allotments,  distribu- 
tions of  reward  not  by  merit  but  by  fancy,  and 
punishments  regulated  not  by  the  degree  of  the 
offence  but  by  the  humour  of  the  judge,  are  too 
frequent  where  no  power  is  known  but  that  of  a 
father. 

That  he  delights  in  the  misery  of  others,  no 
man  will  confess,  and  yet  what  other  motive  can 
make  a  father  cruel  ?  The  king  may  be  insti- 


gated by  one  man  to  the  destruction  of  another, 
he  may  sometimes  think  himself  endangered  by 
the  virtues  of  a  subject ;  he  may  dread  the  suc- 
cessful general  or  the  popular  orator ;  his  avarice 
may  point  out  golden  confiscations ;  and  his 
guilt  may  whisper  that  he  can  only  be  secure  by 
cutting  off* all  power  of  revenge. 

But  what  can  a  parent  hope  from  the  oppres- 
sion of  those  who  were  born  to  his  protection,  of 
those  who  can  disturb  him  with  no  competition, 
who  can  enrich  him  with  no  spoils?  Why  cow- 
ards are  cruel  may  be  easily  discovered ;  but  for 
what  reason,  not  more  infamous  than  cowardice, 
can  that  man  delight  in  oppression  who  has 
nothing  to  fear? 

The  unjustifiable  severity  of  a  parent  is  loaded 
with  this  aggravation,  that  those  whom  he  in- 
jures are  always  in  his  sight.  The  injustice  of  a 
prince  is  often  exercised  upon  those  of  whom  he 
never  had  any  personal  or  particular  knowledge ; 
and  the  sentence  which  he  pronounces,  whether 
of  banishment,  imprisonment,  or  death,  removes 
from  his  view  the  man  whom  he  condemns.  „  But 
the  domestic  oppressor  dooms  himself  to  gaze 
upon  those  faces  which  he  clouds  with  terror 
and  with  sorrow ;  and  beholds  every  moment 
the  effects  of  his  own  barbarities.  He  that  can 
bear  to  give  continual  pain  to  those  who  sur- 
round him,  and  can  walk  with  satisfaction  in  the 
gloom  of  his  own  presence ;  he  that  can  see 
submissive  misery  without  relenting,  and  meet 
without  emotion  the  eye  that  implores  mercy  or 
demands  justice,  will  scarcely  be  amended  by 
remonstrance  or  admonition ;  he  has  found 
means  of  stopping  the  avenues  of  tenderness,  and 
arming  his  heart  against  the  force  of  reason. 

Even  though  no  consideration  should  be  paid 
to  the  great  law  of  social  beings,  by  which  every 
individual  is  commanded  to  consult  the  happi- 
piuess  of  others,  yet  the  harsh  parent  is  less  to 
be  vindicated  than  any  other  criminal,  because 
he  less  provides  for  the  happiness  of  himself. 
Every  man,  however  little  he  loves  others,  would 
willingly  be  loved ;  every  man  hopes  to  live 
long,  and  therefore  hopes  for  that  time  at  which 
he  shall  sink  back  to  imbecility,  and  must  de- 
pend for  ease  and  cheerfulness  upon  the  offi- 
ciousness  of  others.  But  how  has  he  obviated 
the  inconveniences  of  old  age,  who  alienates  from 
him  the  assistance  of  his  children,  and  whose 
bed  must  be  surrounded  in  his  last  hours,  in  the 
hours  of  languor  and  dejection,  of  impatience 
and  of  pain,  by  strangers  to  whom  his  life  is  in- 
different, or  by  enemies  to  whom  his  death  is 
desirable  ? 

Piety  will  indeed  in  good  minds  overcome 
provocation,  and  those  who  have  been  harassed 
by  brutality  will  forget  the  injuries  which  they 
have  suffered,  so  far  as  to  perform  the  last  duties 
with  alacrity  and  zeal.  But  surely  no  resent- 
ment can  he  equally  painful  with  kindness  thus 
undeserved,  nor  can  severer  punishment  be  im- 
precated upon  a  man  not  wholly  lost  in  mean- 
ness and  stupidity,  than  through  the  tediousness 
of  decrepitude,  to  be  reproached  by  the  kindness 
of  his  own  children,  to  receive  not  the  tribute 
but  the  alms  of  attendance,  and  to  owe  every 
relief  of  his  miseries,  not  to  gratitude  but  to 
mercy. 


230 
No.  149.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  149. 


TUESDAY,  AUG.  20,  1751. 


,  non  sit  Oreatet 


Quod  non  sit  Pyltides  hoc  tempore,  non  sit  C 

tttruritt     Pylades,  Marce,  bibcbat  idem. 
Kec  me. liar  pants,  lurdusve  dabalur  Oresti: 

Sed  par,  eti/ue  eadem  Cfe.ua  dtiobvs  erat. 
Te  Cadmtta  Tyros,  me  piiignis  Gallia  vestit : 

Vis  tepurpureum,  Marce,  satratus  amem  ? 
Ut  prasleml'yladen,  alir/uis  mihipraitet  Orestem, 

Hoc  non  Jit  verbis;  Marce,  ut  ameris,  ama. 

MART.  VI.  11. 

You  wonder  now  that  no  man  sees 

Such  frieuds  as  those  of  ancient  Greece. 

Here  lay  the  poiut:— Orestes'  meat 

Was  just  the  same  his  friend  did  eat 

Nor  can  it  yet  be  found,  his  wine 

Was  better,  Pylades,  than  thine. 

In  home-spun  russet  I  am  dress'd ; 

Your  cloth  is  always  of  the  best ; 

But,  honest  Marcus,  if  you  please 

To  choose  me  for  your  Pylutles, 

Remember,  words  alone  are  vain  ; 

Love — if  you  would  beloved  again. — r.  LEWIS. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SI'R, 

No  depravity  of  the  mind  has  been  more  fre- 
quently or  justly  censured  than  ingratitude. 
There  is  indeed  sufficient  reason  for  looking  on 
those  that  can  return  evil  for  good,  and  repay 
kindness  and  assistance  with  hatred  or  neglect, 
as  corrupted  beyond  the  common  degrees  of 
wickedness ;  nor  will  he,  who  has  once  been 
clearly  detected  in  acts  of  injury  to  his  benefac- 
tor, deserve  to  be  numbered  among  social  beings; 
he  has  endeavoured  to  destroy  confidence,  to  in- 
tercept sympathy,  and  to  turn  every  man's  at- 
tention wholly  on  himself. 

There  is  always  danger  lest  the  honest  abhor- 
rence of  a  crime  should  raise  the  passions  with 
too  much  violence  against  the  man  to  whom  it  is 
imputed.  In  proportion  as  guilt  is  more  enor- 
mous it  ought  to  be  ascertained  by  stronger  evi- 
dence. The  charge  against  ingratitude  is  very 
genaral ;  almost  every  man  can  tell  what  favours 
he  has  conferred  upon  insensibility,  and  how 
much  happiness  he  has  bestowed  without  re- 
turn ;  but  perhaps  if  these  patrons  and  protec- 
tors were  confronted  with  any  whom  they  boast 
of  having  bsfriended,  it  would  often  appear  that 
they  consulted  only  their  pleasure  or  vanity,  and 
repaid  themselves  their  petty  donatives  by  grati- 
fications of  insolence  and  indulgence  of  con- 
tempt. 

It  has  happened  that  much  of  my  time  has 
been  passed  in  a  dependent  state,  and  conse- 
quently I  have  received  many  favours  in  the 
opinion  of  those  at  whose  expense  I  have  been 
maintained ;  yet  I  do  not  feel  in  rny  heart  any 
burning  gratitude  or  tumultuous  affection  ;  and 
as  I  would  not  willingly  suppose  myself  less 
susceptible  of  virtuous  passions  than  the  rest  of 
mankind,  I  shall  lay  the  history  of  my  life  before 
you,  that  you  may  by  your  judgment  of  my 
conduct,  either  reform,  or  confirm,  iny  present 
sentiments. 

My  father  was  the  second  son  of  a  very  ancient 
and  wealthy  family.  He  married  a  lady  of  equal 
birth,  whose  fortune  joined  to  his  own  might 
have  supported  his  posterity  in  honour ;  but 
being  gay  and  ambitious,  he  prevailed  on  his 
friends  to  procure  him  a  post,  which  gave  him 
an  opportunity  of  displaying  his  elegance  and 
politeness.  My  mother  was  equally  pleased  with 


splendour  and  equally  careless  of  expense ;  they 
both  justified  their  profusion  to  themselves  by 
endeavouring  to  believe  it  necessary  to  the  ex- 
tension of  their  acquaintance,  and  improvement 
of  their  interest ;  and  whenever  any  place  be- 
came vacant,  they  expected  to  be  repaid.  In  the 
midst  of  these  hopes  my  father  was  snatched 
away  by  an  apoplexy  ;  and  my  mother  who  had 
no  pleasure  but  in  dress,  equipage,  assemblies, 
and  compliments,  finding  that  she  could  live  no 
longer  in  her  accustomed  rank,  sunk  into  dejec- 
tion, and  in  two  years  wore  out  her  life  with 
envy  and  discontent. 

I  was  sent  with  a  sister  one  year  younger  than 
myself  to  the  elder  brother  of  my  father.  Wo 
were  not  yet  capable  of  observing  how  much 
fortune  influences  affection,  but  flattered  our 
selves  on  the  road  with  the  tenderness  and  re- 
gard with  which  we  should  be  treated  by  our 
uncle.  Our  reception  was  rather  frigid  than 
malignant;  we  were  introduced  to  our  young 
cousins,  and  for  the  first  month  more  frequently 
consoled  than  upbraided  ;  but  in  a  short  time 
we  found  our  prattle  repressed,  our  dress  ne- 
glected, our  endearments  unregarded,  and  our 
requests  referred  to  the  housekeeper. 

The  forms  of  decency  were  now  violated,  and 
everyday  produced  new  insults.  We  were  soon 
brought  to  the  necessity  of  receding  from  our 
imagined  equality  with  our  cousins,  to  whom  we 
sunk  into  humble  companions  without  choice  or 
influence,  expected  only  to  echo  their  opinions, 
facilitate  their  desires,  and  accompany  their  ram- 
bles. It  was  unfortunate  that  our  early  intro- 
duction into  polite  company,  and  habitual  know- 
ledge of  the  arts  of  civility,  had  given  us  such  an 
appearance  of  superiority  to  the  awkward  bash- 
fulness  of  our  relations,  as  naturally  drew  respect 
and  preference  from  every  stranger;  and  my 
aunt  was  forced  to  assert  the  dignity  of  her  own 
children  while  they  were  sculking  in  corners  for 
fear  of  notice,  and  hanging  down  their  heads 
in  silent  confusion,  by  relating  the  indiscretion 
of  our  father,  displaying  her  own  kindness,  la- 
menting the  misery  of  birth  without  estate,  and 
declaring  her  anxiety  for  our  future  provision, 
and  the  expedients  which  she  had  formed  to  se- 
cure us  from  those  follies,  or  crimes,  to  which 
the  conjunction  of  pride  and  want  often  gives 
occasion.  In  a  short  time  care  was  taken  to 
prevent  such  vexatious  mistakes  ;  we  were  told 
that  fine  clothes  would  only  fill  our  heads  with 
false  expectations,  and  our  dress  was  therefore 
accommodated  to  our  fortune. 

Childhood  is  not  easily  dejected  or  mortified. 
We  felt  no  lasting  pain  from  insolence  or  ne- 
glect; but,  finding  that  we  were  favoured  and 
commended  by  all  whose  interest  did  not  prompt 
them  to  discountenance  us,  preserved  our  viva- 
city and  spirit  to  years  of  greater  sensibility.  It 
then  became  irksome  and  disgusting  to  live 
without  any  principle  of  action  but  the  will  of 
another  ;  and  we  often  met  privately  in  the  gai- 
den  to  lament  our  condition,  and  to  ease  our 
hearts  with  mutual  narratives  dl'  caprice,  pee- 
vishness, and  affront. 

There  are  innumerable  modes  of  insult  and 
tokens  of  contempt,  for  which  it  is  not  easy  to 
find  a  name,  which  vanish  to  nothing  in  an  at- 
tempt to  describe  them,  and  yet  may  by  continual 
repetition  make  day  pass  after  day  in  sorrow 
and  in  terror.  Phrases  of  cursory  compliment 


JN'o.  150.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


231 


and  established  salutation  may,  by  a  different 
modulation  of  the  voice,  or  cast  of  the  coun- 
tenance, convey  contrary  meanings,  and  be 
changed  from  indications  of  respect  to  expres- 
sions of  scorn.  The  dependant  who  cultivates 
delicacy  in  himself,  very  little  consults  his  own 
tranquillity.  My  unhappy  vigilance  is  every  mo- 
ment discovering  some  petulance  of  accent,  or 
arrogance  of  mien,  some  vehemence  of  interroga- 
tion, or  quickness  of  reply,  that  recalls  my  poverty 
to  my  mind,  and  which  I  feel  more  acutely  as  I 
know  not  how  to  resent  it. 

You  are  not  however  to  imagine  that  I  think 
myself  discharged  from  the  duties  of  gratitude, 
only  because  my  relations  do  not  adjust  their 
looks,  or  tune  their  voices,  to  my  expectation. 
The  insolence  of  benefaction  terminates  not  in 
negative  rudeness  or  obliquities  of  insult.  I  am 
often  told  in  express  terms  of  the  miseries  from 
which  charity  has  snatched  me,  while  multitudes 
are  suffered  by  relations  equally  near  to  devolve 
upon  the  parish :  and  have  more  than  once  heard 
it  numbered  among  other  favours,  that  I  am  ad- 
mitted to  the  same  table  with  my  cousins. 

That.  I  sit  at  the  first  table  I  must  acknowledge, 
but  I  sit  there  only  that  I  may  feel  the  stings  of 
inferiority.  My  inquiries  are  neglected,  my 
opinion  is  overborne,  my  assertions  are  contro- 
verted, and,  as  insolence  always  propagates  it- 
self, the  servants  overlook  me,  in  imitation  of  their 
master :  if  I  call  modestly  I  am  not  heard  ; 
if  loudly,  my  usurpation  of  authority  is  checked 
by  a  general  frown.  I  am  often  obliged  to  look 
uninvited  upon  delicacies,  and  sometimes  desired 
to  rise  upon  very  slight  pretences. 

The  incivilities  to  which  I  am  exposed  would 
give  me  less  pain,  were  they  not  aggravated  by 
the  tears  of  my  sister,  whom  the  young  ladies  are 
hourly  tormenting  with  every  art  of  feminine  per- 
secution .  As  it  is  said  of  the  supreme  magistrate 
of  Venice,  that  he  is  a  prince  in  one  place  and  a 
slave  in  another,  my  sister  is  a  servant  to  her  cou- 
sin in  their  apartments,  and  a  companion  only  at 
the  table.  Her  wit  and  beauty  draw  so  much  re- 
gard away  from  them,  that  they  never  suffer  her 
to  appear  with  them  in  any  place  where  they  so- 
licit notice  or  expect  admiration  :  and  when  they 
are  visited  by  neighbouring  ladies,  and  pass  their 
hours  in  domestic  amusements,  she  is  sometimes 
called  to  fill  a  vacancy,  insulted  with  contemptu- 
ous freedoms,  and  dismissed  to  her  needle  when 
her  place  is  supplied.  The  heir  has  of  late,  by 
the  instigation  of  his  sisters,  begun  to  harass  with 
clownish  jocularity  ;  he  seems  inclined  to  make 
his  first  rude  essays  of  his  waggery  upon  her ; 
and  by  the  connivance,  if  not  encouragement, 
of  his  father,  treats  her  with  such  licentious 
brutality  as  I  cannot  bear,  though  I  cannot  pu- 
nish it. 

I  beg  to  be  informed,  Mr.  Rambler,  how  much 
\ve  can  be  supposed  to  owe  to  beneficence  exert- 
ed on  terms  like  these?  to  beneficence  which 
pollutes  its  gifts  with  contumely,  and  may  be  truly 
said  to  pander  to  pride?  I  would  wiHinglybetold 
whether  insolence  does  not  reward  its  own  libe- 
ralities, and  whether  he  that  exacts  servility  can, 
with  justice,  at  the  same  time  expect  affection? 
I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

HTPERDULUS.    . 


No.  150.]        SATURDAY,  AUG.  24,  1751. 


-O  munera  nondum 


Intellf.cta  Dcum ! 

• Thou  chiefest  good  ! 

Bestowed  by  Heaveu,  but  seldom  understood. 


As  daily  experience  makes  it  evident  that  misfor- 
tunes are  unavoidably  incident  to  human  life,  that 
calamity  will  neither  be  repelled  by  fortitude,  nor 
escaped  by  flight ;  neither  awed  by  greatness,  nor 
eluded  by  obscurity ;  philosophers  have  endea- 
voured to  reconcile  us  to  that  condition  which  they 
cannot  teach  us  to  mend,  by  persuading  us  that 
most  of  our  evils  are  made  afflictive  only  by  igno- 
rance or  perverseness,  and  that  nature  has  an- 
nexed to  every  vicissitude  of  external  circum- 
stances some  advantage  sufficient  to  overba- 
lance all  its  inconveniences. 

This  attempt  may,  perhaps,  be  justly  suspected 
of  resemblance  to  the  practice  of  physicians,  who 
when  they  cannot  mitigate  pain,  destroy  sensi- 
bility, and  endeavour  to  conceal  by  opiates  the 
inefficacy  of  their  other  medicines.  The  pane- 
gyrists of  calamity  have  more  frequently  gained 
applause  to  their  wit  than  acquiescence  to  their 
arguments;  nor  has  it  appeared  that  the  most 
musical  oratory  or  subtle  ratiocination  has  been 
able  long  to  overpower  the  anguish  of  oppression, 
the  tediousness  of  languor,  or  the  longings  of 
want. 

Yet  it  may  be  generally  remarked,  that,  where 
much  has  been  attempted,  something  has  been 
performed ;  though  the  discoveries  or  acquisi- 
tions of  man  arc  not  always  adequate  to  the  ex 
pectations  of  his  pride,  they  are  at  least  sufficient 
to  animate  his  industry.  The  antidotes  with 
which  philosophy  has  medicated  the  cup  of  life, 
though  they  cannot  give  it  salubrity  and  sweet- 
ness, have  at  least  allayed  its  bitterness  and  con- 
tempered  its  malignity ;  the  balm  which  she 
drops  upon  the  wounds  of  the  mind,  abates  their 
pain,  though  it  cannot  heal  them. 

By  suffering  willingly  what  we  cannot  avoid, 
we  secure  ourselves  from  vain  and  immoderate 
disquiet ;  we  preserve  for  better  purposes  that 
strength  which  would  be  unprofitably  wasted  in 
wild  efforts  of  desperation,  and  maintain  that  cir- 
cumspection which  may  enable  us  to  seize  every 
support,  and  improve  every  alleviation.  This 
calmness  will  be  more  easily  obtained,  as  the  at- 
tention is  more  powerfully  withdrawn  from  the 
contemplation  of  unmingled  unabated  evil,  and 
diverted  to  those  accidental  benefits  which  pru 
dence  may  confer  on  every  state. 

Seneca  has  attempted,  not  only  to  pacify  us  In 
misfortune,  but  almost  to  allure  us  to  it,  by  re- 
presenting it  as  necessary  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
mind.  "  He  that  never  was  acquainted  with  ad- 
versity," says  he,  "  has  seen  the  world  but  on 
one  side,  and  is  ignorant  of  half  the  scenes  of  na- 
ture." He  invites  his  pupil  to  calamity,  as  the 
Syrens  allured  the  passenger  to  their  coasts  by 
promising  that  he  shall  return  -nXdova  eltus  with 
increase  of  knowledge,  with  enlarged  views  and 
multiplied  ideas. 

Curiosity  is,  in  great  and  generous  minds,  the 
first  passion  and  the  last;  and  perhaps  always 
predominates  in  proportion  to  the  strength  of 
the  contemplative  faculties.  He  who  easily  com- 
prehends all  that  is  before  him,  and  soon  exhausts 
any  single  subject,  is  always  eager  for  new  in- 


232 

quiries ; 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  lol 


I1CO ,  and,  in  proportion  as  the  intellectual 
eye  takes  i.i  a  wider  prospect,  it  must  be  gratified 
with  variety  by  more  rapid  flights  and  bolder 
excursions  :  nor  perhaps  can  there  be  proposed 
to  those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  the  plea- 
sures of  thought,  a  more  powerful  incitement  to 
anv  undertaking,  than  the  hope  of  falling  their 
fancy  with  new  images,  of  clearing  their  doubts, 
and  enlightening  their  reason. 

When  Jason,  in  Valerius  Flaccus,  would  in- 
cline the  young  prince  Acastusto  accompany  him 
in  the  first  essay  of  navigation,  he  disperses  his 
apprehensions  of  danger  by  representations  of 
the  new  tracts  of  earth  and  heaven,  which  the 
expedition  would  spread  before  their  eyes ;  and 
tells  him  with  what  grief  he  will  hear,  at  their  re- 
turn of  the  countries  which  they  shall  have  seen, 
and  the  toils  which  they  have  surmounted. 

O  quantum  terra,  quantum  cognoscere  c<eli, 
Permission  est !  pelagus  ijuanws  aperimus  in  urus  ! 
Nunc  forsan  grave  reris  opus  :  sed  luta  recurret 
Cum  ratis,  et  caram  cum  jam  milii  reddet  lolcon; 
Qiiis  pudor  lieu  nostros  tibi  tune  audire  labores  ; 
Quant  referam  visas  tua  per  suspiring entes  ! 

L"d  by  our  stars,  what  tracks  immense  we  trace ! 
From  seas  remote,  what  funds  of  science  raise! 
A  pain  to  thought:  But  when  th'  heroic  band 
'      Ketums  applauded  to  their  native  land, 
A  life  domestic  you  will  then  deplore, 
And  sigh,  while  I  describe  the  various  shore. 

EDW.  CAVE. 

Acastus  was  soon  prevailed  upon  by  his  curi- 
osity to  set  rocks  and  hardships  at  defiance,  and 
commit  his  life  to  the  winds  ;  and  the  same  mo- 
tives have  in  all  ages  had  the  same  effect  upon 
those  whom  the  desire  of  fame  or  wisdom  has 
distinguished  from  the  lower  orders  of  mankind. 

If,  therefore,  it  can  be  proved  that  distress  is 
necessary  to  the  attainment  of  knowledge,  and 
that  a  happy  situation  hides  from  us  so  large  a 
part  of  the  field  of  meditation,  the  envy  of  many 
who  repine  at  the  sight  of  affluence  and  splen- 
dour will  be  much  diminished ;  for,  such  is  the 
delight  of  mental  superiority,  that  none  on  whom 
nature  or  study  have  conferred  it,  would  pur- 
chase the  gifts  of  fortune  by  its  loss. 

It  is  certain,  that  however  the  rhetoric  of  Se- 
neca may  have  dressed  adversity  with  extrinsic 
ornaments,  he  has  justly  represented  it  as  afford- 
ing some  opportunities  of  observation,  which  can- 
not be  found  in  continual  success ;  he  has  truly 
asserted,  that  to  escape  misfortune  is  to  want  in- 
struction, and  that  to  live  at  ease  is  to  live  in  ig- 
norance. 

As  no  man  can  enjoy  happiness  without  think- 
ing that  he  enjoys  it,  the  experience  of  calamity 
is  necessary  to  a  just  sense  of  better  fortune  ;  for 
the  good  of  our  present  state  is  merely  compara- 
tive, and  the  evil  which  every  man  feels  will  be 
sufficient  to  disturb  and  harass  him,  if  he  does 
not  know  how  much  he  escapes.  The  lustre  of 
diamonds  is  invigorated  by  the  interposition  of 
darker  bodies ;  the  lights  of  a  picture  are  created 
by  the  shades.  The  highest  pleasure  which  na- 
ture has  indulged  to  sensitive  perception  is  that 
of  rest  after  fatigue  ;  yet,  that  state  which  labour 
heightens  into  delight,  is  of  itself  only  ease,  and 
is  incapable  of  satisfying  the  mind  without  the 
superaddition  of  diversified  amusements. 

Prosperity,  as  is  truly  asserted  by  Seneca,  very 
much  obstructs  the  knowledge  of  ourselves.  No 
man  can  form  a  just  estimate  of  his  own  powers 


by  unactive  speculation.  That  fortitude  which 
has  encountered  no  dangers,  that  prudence  which 
has  surmounted  no  difficulties,  that  integrity 
wliich  has  been  attacked  by  no  temptations,  can 
at  best  be  considered  but  as  gold  not  yet  brought 
to  the  test,  of  wliich  therefore  the  true  value  can- 
not be  assigned. 

"  He  that  traverses  the  lists  without  an  adver- 
sary, may  receive,"  says  the  philosopher,  "  the 
reward  of  victory,  but  he  has  no  pretensions  to 
the  honour."  If  it  be  the  highest  happiness  of 
man  to  contemplate  himself  with  satisfaction,  and 
to  receive  the  gratulations  of  his  own  conscience ; 
he  whose  courage  has  made  way  amidst  the  tur- 
bulence of  opposition,  and  whose  vigour  has 
broken  through  the  snares  of  distress,  has  many 
advantages  over  those  that  have  slept  in  the 
shades  of  indolence,  and  whose  retrospect  of  time 
can  entertain  them  with  nothing  but  day  rising 
upon  day,  and  year  gliding  after  year. 

Equally  necessary  is  some  variety  of  fortune  to 
a  nearer  inspection  of  the  manners,  principles, 
and  affections  of  mankind.  Princes,  when  they 
would  know  the  opinions  or  grievances  of  their 
subjects,  find  it  necessary  to  steal  away  from 
guards  and  attendants,  and  mingle  on  equal  terms 
among  the  people.  To  him  who  is  known  to 
have  the  power  of  doing  good  or  harm,  nothing  is 
shown  in  its  natural  form.  The  behaviour  of  all 
that  approach  him  is  regulated  by  his  humour, 
their  narratives  are  adapted  to  his  inclination,  and 
their  reasonings  determined  hy  his  opinions; 
whatever  can  alarm  suspicion  or  excite  resent- 
ment is  carefully  suppressed,  and  nothing  appears 
but  uniformity  of  sentiments  and  ardour  of  affec- 
tion. It  may  be  observed,  that  the  unvaried  com- 
plaisance which  ladies  have  the  right  of  exacting, 
keeps  them  generally  unskilled  in  human  nature ; 
prosperity  will  always  enjoy  the  female  preroga- 
tives, and  therefore  must  be  always  in  danger  of 
female  ignorance.  Truth  is  scarcely  to  be  heard, 
but  by  those  from  whom  it  can  serve  no  interest 
to  conceal  it. 


No.  151.]       TUESDAY,  AUG.  27,  1751. 


TOVTO  6  &nrj%avov  tvoeiv, 

''O,Ti  vvv,  Kat  tv  TeXtu- 

Ta  iptprarov  avSfl  Tv%t!v.  PlNDAtt: 

But  wrapt  in  error  is  the  human  mind, 

And  human  bliss  is  ever  insecure  : 
Know  we  what  fortune  yet  remains  behind  ? 

Know  we  how  long  the  present  shall  endure? 

WES  i 

THE  writers  of  medicine  and  physiology  have 
traced,  with  great  appearance  of  accuracy,  the 
effects  of  time  upon  the  human  body,  by  marking 
the  various  periods  of  the  constitution,  and  the 
several  stages  by  which  animal  life  makes  its  pro- 
gress from  infancy  to  decrepitude.  Though  their 
observations  have  not  enabled  them  to  discover 
how  manhood  may  be  accelerated,  or  old  age  re- 
tarded, yet  surely  if  they  be  considered  only  as 
the  amusements  of  curiosity,  they  are  of  equal  im- 
portance with  conjectures  on  things  more  remote, 
with  catalogues  of  the  fixed  stars,  and  calculations 
of  the  bulk  of  planets. 

It  had  been  a  task  worthy  of  the  moral  philoso- 


No.  151.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

pliers  to  have  considered  with  equal  care  the  cli- 
macterics of  the  mind  ;  to  have  pointed  out  the 
time  at  which  every  passion  begins  and  ceases 
to  predominate,  and  noted  the  regular  variations 
of  desire,  and  the  succession  of  one  appetite  to 
another. 

The  periods  of  mental  change  are  not  to  be 
stated  with  equal  certainty  ;  our  bodies  grow  up 
under  the  care  of  nature,  and  depend  so  little 
on  our  own  management,  that  something  more 
than  negligence  is  necessary  to  discompose  their 
structure,  or  impede  their  vigour.  But  our  minds 
are  committed  in  a  great  measure  first  to  the  direc- 
tion of  others,  and  afterwards  of  ourselves.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  protract  the  weakness  of  in- 
fancy beyond  the  usual  time;  but  the  mind  may 
be  very  easily  hindered  from  its  share  of  improve- 
ment; and  the  bulk  and  strength  of  manhood 
must,  without  the  assistance  of  education  and  in- 
struction, be  informed  only  with  the  understand- 
ing of  a  child. 

Yet,  amidst  all  the  disorder  and  inequality 
which  variety  of  discipline,  example,  conversa- 
tion, and  employment,  produce  in  the  intellectual 
advances  of  different  men,  there  is  still  discover- 
ed, by  a  vigilant  spectator,  such  a  general  and 
remote  similitude,  as  may  be  expected  in  the 
same  common  nature  affected  by  external  cir- 
cumstances indefinitely  varied.  We  all  enter 
the  world  in  equal  ignorance,  gaze  round  about 
us  on  the  same  objects,  and  have  our  first  pains 
and  pleasures,  our  first  hopes  and  fears,  our  first 
aversions  and  desires,  from  the  same  causes : 
and  though,  as  we  proceed  farther,  life  opens 
wider  prospects  to  our  view,  and  accidental  im- 
pulses determine  us  to  different  paths  ;  yet  as 
every  mind,  however  vigorous  or  abstracted,  is 
necessitated,  in  its. present  state  of  union,  to  re- 
ceive its  informations,  and  execute  its  purposes  by 
the  intervention  of  the  body,  the  uniformity  of 
our  corporeal  nature  communicates  itself  to- our 
intellectual  operations  ;  and  those  whose  abili- 
ties or  knowledge  incline  them  most  to  deviate 
from  the  general  round  of  life,  are  recalled  from 
eccentricity  by  the  laws  of  their  existence. 

If  we  consider  the  exercise  of  the  mind,  it  will  be 
found  that  in  each  part  of  life  some  particular 
faculty  is  more  eminently  employed.  When  the 
treasures  of  knowledge  are  first  opened  before 
us,  while  novelty  blooms  alike  on  either  hand, 
and  every  thing  equally  unknown  and  uhexa- 
mined  seems  of  equal  value,  the  power  of  the 
soul  is  principally  exerted  in  a  vivacious  and  de- 
sultory curiosity.  She  applies  by  turns  to  every 
object,  enjoys  it  for  a  short  time,  and  flies  with 
equal  ardour  to  another.  She  delights  to  catch  up 
loose  and  unconnected  ideas,  but  starts  away 
from  systems  and  complications,  which  would 
obstruct  the  rapidity  of  her  transitions,  and  detain 
her  long  in  the  same  pursuit. 

When  a  number  of  distinct  images  are  collect- 
ed by  these  erratic  and  hasty  surveys,  the  fancy 
is  busied  in  arranging  them ;  and  combines  them 
into  pleasing  pictures  with  more  resemblance  to 
the  realities  of  life,  as  experience  advances,  and 
new  observations  rectify  the  former.  While  the 
judgment  is  yet  uninformed,  and  unable  to  com- 
pare the  draughts  of  fiction  with  their  originals, 
we  are  delighted  with  improbable  adventures,  im- 
practicable virtues,  and  inimitable  characters  ; 
but,  in  proportion  as  we  have  more  opportunities 
of  acquainting  ourselves  with  living  nature,  we 
2E 


233 


are  sooner  disgusted  with  copies  in  which  there 
appears  no  resemblance.  We  first  discard  ab- 
surdity and  impossibility,  then  exact  greater  and 
greater  degrees  of  probability,  but  at  last  become 
cold  and  insensible  to  the  charms  of  falsehood, 
however  specious,  and,  from  the  imitations  of 
truth,  which  are  never  perfect,  transfer  our  affec- 
tions to  truth  itself. 

Now  commences  the  reign  of  judgment  or  rea- 
son ;  we  begin  to  find  little  pleasure  but  in  com- 
paring arguments,  stating  propositions,  disen- 
tangling perplexities,  clearing  ambiguities,  and 
deducing  consequences.  The  painted  vales  of 
imagination  are  deserted,  and  our  intellectual  ac- 
tivity is  exercised  in  winding  through  the  laby- 
rinths of  fallacy,  and  toiling  with  firm  and  cau- 
tious steps  up  the  narrow  tracts  of  demonstration. 
Whatever  may  lull  vigilance,  or  mislead  atten- 
tion, is  contemptuously  rejected,  and  every  dis- 
guise in  which  error  may  be  concealed,  is  carefully 
observed,  till,  by  degrees,  a  certain  r  umber  of  in- 
contestable or  unsuspected  propositions  are  esta- 
blished, and  at  last  concatenated  into  arguments, 
or  compacted  into  systems. 

At  length  weariness  succeeds  to  labour,  and 
the  mind  lies  at  ease  in  the  contemplation  of  her 
own  attainments,  without  any  desire  of  new  con- 
quests or  excursions.  This  is  the  age  of  recol- 
lection and  narrative;  the  opinions  are  settled," 
and 'the  avenues  of  apprehension  shut  against 
any  new  intelligence ;  the  days  that  are  to  fol- 
low must  pass  in  the  inculcation  of  precepts  al- 
ready collected,  and  assertion  of  tenets  already 
received  ;  nothing  is  henceforward  so  odious  as 
opposition,  so  insolent  as  doubt,  or  so  dangerous 
as  novelty. 

In  like  manner  the  passions  usurp  the  separate 
command  of  the  successive  periods  of  life.  To 
the  happiness  of  our  first  years  nothing  more 
seems  necessary  than  freedom  from  restraint; 
every  man  may  remember  that  if  he  was  left  to 
himself,  and  indulged  in  the  disposal  of  his  own 
time,  he  was  once  content  without  the  superad- 
dition  of  any  actual  pleasure.  The  new  world  is 
itself  a  banquet:  and,  till  we  have  exhausted  the 
freshness  of  life,  we  have  always  about  us  suffi- 
cient gratifications  :  the  sunshine  quickens  us  to 
play,  and  the  shade  invites  us  to  sleep. 

But  we  soon  become  unsatisfied  with  negative 
felicity,  and  are  solicited  by  our  senses  and  appe- 
tites to  more  powerful  delights,  as  the  taste  of 
him  who  has  satisfied  his  hunger  must  be  excited 
by  artificial  stimulations.  The  simplicity  of  na- 
tural amusement  is  now  past,  and  art  and  con- 
trivance must  improve  our  pleasures ;  but  in  time, 
art  like  nature  is  exhausted,  and  the  senses  can 
no  longer  supply  the  cravings  of  the  intellect. 

The  attention  is  then  transferred  from  pleasure 
to  interest,  in  which  pleasure  is  perhaps  included, 
though  diffused  to  a  wider  extent,  and  protracted 
through  new  gradations.  Nothing  now  dances 
before  the  eyes  but  wealth  and  power,  nor  rings 
in  the  ear,  but  the  voice  of  fame;  wealth,  to 
which,  however  variously  denominated,  every 
man  at  some  time  or  other  aspires ;  power,  which 
all  wish  to  obtain  within  their  circle  of  action ; 
and  fame  which  no  man,  however  high  or  mean, 
however  wise  or  ignorant,  was  yet  able  to  despise. 
Now  prudence  and  foresight  exert  their  influence ; 
no  hour  is  devoted  wholly  to  any  present  enjoy- 
men  ,  no  act  or  purpose  terminates  in  itself,  but 
every  motion  is  referred  to  some  distant  end ;  the 


234 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  152. 


accomplishment  of  one  design  begins  another, 
and  the  ultimate  wish  is  always  pushed  off  to  its 
former  distance. 

At  length  fame  is  observed  to  be  uncertain, 
and  power  to  be  dangerous  ;  the  man  whose  vi- 
gour and  alacrity  begin  to  forsake  him,  by  de- 
grees contracts  his  designs,  remits  his  former 
multiplicity  of  pursuits,  and  extends  no  longer  his 
regard  to  any  other  honour  than  the  reputation 
of  wealth,  or  any  other  influence  than  his  power. 
Avarice  is  generally  the  last  passion  of  those 
lives  of  which  the  first  part  has  been  squandered 
in  pleasure,  and  the  second  devoted  to  ambition. 
He  that  sinks  under  the  fatigue  of  getting  wealth, 
lulls  his  age  with  the  milder  business  of  saving  it. 

I  have  In  this  view  of  life  considered  men  as 
actuated  only  by  natural  desires,  and  yielding  to 
their  own  inclinations,  without  regard  to  superior 
principles,  by  which  the  force  of  external  agents 
may  be  counteracted,  and  the  temporary  preva- 
lence of  passions  restrained.  Nature  will  indeed 
always  operate,  human  desires  will  be  always 
ranging  ;  but  these  motions,  though  very  power- 
ful, are  not  resistless ;  nature  may  be  regulated, 
and  desires  governed  ;  and,  to  contend  with  the 
predominance  of  successive  passions,  to  be  en- 
dangered first  by  one  affection,  and  then  by  ano- 
ther, is  the  condition  upon  which  we  are  to  pass 
our  time,  the  time  of  our  preparation  for  that  ptate 
which  shall  put  an  end  to  experiment,  to  disap- 
pointment, and  to  change. 


No.  152.]  SATURDAY,  AUG.  31,  1751. 

— Tristia  mceitum 
Vultum  verba  accent,  iratum  plena  minarum. 

HOR. 

Disastrous  words  can  best  disasters  show 
In  angry  phrase  the  angry  passions  glow. 

ELPHINSTON. 

"  IT  was  the  wisdom,"  says  Seneca,  "  of  ancient 
times  to  consider  what  is  most  useful  as  most 
illustrious."  If  this  rule  be  applied  to  works  of 
genius,  scarcely  any  species  of  composition  de- 
serves more  to  be  cultivated  than  the  epistolary 
style,  since  none  is  of  more  various  or  frequent 
use,  through  the  whole  subordination  of  human 
life. 

It  has  yet  happened,  that  among  the  numerous 
writers  which  onr  nation  has  produced,  equal  per- 
haps always  in  force  and  genius,  and  of  late  in 
elegance  and  accuracy,  to  those  of  any  other 
Country,  very  few  have  endeavoured  to  distinguish 
themselves  by  the  publication  of  letters,  except 
such  as  were  written  in  the  discharge  of  public 
trusts,  and  during  the  transaction  of  great  affairs  ; 
which,  though  they  afford  precedents  to  the  mi- 
nister,  and  memorials  to  the  historian,  are  of  no 
use  as  examples  to  the  familiar  style,  or  models 
of  private  correspondence. 

If  it  be  inquired  by  foreigners,  how  this  de- 
ficiency has  happened  in  the  literature  of  a 
country,  where  all  indulge  themselves  with  so 
little  danger  in  speaking  and  writing,  may  we 
not  without  either  bigotry  or  arrogance  inform 
them,  that  it  must  be  imputed  to  our  contempt 
of  trifles,  and  our  due  sense  of  the  dignity  of  the 
public?  We  do  not  think  it  reasonable  to  fill 
ie  world  with  volumes  from  which  nothing  can 
be  learned,  nor  expect  that  the  employments  of 


the  busy,  or  the  amusements  of  the  gay,  should 
give  way  to  narratives  of  our  private  affairs, 
complaints  of  absence,  expressions  of  fondness, 
or  declarations  of  fidelity. 

A  slight  perusal  of  the  innumerable  letters  by 
which  the  wits  of  France  have  signalized  their 
names,  will  prove  that  other  nations  need  not  be 
discouraged  from  the  like  attempts  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  inability  ;  for  surely  it  is  not  very 
difficult  to  aggravate  trifling  misfortunes,  to 
magnify  familiar  incidents,  repeat  adulatory  pro- 
fessions, accumulate  servile  hyperboles,  and 
produce  all  that  can  be  found  in  the  despicable 
remains  of  Voiture  and  Scarron. 

Yet,  as  much  of  life  must  be  passed  in  affairs 
considerable  only  by  their  frequent  occurrence, 
and  much  of  the  pleasure  which  our  condition 
allows,  must  be  produced  by  giving  elegance  to 
trifles,  it  is  necessary  to  learn  how  to  become 
little  without  becoming  mean,  to  maintain  the 
necessary  intercourse  of  civilitv,  and  fill  up  the 
vacuities  of  actions  by  agreeable  appearances. 
It  had  therefore  been  of  advantage,  if  such  of 
our  writers  as  have  excelled  in  the  art  of  deco- 
rating insignificance,  had  supplied  us  with  a  few 
sallies  of  innocent  gayety,  effusions  of  honest  ten- 
derness, or  exclamations  of  unimportant  hurry. 

Precept  has  generally  been  posterior  to  per- 
formance. The  art  of  composing  works  of  ge- 
nius has  never  been  taught  but  by  the  example 
of  those  who  performed  it  by  natural  vigour  of 
imagination,  and  rectitude  of  judgment.  As  we 
have  few  letters,  we  have  likewise  few  criticisms 
upon  the  epistolary  style.  The  observations 
with  which  Walsh  has  introduced  his  pages  of 
inanity,  are  such  as  give  him  little  claim  to  tho 
rank  assigned  him  by  Dryden  among  the  critics. 
"  Letters,"  says  he,  "  are  intended  as  resem- 
blances of  conversation,  and  the  chief  excel- 
lences of  conversation,  are  good-humour  and 
good-breeding."  This  remark,  equally  valuable 
for  its  novelty  and  propriety,  he  dilates  and  en- 
forces with  an  appearance  of  complete  acqui- 
escence in  his  own  discovery. 

No  man  was  ever  in  doubt  about  the  moral 
qualities  of  a  letter.  It  has  been  always  known 
that  he  who  endeavours  to  please  must  appear 
pleased,  and  he  who  would  not  provoke  rude- 
ness must  not  practise  it.  But  the  question 
among  those  wh'o  establish  rules  for  an  episto- 
lary performance  is,  how  gayety  or  civility  may 
be  properly  expressed ;  as  among  the  critics  in 
history  it  is  not  contested  whether  truth  ought  to 
be  preserved,  but  by  what  mode  of  diction  it  is 
best  adorned. 

As  letters  are  written  on  all  subjects,  in  all 
states  of  mind,  they  cannot  be  properly  reduced 
to  settled  rules,  or  described  by  any  single  cha- 
racteristic ;  and  we  may  safely  disentangle  our 
minds  from  critical  embarrassments  by  deter 
mining  that  a  letter  has  no  peculiarity  but  its 
form,  and  that  nothing  is  to  be  refused  admission, 
which  would  be  proper  in  any  other  method  of 
treating  the  same  subject.  The  qualities  of  the 
epistolary  style  most  frequently  required,  are 
ease  and  simplicity,  an  even  flow  of  unlaboured 
diction,  and  an  artless  arrangement  of  obvious 
sentiments.  But  these  directions  are  no  sooner 
applied  to  use,  than  their  scantiness  and  imper- 
fection become  evident.  Letters  are  written  to 
the  great  and  to  the  mean,  to  the  learned  arid  the 
ignorant,  at  rest  and  in  distress,  in  sport  and  in 


No.  153.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


235 


passion.  Nothing  can  be  more  improper  than 
ease  and  laxity  of  expression,  when  the  import- 
ance of  the  subject  impresses  solicitude,  or  the 
dignity  of  the  person  exacts  reverence. 

That  letters  should  be  written  with  strict  con- 
formity to  nature  is  true,  because  nothing  but 
conformity  to  nature  can  make  any  composition 
beautiful  or  just.  But  it  is  natural  to  depart 
from  familiarity  of  language  upon  occasions  not 
familiar.  Whatever  elevates  the  sentiments  will 
consequently  raise  the  expression ;  whatever 
fills  us  with  hope  or  terror,  will  produce  some 
perturbation  of  images  and  some  figurative  dis- 
tortions of  phrase.  Wherever  we  are  studious 
to  please,  we  are  afraid  of  trusting  our  first 
thoughts,  and  endeavour  to  recommend  our 
opinion  by  studied  ornaments,  accuracy  of  me- 
thod, and  elegance  of  style. 

If  the  personages  of  the  comic  scene  be  al- 
lowed by  Horace  to  raise  their  language  in  the 
transports  of  anger  to  the  turgid  vehemence  of 
tragedy,  the  epistolary  writer  may  likewise  with- 
out censure  comply  with  the  varieties  of  his  mat- 
ter. If  great  events  are  to  be  related,  he  may 
with  all  the  solemnity  of  an  historian  deduce 
them  from  their  causes,  connect  them  with  the 
concomitants,  and  trace  them  to  their  conse- 
quences. If  a  disputed  position  is  to  be  esta- 
blished, or  a  remote  principle  to  be  investigated, 
he  may  detail  his  reasonings  with  all  the  nicety 
of  syllogistic  method.  If  a  menace  is  to  be 
averted,  or  a  benefit  implored,  he  may,  without 
any  violation  of  the  edicts  of  criticism,  call  every 
power  of  rhetoric  to  his  assistance,  and  try  every 
inlet  at  which  love  or  pity  enters  the  heart. 

Letters  that  have  no  other  end  than  the  en- 
tertainment of  the  correspondent  are  more  pro- 
perly regulated  by  critical  precepts,  because  the 
matter  and  style  are  equally  arbitrary,  and  rules 
are  more  necessary,  as  there  is  a  larger  power 
of  choice.  In  letters  of  this  kind,  some  conceive 
art  graceful,  and  others  think  negligence  amia- 
ble ;  some  model  them  by  the  sonnet,  and  will 
allow  them  no  means  of  delighting  but  the  soft 
lapse  of  calm  mellifluence  ;  others  adjust  them 
by  the  epigram,  and  expect  pointed  sentences 
and  forcible  periods.  The  one  party  considers 
exemption  from  faults  as  the  height  of  excel- 
lence, the  other  looks  upon  neglect  of  excellence 
as  the  most  disgusting  fault ;  one  avoids  cen- 
sure, the  other  aspires  to  praise;  one  is  always 
in  danger  of  insipidity,  the  other  continually  on 
the  brink  of  affectation. 

When  the  subject  has  no  intrinsic  dignity,  it 
must  necessarily  owe  its  attractions  to  artificial 
embellishments,  and  may  catch  at  all  advantages 
which  the  art  of  writing  can  supply.  He  that, 
like  Pliny,  sends  his  friend  a  portion  for  his 
daughter,  will,  without  Pliny's  eloquence  or  ad- 
dress, find  means  of  exciting  gratitude,  and  se- 
curing acceptance  ;  but  he  that  has  no  present 
to  make  but  a  garland,  a  ribbon,  or  some  petty 
curiosity,  must  endeavour  to  recommend  it  by 
his  manner  of  giving  it. 

The  purpose  for  which  letters  are  written 
when  no  intelligence  is  communicated,  or  busi- 
ness transacted,  is  to  preserve  in  the  minds  of 
the  absent  either  love  or  esteem  :  to  excite  love 
we  must  impart  pleasure,  and  to  raise  esteem  we 
must  discover  abilities.  Pleasure  will  generally 
be  given,  as  abilities  are  displayed  by  scenes  of 
imagery,  points  of  conceit,  unexpected  sallies, 


and  artful  compliments.  Trifles  always  require 
exuberance  of  ornament;  the  building  which  has 
no  strength  can  be  valued  only  for  the  grace  of 
its  decorations.  The  pebble  must  be  polished 
with  care,  which  hopes  to  be  valued  as  a  dia- 
mond ;  and  words  ought  surely  to  be  laboured, 
when  they  are  intended  to  stand  for  things. 


No.  153.]      TUESDAY,  SEPT.  3,  1751. 

Turba  Rtmi  eeqttitur  fortunam,  ut  semper,  el  odit 
Damnalos.  JUV. 

The  fickle  crowd  with  fortune  comes  and  goes  ? 
Wealth  still  finds  followers,  and  misfortune  foes. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


THERE  are  occasions  on  which  all  apology  is 
rudeness.  He  that  has  an  unwelcome  message 
to  deliver,  may  give  some  proof  of  tenderness 
and  delicacy,  by  a  ceremonial  introduction  and 
gradual  discovery,  because  the  mind,  upon  which 
the  weight  of  sorrow  is  to  fall,  gains  time  for  the 
collection  of  its  powers ;  but  nothing  is  more 
absurd  than  to  delay  the  communication  of 
pleasure,  to  torment  curiosity  by  impatience,  and 
to  delude  hope  by  anticipation. 

I  shall  therefore  forbear  the  arts  by  which  cor- 
respondents generally  secure  admission  :  for  I 
have  too  long  remarked  the  power  of  vanity,  to 
doubt  that  I  shall  be  read  by  you  with  a  dispo- 
sition to  approve,  when  I  declare  that  my  narra- 
tive has  no  other  tendency  than  to  illustrate  and 
corrobrate  your  own  observations. 

I  was  the  second  son  of  a  gentleman,  whose 
patrimony  had  been  wasted  by  a  long  succession 
of  squanderers,  till  he  was  unable  to  support  any 
of  his  children,  except  his  heir,  in  the  hereditary 
dignity  of  idleness.  Being  therefore  obliged  to 
employ  that  part  of  life  in  study  which  my  pro  • 
genitors  had  devoted  to  the  hawk  and  hound,  I 
was  in  my  eighteenth  year  despatched  to  the  uni- 
versity, without  any  rural  honours.  I  had  never 
killed  a  single  woodcock,  nor  partaken  one 
triumph  over  a  conquered  fox. 

At  the  university  1  continued  to  enlarge  my 
acquisitions  with  little  envy  of  the  noisy  happi- 
ness which  my  elder  brother  had  the  fortune  to 
enjoy,  and,  having  obtained  my  degree,  retired 
to  consider  at  leisure  to  what  profession  I  should 
confine  that  application  which  had  hitherto  been 
dissipated  in  general  knowledge.  To  deliberate 
upon  a  choice  which  custom  and  honour  forbid 
to  be  retracted,  is  certainly  reasonable,  yet,  to  lei 
loose  the  attention  equally  to  the  advantages  and 
inconveniences  of  every  employment  is  not  with- 
out danger;  new  motives  are  every  moment 
operating  on  every  side ;  and  mechanics  have 
long  ago  discovered,  that  contrariety  of  equal  at- 
tractions is  equivalent  to  rest. 

While  I  was  thus  trifling  in  uncertainty,  all 
old  adventurer,  who  had  been  once  the  intimate 
friend  of  my  father,  arrived  from  the  Indies  with 
a  large  fortune ;  which  he  had  so  much  harassed 
himself  in  obtaining,  that  sickness  and  infirmity 
left  him  no  other  desire  than  to  die  in  his  native 
country.  His  wealth  easily  procured  him  an 
invitation  to  pass  his  life  with  us ;  and,  being 
incapable  of  any  amusement  but  conversation, 
he  necessarily  became  familiarized  to  me,  whom 


236 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  153. 


he  found  studious  and  domestic.  Pleased  with 
an  opportunity  of  imparting  my  knowledge,  and 
eager  of  any  intelligence  that  might  increase  it,  I 
deFightc-d  his  curiosity  with  historical  narratives 
and  explications  of  nature,  and  gratified  his  va- 
nity by  inquiries  after  the  products  of  distant 
countries,  and  the  customs  of  their  inhabitants. 

My  brother  saw  how  much  I  advanced  in  the 
favour  of  our  guest,  who  being  without  heirs  was 
naturally  expected  to  enrich  the  family  of  his 
friend,  but  neither  attempted  to  alienate  me,  nor 
to  ingratiate  himself.  He  was  indeed  little  qua- 
lified to  solicit  the  affection  of  a  traveller,  for  the 
remissness  of  his  education  had  left  him  without 
any  rule  of  action  but  his  present  humour.  He 
often  forsook  the  old  gentleman  in  the  midst  of 
an  adventure,  because  the  horn  sounded  in  the 
court-yard,  and  would  have  lost  an  opportunity, 
not  only  of  knowing  the  history  but  sharing  the 
wealth  of  the  Mogul,  for  the  trial  of  a  new  point- 
er, or  the  sight  of  a  horse-race. 

It  was  therefore  not  long  before  our  new  friend 
declared  his  intention  of  bequeathing  to  me  the 
profits  of  his  commerce,  as  the  only  man  in  the 
i'amily  by  whom  he  could  expect  them  to  be  ra- 
tionally enjoyed.  This  distinction  drew  upon 
me  the  envy  not  only  of  my  brother  but  my 
father. 

As  no  man  is  willing  to  believe  that  he  suffers 
by  his  own  fault,  they  imputed  the  preference 
which  I  had  obtained  to  adulatory  compliances, 
or  malignant  calumnies.  To  no  purpose  did  I 
call  upon  my  patron  to  attest  my  innocence,  for 
who  will  believe  what  he  wishes  to  be  false  ?  In 
the  heat  of  disappointment  they  forced  their  in- 
mate by  repeated  insults  to  depart  from  the  house, 
and  I  was  soon,  by  the  same  treatment,  obliged 
to  follow  him. 

He  chose  his  residence  in  the  confines  of  Lon- 
don, where  rest,  tranquillity,  and  medicine,  re- 
stored him  to  part  of  the  health  which  he  had  lost. 
I  pleased  myself  with  perceiving  that  I  was  not 
likely  to  obtain  an  immediate  possession  of  wealth 
which  no  labour  of  mine  had  contributed  to  ac- 
quire ;  and  that  he  who  had  thus  distinguished 
me,  might  hope  to  end  his  life  without  a  total 
frustration  of  those  blessings  which  whatever  be 
their  real  value,  he  had  sought  with  so  much  dili- 
gence, and  purchased  with  so  many  vicissitudes 
of  danger  and  fatigue. 

He,  indeed,  left  ine  no  reason  to  repine  at  his 
recovery ,  for  he  was  willing  to  accustom  me 
early  to  the  use  of  money ;  and  set  apart  for  my 
expenses  such  a  revenue  as  I  had  scarcely  dared 
to  image.  I  can  yet  congratulate  myself  that 
fortune  has  seen  her  golden  cup  once  tasted  with- 
out inebriation.  Neither  my  modesty  nor  pru- 
dence were  overwhelmed  by  affluence  ;  my  ele- 
vation was  without  insolence,  and  my  expense 
without  profusion.  Employing  the  influence 
which  money  always  confers  to  the  improvement 
of  my  understanding,!  mingled  in  parties  of  gay- 
ety,  and  in  conferences  of  learning,  appeared  in 
every  place  where  instruction  was  to  be  found, 
and  imagined  that,  ranging  through  all  the  diver- 
sities of  life,  I  had  acquainted  myself  fully  with 
human  nature,  and  learned  all  that  was  to  be 
known  of  the  ways  of  men. 

It  happened,  however,  that  I  soon  discovered 
how  much  was  wanting  to  the  completion  of  my 
knowledge,  and  found  that,  according  to  Sene- 
ca s  remark,  I  had  hitherto  seen  the  world  but  on 


one  side.  My  patron's  confidence  in  his  increase 
of  strength  tempted  him  to  carelessness  and  irre- 
gularity ;  he  caught  a  fever  by  riding  in  the  rain, 
of  which  he  died  delirious  on  the  third  day.  I 
buried  him,  without  any  of  the  heir's  affected 
grief  or  secret  exultation  ;  then  preparing  to  take 
a  legal  possession  of  his  fortune,  opened  his  clo- 
set, where  I  found  a  will  made  at  his  first  arrival, 
by  which  my  father  was  appointed  the  chief  inhe- 
ritor, and  nothing  was  left  me  but  a  legacy  sufficient 
to  support  me  in  the  prosecution  of  rny  studies. 

I  had  not  yet  found  such  charms  in  prosperity 
as  to  continue  it  by  any  acts  of  forgery  or  injustice, 
and  made  haste  to  inform  my  father  of  the  riches 
which  had  been  given  him,  not  by  the  preference 
of  kindness,  but  by  the  delays  of  indolence,  and 
cowardice  of  age.  The  hungry  family  flew  like 
vultures  on  their  prey,  and  soon  made  my  disap- 
pointment public  by  the  tumult  of'  their  claims, 
and  the  splendour  of  their  sorrow. 

It  was  now  my  part  to  consider  how  I  should 
repair  the  disappointment.  I  could  not  but  tri- 
umph in  my  long  list  of  friends,  which  comprised 
almost  every  name  that  power  or  knowledge  en- 
titled to  eminence,  and,  in  the  prospect  of  the  in- 
numerable roads  to  honour  and  preferment,  which 
I  had  laid  open  to  myself  by  the  wise  use  of  tem- 
porary riches,  I  believed  nothing  necessary  but 
that  I  should  continue  that  acquaintance  to  which 
I  had  been  so  readily  admitted,  and  which  had 
hitherto  been  cultivated  on  both  sides  with  equal 
ardour. 

Full  of  these  expectations,  I  one  morning  or- 
dered a  chair,  with  an  intention  to  make  my  usual 
circle  of  morning  visits.  Where  I  first  stopped  1 
saw  two  footmen  lolling  at  the  door,  who  told  rne 
without  any  change  of  posture,  or  collection  of 
countenance,  that  their  master  was  at  home,  and 
suffered  me  to  open  the  inner  door  without  assist 
ance.  I  found  my  friend  standing,  and,  as  I  was 
tattling  with  my  former  freedom,  was  formally  en- 
treated to  sit  down  ;  but  did  not  stay  to  be  fa- 
voured with  any  further  condescension. 

My  next  experiment  was  made  at  the  levee  of 
a  statesman,  who  received  me  with  an  embrace 
of  tenderness,  that  he  might  with  more  decency 
publish  my  change  of  fortune  to  the  sycophants 
about  him.  After  he  had  enjoyed  the  triumph  of 
condolence,  he  turned  to  a  wealthy  stock-jobber, 
and  left  me  exposed  to  the  scorn  of  those  who 
had  lately  courted  my  notice,  and  solicited  my  in- 
terest. 

I  was  then  set  down  at  the  door  of  another, 
who,  upon  my  entrance,  advised  me,  with  great 
solemnity,  to  think  of  some  settled  provision  for 
life.  I  left  him,  and  hurried  away  to  an  old 
friend,  who  professed  himself  unsusceptible  of 
any  impressions  from  prosperity  or  misfortune, 
and  begged  that  he  might  see  me  when  he  was 
more  at  leisure. 

Of  sixty-seven  doors,  at  which  I  knocked  in 
the  first  week  after  my  appearance  in  a  mourn- 
ing dress,  I  was  denied  admission  at  forty-six ; 
was  suffered  at  fourteen  to  wait  in  the  outer  room 
till  business  was  despatched  ;  at  four,  was  enter- 
tained with  a  few  questions  about  the  weather  ; 
at  one,  heard  the  footman  rated  for  bringing  my 
name ;  and  at  two  was  informed,  in  the  flow  of 
casual  conversation,  how  much  a  man  of  rank 
degrades  himself  by  mean  company. 

My  curiosity  now  led  me  to  try  what  reception 
I  should  find  among  the  ladies  ;  but  I  found  that 


No.  154.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


237 


my  patron  had  carried  all  my  powers  of  pleasing 
to  the  grave.  1  had  formerly  been  celebrated  as  a 
wit ;  and  not  perceiving  any  languor  in  my  ima- 
gination, I  essayed  to  revive  that  gayety  which 
had  hitherto  broken  out  involuntarily  before  my 
sentences  were  finished.  My  remarks  were  now 
heard  with  a  steady  countenance  ;  and  if  a  girl 
happened  to  give  way  to  habitual  merriment,  her 
forwardness  was  repressed  with  a  frown  by  her 
mother  or  her  aunt. 

Wherever  I  come  I  scatter  infirmities  and  dis- 
ease ;  every  lady  whom  1  meet  in  the  Mall  is  too 
weary  to  walk  ;"  all  whom  I  entreat  to  sing  are 
troubled  with  colds  :  if  I  propose  cards,  they  are 
afflicted  with  the  headach  ;  if  I  invite  them  to  the 
gardens,  they  cannot  bear  a  crowd. 

All  this  might  be  endured  ;  but  there  is  a  class 
of  mortals  who  think  my  understanding  impaired 
with  my  fortune,  exalt  themselves  to  the  dignity 
of  advice,  and,  whenever  we  happen  to  meet, 
presume  to  prescribe  my  conduct,  regulate  my 
economy,  and  direct  my  pursuits.  Another  race, 
equally  impertinent  and  equally  despicable,  are 
every  moment  recommending  to  me  an  attention 
to  my  interest,  and  think  themselves  entitled,  by 
their  superior  prudence,  to  reproach  me  if  I  speak 
or  move  without  regard  to  profit. 

Such,  Mr.  Rambler,  is  the  power  of  wealth, 
that  it  commands  the  ear  of  greatness  and  the 
eye  of  beauty,  gives  spirit  to  the  dull,  and  autho- 
rity to  the  timorous,  and  leaves  him  from  whom 
it  departs,  without  virtue  and  without  understand- 
ing, the  sport  of  caprice,  the  scofF  of  insolence, 
the  sla\  j  of  meanness,  and  the  pupil  of  ignorance. 
I  am,  &c. 


No.  154  ]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  7,  1751. 

Tibi  res  antique  laiidis  et  artis 

lngrt:^ior,  sanctos  ausus  recluderefontis.     -VIRG. 

For  tlioe  my  tuneful  accents  will  I  raise, 
And  tioalof  arts  disclosed  in  ancient  days; 
Oucc  n.ore  unlock  for  thee  the  sacred  spring. 

DEIYDEN. 

THE  direction  of  Aristotle  to  those  that  study 
politics,  is,  first  to  examine  and  understand  what 
has  been  written  by  the  ancients  upon  govern- 
ment ;  then  to  cast  their  eyes  round  upon  the 
\vorid,  and  consider  by  what  causes  the  prosperity 
of  communities  is  visibly  influenced,  and  why  some 
are  worse  and  others  better  administered. 

The  same  method  must  be  pursued  by  him 
who  hopes  to  become  eminent  in  any  other  part  of 
knowledge.  The  first  task  is  to  search  books,  the 
next  to  contemplate  nature.  He  must  first  pos- 
sess himself  of  the  intellectual  treasures  which 
the  diligence  of  former  ages  has  accumulated, 
and  then  endeavour  to  increase  them  by  his  own 
collections. 

The  mental  disease  of  the  present  generation 
is  impatience  of  study,  contempt  of  the  great  mas- 
ters of  ancient  wisdom,  and  a  disposition  to  rely 
wholly  upon  unassisted  genius  and  natural  saga- 
city. The  wits  of  these  happy  days  have  disco- 
vered a  way  to  fame,  which  the  dull  caution  of 
our  laborious  ancestors  durst  never  attempt ;  they 
cut  the  knots  of  sophistry  which  it  was  formerly 
the  business  of  years  to  untie,  solve  difficulties  by 
sudden  irradiations  of  intelligence,  and  compre- 
hend long  processes  of  argument  by  immediate 
intuition 


Men  who  have  flattered  themselves  into  this 
opinion  of  their  own  abilities,  look  down  on  all 
who  waste  their  lives  over  books  as  a  race  of  in- 
ferior beings,  condemned  by  nature  to  perpetual 
pupilage,  and  fruitlessly  endeavouring  to  remedy 
their  barrenness  by  incessant  cultivation,  or  suc- 
cour their  feebleness  by  subsidiary  strength. 
They  presume  that  none  would  be  more  industri- 
ous than  they,  if  they  were  not  more  sensible  of 
deficiencies ;  and  readily  conclude,  that  he  who 
places  no  confidence  in  his  own  powers,  owes  his 
modesty  only  to  his  weakness. 

It  is  however  certain  that  no  estimate  is  more 
in  danger  of  erroneous  calculations  than  those  by 
which  a  man  computes  the  force  of  his  own  genius. 
It  generally  happens  at  our  entrance  into  the 
world,  that  by  the  natural  attraction  of  similitude, 
we  associate  with  men  like  ourselves,  young, 
sprightly,  and  ignorant,  and  rate  our  accomplish- 
ments by  comparison  with  theirs :  when  we  have 
once  obtained  an  acknowledged  superiority  over 
our  acquaintances,  imagination  and  desires  easily 
extend  it  over  the  rest  of  mankind  ;  and  if  no  ac- 
cident forces  us  into  new  emulations,  we  grow 
old,  and  die  in  admiration  of  ourselves. 

Vanity,  thus  confirmed  in  her  dominion,  rea- 
dily listens  to  the  voice  of  idleness,  and  soothes 
the  slumber  of  life  with  continual  dreams  of  ex- 
cellence and  greatness.  A  man,  elated  by  confi- 
dence in  his  natural  vigour  of  fancy  and  sagacity 
of  conjecture,  soon  concludes  that  he  already  pos- 
sessess  whatever  toil  and  inquiry  can  confer.  He 
then  listens  with  eagerness  to  the  wild  objections 
which  folly  has  raised  against  the  common  means 
of  improvement;  talks  of  the  dark  chaos  of  indi- 
gested knowledge;  describes  the  mischievous 
effects  of  heterogeneous  sciences  fermenting  in 
the  mind;  relates  the  blunders  of  lettered  igno- 
rance ;  expatiates  on  the  heroic  merit  of  those  who 
deviate  from  prescription,  or  shake  off authority ; 
and  gives  vent  to  the  inflations  of  his  heart  by 
declaring  that  he  owes  nothing  to  pedants  and 
universities. 

All  these  pretensions,  however  confident,  are 
very  often  vain.  The  laurels  which  superficial 
acuteness  gains  in  triumphs  over  ignorance  un- 
supported by  vivacity,  are  observed  by  Locke  to 
be  lost,  whenever  real  learning  and  rational  dili- 
gence appear  against  her ;  the  sallies  of  gayety 
are  soon  repressed  by  calm  confidence ;  and  the 
artifices  of  subtilty  are  readily  detected  by  those 
who,  having  carefully  studied  the  question,  are 
not  easily  confounded  or  surprised. 

But,  though  the  contemner  of  books  had  nci 
ther  been  deceived  by-  others  nor. himself,  and 
was  really  born  with  a  genius  surpassing  the  or- 
dinary abilities  of  mankind ;  yet  surely  such 
gifts  of  Providence  may  be  more  properly  urged 
as  incitements  to  labour,  than  encouragements 
to  negligence.  He  that  neglects  the  culture  of 
ground  naturally  fertile,  is  more  shamefully  cul- 
pable than  he  whose  field  would  scarcely  re- 
compense his  husbandry. 

Cicero  remarks,  that  not  to  know  what  has 
been  transacted  in  former  times,  is  to  continue 
always  a  child.  If  no  use  is  made  of  the  labours 
of  past  ages,  the  world  must  remain  always  in 
the  infancy  of  knowledge.  The  discoveries  of 
every  man  must  terminate  in  his  own  advantage, 
and  the  studies  of  every  age  be  employed  on 
questions  which  the  past  generation  had  dis- 
cussed and  determined.  We  may  with  as  little 


238 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  155. 


reproach  borrow  science  as  manufactures  from 
our  ancestors;  and  it  is  as  rational  to  live  in 
c  ivea  lill  our  own  hands  have  erected  a  palace, 
as  to  i  eject  all  knowledge  of  architecture  which 
our  understandings  will  not  supply. 

To  the  strongest  and  quickest  mind  it  is  iar 
easier  to  learn  than  to  invent.  The  principles  of 
arithmetic  and  geometry  may  be  comprehended 
by  a  close  attention  in  a  few  days ;  yet  who  can 
flatter  himself  that  the  study  of  a  long  life  would 
have  enabled  him  to  discover  them,  when  he  sees 
them  yet  unknown  to  so  many  nations,  whom 
he  cannot  suppose  less  liberally  endowed  with 
natural  reason  than  the  Grecians  or  Egyptians. 

Every  science  was  thus  far  advanced  towards 
perfection,  by  the  emulous  diligence  of  contem- 
porary students,  and  the  gradual  discoveries  of 
one  age  improving  on  another.  Sometimes  un- 
expected flashes  of  instruction  were  struck  by 
the  fortuitous  collision  of  happy  incidents,  or  an 
involuntary  concurrence  of  ideas,  in  which  the 
philosopher  to  whom  they  happened  had  no  other 
merit  than  that  of  knowing  their  value,  and 
transmitting,  unclouded,  to  posterity,  that  light 
which  had  been  kindled  by  causes  out  of  his 
power.  The  happiness  of  these  casual  illumina- 
tions no  man  can  promise  to  himself,  because  no 
endearments  can  procure  them :  and,  therefore, 
whatever  be  our  abilities  or  application,  we  must 
submit  to  learn  from  others  what  perhaps  would 
have  lain  hid  for  ever  from  human  penetration, 
had  not  some  remote  inquiry  brought  it  to  view ; 
as  treasures  are  thrown  up  by  the  ploughman 
and  the  digger  in  the  rude  exercise  of  their  com- 
mon occupations. 

The  man  whose  genius  qualifies  him  for  great 
undertakings,  must  at  least  be  content  to  learn 
from  books  the  present  state  of  human  know- 
ledge ;  that  he  may  not  ascribe  to  himself  the 
invention  of  arts  generally  known  ;  weary  his 
attention  with  experiments  of  which  the  event 
has  baen  long  registered  ;  and  waste,  in  attempts 
which  have  already  succeeded  or  miscarried, 
that  tims  which  might  have  been  spent  with  use- 
fulness and  honour  upon  new  undertakings. 

But,  though  the  study  of  books  is  necessary, 
it  is  not  sufficient  to  constitute  literary  eminence. 
He  that  wishes  to  be  counted  among  the  bene- 
factors of  posterity,  must  add  by  his  own  toil  to 
the  acquisitions  of  his  ancestors,  and  secure  his 
memory  from  neglect  by  some  valuable  im- 
provement. This  can  only  be  effected  by  looking 
outupon  the  wastes  of  the  intellectual  world,  and 
extending  the  power  of  learning  over  regions  yet 
undisciplined  and  barbarous :  or  by  surveying 
more  exactly  our  ancient  dominions,  and  driving 
ignorance  from  the  fortresses  and  retreats  where 
she  sculks  undetected  and  undisturbed.  Every 
scisncft  has  its  difficulties,  wh  ch  yet  call  for  so- 
lution before  we  attempt  new  systems  of  know- 
ledge ;  as  every  country  has  its  forests  and 
marshes,  which  it  would  be  wise  to  cultivate  and 
drain,  before  distant  colonies  are  projected  as  a 
necessary  discharge  of  the  exuberance  of  the 
inhabitants. 

No  man  ever  yet  became  great  by  imitation. 
Whoever  hopes  for  the  veneration  of  mankind 
must  have  invention  in  the  design  or  the  execu- 
tion ;  either  the  effect  must  itself  be  new,  or  the 
means  by  which  it  is  produced.  Either  truths 
hitherto  unknown  must  be  discovered,  or  those 
which  are  already  known  enforced  by  stronger 


evidence,  facilitated  by  clearer  method,  or  eluci- 
dated by  brighter  illustrations. 

Fame  cannot  spread  wide  or  endure  long  that 
is  not  rooted  in  nature,  and  manured  by  ait. 
That  which  hopes  to  resist  the  blast  of  malignity, 
and  stand  firm  against  the  attacks  of  time,  must 
contain  in  itself  some  original  principle  of 
growth.  The  reputation  which  arises  from  the 
detail  of  transposition  of  borrowed  sentiments 
may  spread  for  a  while  like  ivy  on  the  rind  of 
antiquity,  but  will  be  torn  away  by  accident  or 
contempt,  and  suffered  to  rot  unheeded  on  the 
ground. 


No.  155.]       TUESDAY,  SEPT.  10, 1751. 

Steriles  transmisim.ua  annos 

Hcec  tevi  mihiprima  dies,  hxc  limina  vita. 

STAT 

Our  barren  years  are  past ; 

Be  this  of  life  the  first,  of  sloth  the  last. 

ELPHINSTON 

No  weakness  of  the  human  mind  has  more  fre- 
quently incurred  animadversion,  than  the  negli- 
gence with  which  men  overlook  their  own  faults, 
however  flagrant,  and  the  easiness  with  which 
they  pardon  them,  however  frequently  repeated. 

It  seems  generally  believed,  that,  as  the  eye 
cannot  see  itself,  the  mind  has  no  faculties  by 
which  it  can  contemplate  its  own  slate,  and  that 
therefore  we  have  not  means  of  becoming  ac- 
quainted with  our  real  characters  ;  an  opinion 
which,  like  innumerable  other  postulates,  an 
inquirer  finds  himself  inclined  to  admit  upon 
very  little  evidence,  because  it  affords  a  ready 
solution  of  many  difficulties.  It  will  explain 
why  the  greatest  abilities  frequently  fail  to  pro- 
mote the  happiness  of  those  who  possess  them ; 
why  those  who  can  distinguish  with  the  utmost 
nicety  the  boundaries  of  vice  and  virtue,  suffer 
them  to  be  confounded  in  their  own  conduct ; 
why  the  active  and  vigilant  resign  their  affairs 
implicitly  to  the  management  of  others ;  and 
why  the  cautious  and  fearful  make  hourly  ap 
proaches  towards  ruin,  without  one  sigh  of  soli- 
citude or  struggle  for  escape. 

When  a  position  teems  thus  with  commodious 
consequences,  who  can  without  regret  confess  it 
to  be  false?  Yet  it  is  certain  that  declaim^rs 
have  indulged  a  disposition  to  describe  the 
dominion  of  the  passions  as  extended  beyond 
the  limits  that  nature  assigned.  Self-love  is 
often  rather  arrogant  than  blind :  it  docs  not 
hide  our  faults  from  ourselves,  but  persuades  us 
that  they  escape  the  notice  of  others,  and  dis- 
poses us  to  resent  censures  lest  we  should  con- 
fess them  to  be  just.  We  are  secretly  conscious 
t>f  defects  and  vices  which  we  hope  to  conceal 
from  the  public  eye,  and  please  ourselves  with 
innumerable  impostures,  by  which,  in  reality, 
nobody  is  deceived. 

In  proof  of  the  dimness  of  our  internal  sight, 
or  the  general  inability  of  man  to  determine 
rightly  concerning  his  own  character,  it  is  com- 
mon to  urge  the  success  of  the  most  absurd  and 
incredible  flattery,  and  the  resentment  always 
raised  by  advice,  however  soft,  benevolent,  and 
reasonable.  But  flattery,  if  its  operation  be 
nearly  examined,  will  be  found  to  owe  its  ac- 
ceptance, not  to  our  ignorance  but  knowledge  of 


No.  155.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


'239 


our  failures,  and  to  delight  us  rather  as  it  con- 
soles our  wants  than  displays  our  possessions. 
He  that  shall  solicit  the  favour  of  his  patron  by 
_  praising  him  for  qualities  which  he  can  find  in 
himself,  will  be  defeated  hy  the  more  daring 
panegyrist  who  enriches  him  with  adscititious 
excellence.  Just  praise  is  only  a  debt,  but  flattery 
is  a  present.  The  acknowledgment  of  those 
virtues  on  which  conscience  congratulates  us,  is 
a  tribute  that  we  can  at  any  time  exact  with 
confidence ;  but  the  celebration  of  those  which 
we  only  feign,  or  desire  without  any  vigorous 
endeavours  to  attain  them,  is  received  as  a  con- 
fession of  sovereignty  over  regions  never  con- 
quered, as  a  favourable  decision  of  disputable 
claims,  and  is  more  welcome  as  it  is  more  gra- 
tuitous. 

Advice  is  offensive,  not  because  it  lays  us  open 
to  unexpected  regret,  or  convicts  us  of  any  fault 
which  has  escaped  our  notice,  but  because  it 
shows  us  that  we  are  known  to  others  as  well  as 
to  ourselves ;  and  the  officious  monitor  is  per- 
secuted with  hatred,  not  because  his  accusation 
is  false,  but  because  he  assumes  that  superiority 
which  we  are  not  willing  to  grant  him,  and  has 
dared  to  detect  what  we  desired  to  conceal. 

For  this  reason  advice  is  commonly  ineffec- 
tual. If  those  who  follow  the  call  of  their  de- 
sires, without  inquiry  whither  they  are  going, 
had  deviated  ignorantly  from  the  paths  of  wis- 
dom, and  were  rushing  upon  dangers  unforeseen, 
they  would  readily  listen  to  information  that  re- 
calls them  from  their  errors,  and  catch  the  first 
alarm  by  which  destruction  or  infamy  is  de- 
nounced. Few  that  wander  in  the  wrong  way 
mistake  it  for  the  right;  they  only  find  it  more 
smooth  and  flowery,  and  indulge  their  own 
choice  rather  than  approve  it :  therefore  few  are 
persuaded  to  quit  it  by  admonition  or  reproof, 
since  it  impresses  no  new  conviction,  nor  con- 
fers any  powers  of  action  or  resistance.  He  that 
is  gravely  informed  how  soon  profusion  will  an- 
nihilate his  fortune,  hears  with  little  advantage 
what  he  knew  before,  and  catches  at  the  next 
occasion  of  expense,  because  advice  has  no  force 
to  suppress  his  vanity.  He  that  is  told  how 
certainly  intemperance  will  hurry  him  to  the 
grave,  runs  with  his  usual  speed  to  a  new  course 
of  luxury,  because  his  reason  is  not  invigorated, 
nor  his  appetite  weakened. 

The  mischief  of  flattery  is,  not  that  it  per- 
suades any  man  that  he  is  what  he  is  not,  but 
that  it  suppresses  the  influence  of  honest  am- 
bition, by  raising  an  opinion  that  honour  may  be 
gained  without  the  toil  of  merit ;  and  the  benefit 
of  advice  arises  commonly,  not  from  any  new 
Jight  imparted  to  the  mind,  but  from  the  disco- 
very which  it  affords  of  the  public  suffrages.  He 
that  could  withstand  conscience  is  frighted  at 
infamy,  and  shame  prevails  when  reason  was 
defeated. 

As  we  all  know  our  own  faults,  and  know 
them  commonly  with  many  aggravations  which 
human  perspicacity  cannot  discover,  there  is, 
perhaps,  no  man,  however  hardened  by  impu- 
dence or  dissipated  by  levity,  sheltered  by  hypo- 
crisy or  blasted  by  disgrace,' who  does  not  intend 
some  time  to  review  his  conduct,  and  to  regulate 
the  remainder  of  his  life  by  the  laws  of  virtue. 
New  temptations  indeed  attack  him,  new  invita- 
tions are  offered  by  pleasure  and  interest,  and 
the  hour  of  reformation  is  always  delayed ;  every 


delay  gives  vice  another  opportunity  of  fortifying 
itself  by  habit ;  and  the  change  of  manners, 
though  sincerely  intended  and  rationally  planned, 
is  referred  to  the  time  when  some  craving  pas- 
sion shall  be  fully  gratified,  or  some  powerful  al 
lurement  cease  its  importunity. 

Thus  procrastination  is  accumulated  on  pro 
crastination,  and  one  impediment  succeeds  ano 
ther,  till  age  shatters  our  resolution,  or  death  in- 
tercepts the  project  of  amendment.  Such  is 
often  the  end  of  salutary  purposes,  after  they 
have  long  delighted  the  imagination,  and  appeas- 
ed that  disquiet  which  every  mind  feels  from 
known  misconduct,  when  the  attention  is  not  di- 
verted by  business  or  by  pleasure. 

Nothing  surely  can  be  more  unworthy  of  a 
reasonable  nature,  than  to  continue  in  a  state  so 
opposite  to  real  happiness,  as  that  all  the  peace 
of  solitude,  and  felicity  of  meditation,  must  arise 
from  resolutions  of  forsaking  it.  Yet  the  woild 
will  often  afford  examples  of  men,  who  pass 
months  and  years  in  a  continual  war  with  their 
own  convictions,  and  are  daily  dragged  by  habit, 
or  betrayed  by  passion,  into  practices  which  they 
closed  and  opened  their  eyes  with  purposes  to 
avoid  ;  purposes  which  though  settled  on  convic- 
tion, the  first  impulse  of  momentary  desire  to- 
tally overthrows. 

The  influence  of  custom  is  indeed  such,  that 
to  conquer  it  will  require  the  utmost  efforts  of  for 
titude  and  virtue  ;  nor  can  I  think  any  men  more 
worthy  of  veneration  and  renown  than  those  who 
have  burst  the  shackles  of  habitual  vice.  This 
victory,  however,  has  different  degrees  of  glory 
as  of  difficulty  ;  it  is  more  heroic  as  the  objects 
of  guilty  gratification  are  more  familiar,  and  the 
recurrence  of  solicitation  more  frequent.  He 
that,  from  experience  of  the  folly  of  ambition,  re- 
signs his  offices,  may  set  himself  free  at  once  from 
temptation  to  squander  his  life  in  courts,  because 
he  cannot  regain  his  former  station.  He  who  is 
enslaved  by  an  amorous  passion,  may  quit  his 
tyrant  in  disgust,  and  absence  will,  without  the 
help  of  reason,  overcome  by  degrees  the  desire 
of  returning.  But  those  appetites  to  which  every 
place  affords  their  proper  object,  and  which  re- 
quire  no  preparatory  measures  or  gradual  ad- 
vances, are  more  tenaciously  adhesive  ;  the  wish 
is  so  near  the  enjoyment,  that  compliance  often 
precedes  consideration  ;  and,  before  the  powers 
of  reason  can  be  summoned,  the  time  for  employ- 
ing them  is  past. 

Indolence  is,  therefore,  one  of  the  vices  from 
which  those  whom  it  once  infects  are  seldom  re- 
formed. Every  other  species  of  luxury  operates 
upon  some  appetite  that  is  quickly  satiated,  and 
requires  some  concurrence  of  art  or  accident 
which  every  place  will  not  supply  ;  but  the  de- 
sire of  ease  acts  equally  at  all  hours,  and  the 
longer  it  is  indulged  is  the  more  increased.  To 
do  nothing  is  in  every  man's  power ;  we  cai? 
never  want  an  opportunity  of  omitting  duties. 
The  lapse  to  indolence  is  soft  and  imperceptible, 
because  it  is  only  a  mere  cessation  of  activity  ; 
but  the  return  to  diligence  is  difficult,  because 
it  implies  a  change  from  rest  to  motion,  from  pri- 
vation to  reality. 

Facilis  drsrensns  Acrrni : 
Jfnr.tes  atque  dies  patet  atrijonua  Ditis ; 
Srd  revocareffradum,supcrtuqueevadere  ad  auras 
Hoc  opus,  hie  luroc  eit.  VIRO 


240 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  I5f 


l7th,"  the : Wk,  and  mighty  labour  lies 

Of  this  vice,  as  of  all  others,  every  man  who 
indulges  it  is  conscious:  we  all  know  our  own 
state  %  we  could  be  induced  to  consider  it;  and 
it  might  perhaps  be  useful  to  the  conquest  of  all 
these  ensnarers  of  the  mind,  if,  at  certain  stated 
days,  life  was  reviewed.  Many  things  necessary 
are  omitted,  because  we  vainly  imagine  that  they 
may  be  always  performed  ;  and  what  cannot  be 
done  without  pain  will  for  ever  be  delayed,  if  the 
time  of  doing  it  be  left  unsettled.  No  corruption 
is  great  but  by  long  negligence,  which  can 
scarcely  prevail  in  a  mind  regularly  and  frequent- 
ly awakened  by  periodical  remorse.  He  that 
thus  breaks  his  life  into  parts,  will  find  in  himself 
a  desire  to  distinguish  every  stage  of  his  exist- 
ence by  some  improvement,  and  delight  himself 
with  the  approach  of  the  day  of  recollection,  as 
of  the  time  which  is  to  begin  a  new  series  of  vir- 
tue and  felicity. 


No.  156.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  14,  1751. 
ynnquam  dliud  natura,  aliud  sapicntia  dicit.     Juv. 
For  wisdom  ever  echoes  nature's  voice. 

EVERT  government,  say  the  politicians,  is  per- 
petually degenerating  towards  corruption,  from 
which  it  must  be  rescued  at  certain  periods  by 
the  resuscitation  of  its  first  principles,  and  the  re- 
establishment  of  its  original  constitution.  Every 
animal  body,  according  to  the  methodic  physi- 
cians, is,  by  the  predominance  of  some  exuberant 
3uality,  continually  declining  towards  disease  and 
eath,  which  must  be  obviated  by  a  seasonable 
reduction  of  the  peccant  humour  to  the  just  equi- 
poise which  health  requires. 

In  the  same  manner  the  studies  of  mankind, 
all  at  least  which,  not  being  subject  to  rigorous 
demonstration,  admit  the  influence  of  fancy  and 
caprice,  are  perpetually  tending  to  error  and  con- 
fusion. Of  the  great  principles  of  truth  which 
the  first  speculatists  discovered,  the  simplicity  is 
embarrassed  by  ambitious  additions,  or  the  evi- 
dence obscured  by  inaccurate  argumentation  ; 
and  as  they  descend  from  one  succession  of  writers 
to  another,  like  light  transmitted  from  room  to 
room,  they  lose  their  strength  and  splendour, 
and  fade  at  last  in  total  evanescence. 

The  systems  of  learning  therefore  must  be 
sometimes  reviewed,  complications  analysed  into 
principles,  and  knowledge  disentangled  from 
opinion.  It  is  not  always  possible,  without  a 
close  inspection,  to  separate  the  genuine  shoots 
of  consequential  reasoning,  which  grow  out  of 
some  radical  postulate,  from  the  branches  which 
art  has  engrafted  on  it.  The  accidental  prescrip- 
tions of  authority,  when  time  has  procured  them 
veneration,  are  often  confounded  with  the  laws 
of  nature,  and  those  rules  are  supposed  coeval 
with  reason,  of  which  the  first  rise  cannot  be  dis- 
covered. 

Criticism  has  sometimes  permitted  fancy  to 
dictate  the  laws  by  which  fancy  ought  to  be  re- 
strained, and  fallacy  to  perplex  the  principles  by 
which  fallacy  is  to  be  detected  ;  her  superintend- 
ence of  others  has  betrayed  her  to  negligence  of 


herself;  and,  like  the  ancient  Scythians,  by  ex- 
tending her  conquests  over  distant  regions,  she 
has  left  her  throne  vacant  to  her  slaves. 

Among  the  laws  of  which  the  desire  of  extend- 
ing authority,  or  ardour  of  promoting  knowledge, 
has  prompted  the  prescription,  all  which  writers 
have  received,  had  not  the  same  original  right  to 
our  regard.  Some  are  to  be  considered  as  fun- 
damental and  indispensable,  others  only  as  use- 
ful and  convenient ;  some  as  dictated  by  reason 
and  necessity,  others  as  enacted  by  despotic  an- 
tiquity ;  some  as  invincibly  supported  by  their 
conformity  to  the  order  of  nature  and  operations 
ot  the  intellect ;  others  as  formed  by  accident,  or 
instituted  by  example,  and  therefore  always  liable 
to  dispute  and  alteration. 

That  many  rules  have  been  advanced  without 
consulting  nature  or  reason,  we  cannot  but  sus- 
pect, when  we  find  it  peremptorily  decreed  by  the 
ancient  masters,  that  only  three  speaking  person- 
ages should  appear  at  once  upon  the  stage  ;  a  law 
which,  as  the  variety  and  intricacy  of  modern 
plays  has  made  it  impossible  to  be  observed,  we 
now  violate  without  scruple,  and,  as  experience 
proves,  without  inconvenience. 

The  original  of  this  precept  was  merely  acci- 
dental. Tragedy  was  a  monody,  or  solitary  song 
in  honour  of  Bacchus,  improved  afterwards  into 
a  dialogue  by  the  addition  of  another  speaker  : 
but  the  ancients  remembering  that  the  tragedy 
was  at  first  pronounced  only  by  one,  durst  not 
for  some  time  venture  beyond  two ;  at  last,  when 
custom  and  impunity  had  made  them  daring,  they 
extended  their  liberty  to  the  admission  of  three, 
but  restrained  themselves  by  a  critical  edict  from 
further  exorbitance. 

By  what  accident  the  number  of  acts  was  li 
mited  to  five,  I  know  not  that  any  author  has  in 
formed  us;  but  certainly  it  is  not  determined  by 
any  necessity  arising  either  from  the  nature  of 
action  or  propriety  of  exhibition.  An  act  is  only 
the  representation  of  such  a  part  of  the  business  of 
the  play  as  proceeds  in  an  unbroken  tenor,  or 
without  anyintermediate  pause.  Nothing  is  more 
evident  than  that  of  every  real,  and  by  conse- 
quence of  every  dramatic  action,  the  intervals 
may  be  more  or  fewer  than  five ;  and  indeed  the 
rule  is  upon  the  English  stage  every  day  broken  in 
effect,  without  any  other  mischief  than  that  which 
arises  from  an  absurd  endeavour  to  observe  it  in 
appearance.  Whenever  the  scene  is  shifted  the 
act  ceases,  since  some  time  is  necessarily  suppos- 
ed to  elapse  while  the  personages  of  the  drama 
change  their  place. 

With  no  greater  right  to  our  obedience  have 
the  critics  confined  the  dramatic  action  to  a  cer 
tain  number  of  hours.  Probability  requires  that 
the  time  of  action  should  approach  somewhat 
nearly  to  that  of  exhibition,  and  those  plays  will 
always  be  thought  most  happily  conducted  which 
crowd  the  greatest  variety  into  the  least  space. 
But  since  it  will  frequently  happen  that  some  de- 
lusion must  be  admitted,  I  know  not  where  the 
limits  of  imagination  can  be  fixed.  It  is  rarely 
observed  that  minds,  not  prepossessed  by  me- 
chanical criticism,  feel  any  ofi'ence  from  the  exten- 
sion of  the  intervals  between  the  acts  ;  nor  can  I 
conceive  it  absurd  or  impossible,  that  he  who  can 
multiply  three  hours  into  twelve  or  twenty-four, 
might  image  with  equal  ease  a  greater  numb'cr. 

I  know  not  whether  he  that  professes  to  regard 
no  other  laws  than  those  of  nature,  will  not  b« 


No.  157.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

inclined  to  receive  tragi-comedy  to  his  protec- 
tion, whom,  however  generally  condemned,  her 
own  laurels  have  hitherto  shaded  from  the  fuhni- 
nations  of  criticism.  For  what  is  there  in  the 
mingled  drama  which  impartial  reason  can  con- 
demn ?  The  connexion  of  important  with  trivial 
incidents,  since  it  is  not  only  common  but  per- 
petual in  the  world,  may  surely  be  allowed  upon 
the  stage,  which  pretends  only  to  be  the  mirror 
of  life.  The  impropriety  of  suppressing  passions 
before  we  have  raised  them  to  the  intended  agi- 
tation, and  of  diverting  the  expection  from  an 
event  which  we  keep  suspended  only  to  raise  it, 
may  be  speciously  urged.  But  will  not  expe- 
rience show  this  objection  to  be  rather  subtile 
than  just  ?  Is  it  not  certain  that  the  tragic  and 
comic  affections  have  been  moved  alternately 
with  equal  force ;  and  that  no  plays  have  oftener 
filled  the  eye  with  tears,  and  the  breast  with 
palpitation,  than  those  which  are  variegated  with 
interludes  of  mirth? 

I  do  not  however  think  it  safe  to  judge  of  works 
of  genius  merely  by  the  event.  The  resistless 
vicissitudes  of  the  heart,  this  alternate  preva- 
lence of  merriment  and  solemnity,  may  some- 
times be  more  properly  ascribed  to  the  vigour  of 
the  writer  than  the  justness  of  the  design  :  and, 
instead  of  vindicating  tragi-comedy  by  the  suc- 
cess of  Shakspeare,  we  ought,  perhaps,  to  pay 
new  honours  to  that  transcendent  and  unbound- 
ed genius  that  could  preside  over  the  passions  in 
sport ;  who,  to  actuate  the  affections,  needed  not 
the  slow  gradation  of  common  means,  but  could 
fill  the  heart  with  instantaneous  iollity  to  sorrow, 
and  vary  our  disposition  ashechanged  his  scenes. 
Perhaps  the  effects  even  of  Shakspeare's  poet- 
ry might  have  been  yet  greater  had  he  not  coun- 
teracted himself;  and  we  might  have  been  more 
interested  in  the  distresses  of  his  heroes,  had  we 
not  been  so  frequently  diverted  by  the  jokes  of 
his  buffoons. 

There  are  other  rules  more  fixed  and  obliga- 
tory. It  is  necessary  that  of  every  play  the  chief 
action  should  be  single;  for,  since  a  play  repre- 
sents some  transaction  through  its  regular  ma- 
turation to  its  final  event,  two  actions  equally 
important  must  evidently  constitute  two  plays. 

As  the  design  of  tragedy  is  to  instruct  by  mov- 
ing the  passions,  it  must  always  have  a  hero,  a 
personage,  apparently  and  incontestably  superior 
to  the  rest,  upon  whom  the  attention  may  be  fix- 
ed, and  the  anxiety  suspended.  For  though,  of 
two  persons  opposing  each  other  with  equal  abi- 
lities and  equal  virtue,  the  auditor  will  inevitably, 
in  time,  choose  his  favourite  ;  yet,  as  that  choice 
must  be  without  any  cogency  of  conviction,  the 
hopes  or  fears  which  it  raises  will  be  faint  and 
languid.  Of  two  heroes  acting  in  confederacy 
against  a  common  enemy,  the  virtues  or  dangers 
will  give  little  emotion,  because  each  claims  our 
concern  with  the  same  right,  and  the  heart  lies 
at  rest  between  equal  motives. 

It  ought  to  be  the  first  endeavour  of  a  writer  to 
distinguish  nature  from  custom  ;  or  that  which 
is  established  because  it  is  right,  from  that  which 
is  right  only  because  it  is  established;  that  he 
may  neither  violate  essential  principles  by  a  de- 
sire of  novelty,  nor  debar  himself  from  life  attain- 
ment of  beauties  within  his  view,  by  a  needless 
fear  of  breaking  rules  which  no  literary  dictator 
had  authority  to  enact. 

2F 


241 


No.  157.]     TUESDAY,  SEPT.  17,  1751. 


Oj  atc^i; 

Tiyt'trai  fi  ai'Spas  fiiya  aivtrat  rjS1  Avlvriai. 

Shame  greatly  hurts  or  greatly  helps  mankind. 

ELPHINSTON 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

THOUGH  one  of  your  correspondents  has  pre 
sumed  to  mention  with  some  contempt  that  pre- 
sence of  attention,  and  easiness  of  address,  which 
the  polite  have  long  agreed  to  celebrate  and  es- 
teem, yet  I  cannot  be  persuaded  to  think  them 
unworthy  of  regard  or  cultivation;  but  am  in 
clined  to  believe  that,  as  we  seldom  value  rightly 
what  we  h?.ve  never  known  the  misery  of  want- 
ing, his  judgment  has  been  vitiated  by  his  happi- 
ness ;  and  that  a  natural  exuberance  of  assurance 
has  hindered  him  from  discovering  its  excellence 
and  use. 

This  felicity,  whether  bestowed  by  constitu- 
tion, or  obtained  by  early  habitudes,  I  can 
scarcely  contemplate  without  envy.  I  was  bred 
under  a  man  of  learning  in  the  country,  who  in- 
culcated nothing  but  the  dignity  of  knowledge, 
and  the  happiness  of  virtue.  By  frequency  of 
admonition,  and  confidence  of  assertion,  he  pre- 
vailed upon  me  to  believe,  that  the  splendour  of 
literature  would  always  attract  reverence,  if  not 
darkened  by  corruption.  I  therefore  pursued 
my  studies  with  incessant  industry,  and  avoided 
every  thing  which  I  had  been  taught  to  consider 
either  as  vicious  or  tending  to  vice,  because  I 
regarded  guilt  and  reproach  as  inseparably 
united,  and  thought  a  tainted  reputation  the 
greatest  calamity. 

At  the  university,  I  found  no  reason  for 
changing  my  opinion  :  for  though  many  among 
my  fellow-students  took  the  opportunity  of  a 
more  remiss  discipline  to  gratify  their  passions  ; 
yet  virtue  preserved  her  natural  superiority,  and 
those  who  ventured  to  neglect  were  not  suffered 
to  insult  her.  The  ambition  of  petty  accom- 
plishments found  its  way  into  the  receptacles 
of  learning,  but  was  observed  to  seize  commonly 
on  those  who  either  neglected  the  sciences  or 
could  not  attain  them  ;  and  I  was  therefore  con- 
firmed in  the  doctrines  of  my  old  master,  and 
thought  nothing  worthy  of  my  care  but  the 
means  of  gaining  or  imparting  knowledge. 

This  purity  of  manners,  and  intenseness  of  ap- 
plication, soon  extended  my  renown,  and  I  was 
applauded,  by  those  whose  opinion  I  then 
thought  unlikely  to  deceive  me,  as  a  young  man 
that  gave  uncommon  hopes  of  future  eminence. 
My  performances  in  time  reached  my  native 
province,  and  my  relations  congratulated  them 
selves  upon  the  new  honours  that  were  added  to 
their  family. 

I  returned  home  covered  with  academical  lau- 
rels, and  fraught  with  criticism  and  philosophy. 
The  wit  and  the  scholar  excited  curiosity,  and 
my  acquaintance  was  solicited  by  innumerable 
invitations.  To  please  will  always  be  the  wish 
of  benevolence,  to  be  admired  must  be  the  con- 
stant aim  of  ambition  ;  and  I  therefore  consi- 
dered myself  as  about  to  receive  the  reward  of 
my  honest  labours,  and  to  find  the  efficacy  of 
learning  and  of  virtue. 

The  third  day  after  my  arrival  I  dined  at  the 
house  of  a  gentleman  who  had  summoned  a  mul 


242 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  J58. 


titade  of  his  friends  to  the  annual  celebration  of 
his  wedding-day.  I  set  forward  with  grcnt  ex- 
uiiation,  and  thought  myself  happy  that  I  had 
an  opportunity  of  displaying  my  knowledge  Uj 
so  numerous  an  assembly.  I  felt  no  sense  oT 
my  own  insufficiency,  till,  going  up  stairs  to  the 
dining-room,  I  heard  the  mingled  roar  of  obstre- 
perous merriment  I  was,  however,  disgusted 
rather  than  terrified,  and  went  forward  without 
dejection.  The  whole  company  rose  at  my  en- 
trance ;  but  when  I  saw  so  many  eyes  fixed  at 
once  upon  me,  I  was  blasted  with  a  sudden  im- 
becility, I  was  quelled  by  some  nameless  power 
which  I  found  impossible  to  be  resisted.  My 
sight  was  dazzled,  my  cheeks  glowed,  my  per- 
ceptions were  confounded ;  I  was  harassed  by 
the  multitude  of  eager  salutations,  and  returned 
the  common  civilities  with  hesitation  and  impro- 
priety ;  the  sense  of  my  own  blunders  increased 
my  confusion,  and  before  the  exchange  of  cere- 
monies allowed  me  to  sit  down,  I  was  ready  to 
sink  under  the  impression  of  surprise  ;  my  voice 
grew  weak,  and  my  knees  trembled. 

The  assembly  then  resumed  their  places,  and 
I  sat  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground.  To 
the  questions  of  curiosity,  or  the  appeals  of  com- 
plaisance, 1  could  seldom  answer  but  with  nega- 
tive monosyllables,  or  professions  of  ignorance ; 
for  the  subjects  on  which  they  conversed  were 
such  as  are  seldom  discussed  in  books,  and  were 
therefore  out  of  my  range  of  knowledge.  At 
length  an  old  clergyman,  who  rightly  conjec- 
tured the  reason  of  my  conciseness,  relieved  me 
by  some  questions  about  the  present  state  of  na- 
tural knowledge,  and  engaged  me,  by  an  appear- 
ance of  doubt  and  opposition,  in  the  explication 
and  defence  of  the  Newtonian  philosophy. 

The  consciousness  of  my  own  abilities  roused 
me  from  depression,  and  long  familiarity  with 
my  subject  enabled  me  to  discourse  with  ease 
and  volubility ;  but,  however  1  might  please  my- 
self, I  found  very  little  added  by  my  demonstra- 
tions to  the  satisfaction  of  the  company ;  and 
my  antagonist,  who  knew  the  laws  of  conversa- 
tion too  well  to  detain  their  attention  long  upon 
an  unpleasing  topic,  after  he  had  commended 
my  acutencss  and  comprehension,  dismissed  the 
tontroversy,  and  resigned  me  to  my  former  in- 
significance and  perplexity. 

After  dinner  I  received  from  the  ladies,  who 
had  heard  that  I  was  a  wit,  an  invitation  to  the 
tea-table.  I  congratulated  myself  upon  an  op- 
portunity to  escape  from  the  company,  whose 
gayety  began  to  be  tumultuous,  and  among 
whom  several  hints  had  been  dropped  of  the 
uselessness  of  universities,  the  folly  of  book- 
learning,  and  the  awkwardness  of  scholars.  To 
the  ladies,  therefore,  I  flew,  as  to  a  refuge  from 
clamour,  insult  and  rusticity  ;  but  found  my 
heart  sink  as  I  approached  their  apartment,  and 
was  again  disconcerted  by  the  ceremonies  of 
entrance,  and  confounded  by  the  necessity  of 
encountering  so  many  eyes  at  once. 

When  I  sat  down  I  considered  that  something 
pretty  was  always  said  to  ladies,  and  resolved  to 
recover  my  credit  by  some  elegant  observation 
or  graceful  compliment.  I  applied  myself  to  the 
recollection  of  all  that  I  had  read  or  heard  in 
praise  of  beauty,  and  endeavoured  to  accommo- 
date some  classical  compliment  to  the  present 
occasion  I  sunk  into  profound  meditation,  re- 
volved the  characters  of  the  heroines  of  old,  con- 


sidered whatever  the  poets  have  sung  in  their 
praise,  and,  after  having  borrowed  and  invented, 
chosen  and  rejected,  a  thousand  sentiments, 
which,  if  I  had  uttered  them,  would  not  have 
been  understood,  I  was  awakened  from  my 
dream  of  learned  gallantry  by  the  servant  who 
distributed  the  tea. 

There  are  not  many  situations  more  inces- 
santly uneasy  than  that  in  which  the  man  is 
placed  who  is  watching  an  opportunity  to  speak, 
without  courage  to  take  it  when  it  is  offered,  and 
who,  though  he  resolves  to  give  a  specimen  of 
his  abilities,  always  finds  some  reason  or  other 
for  delaying  it  to  the  next  minute.  I  was 
ashamed  of  silence,  yet  could  find  nothing  to  say 
of  elegance  or  importance  equal  to  my  wishes. 
The  ladies,  afraid  of  my  learning,  thought  them- 
selves not  qualified  to  propose  any  subject  of 
prattle  to  a  man  so  famous  for  dispute,  and  there 
was  nothing  on  either  side  but  impatience  and 
vexation. 

In  this  conflict  of  shame,  as  I  was  re- assem- 
bling my  scattered  sentiments,  and,  resolving  to 
force  my  imagination  to  some  sprightly  sally, 
had  just  found  a  very  happy  compliment,  by  too 
much  attention  to  my  own  meditations,  I  suf- 
fered the  saucer  to  drop  from  my  hand.  The 
cup  was  broken,  the  lap-dog  was  scalded,  a  bro- 
caded petticoat  was  stained,  and  the  whole  as- 
sembly was  thrown  into  disorder.  I  now  con- 
sidered all  hopes  of  reputation  as  at  an  end,  and 
while  they  were  consoling  and  assisting  one 
another,  stole  away  in  silence. 

The  misadventures  of  this  unhappy  day  are 
not  yet  at  an  end  ;  I  am  afraid  of  meeting  the 
meanest  of  them  that  triumphed  over  me  in  this 
state  of  stupidity  and  contempt,  and  feel  the 
same  terrors  encroaching  upon  my  heart  at  the 
sight  of  those  who  have  once  impressed  them. 
Shame,  above  any  other  passion,  propagates  it- 
self. Before  those  who  have  seen  me  confused, 
I  never  appear  without  new  confusion  ;  and  the 
remembrance  of  the  weakness  which  I  formerly 
discovered,  hinders  me  from  acting  or  speaking 
with  my  natural  force. 

But  is  this  misery,  Mr.  Rambler,  never  to 
cease?  Have  I  spent  my  life  in  study  only  to 
become  the  sport  of  the  ignorant,  and  debarred 
myself  from  all  the  common  enjoyments  of 
youth  to  collect  ideas  which  must  sleep  in  si- 
lence, and  form  opinions  which  I  must  not  di- 
vulge ?  Inform  me,  dear  Sir,  by  what  means  I 
may  rescue  my  faculties  from  these  shackles  of 
cowardice,  how  I  may  rise  to  a  level  with  my 
fellow- beings,  recall  myself  from  this  languor  of 
involuntary  subjection  to  the  free  exertion  of  my 
intellects,  and  add  to  the  power  of  reasoning  the 
liberty  of  speech. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c 

VEUECUNDULUS. 


No.  158.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  21,  1751. 

Grammatici  certant,  et  adhuc  zulijudictlis  eft. 

HOR. 

Critics  yet  contend, 

And  of  their  vain  disputmgs  find  no  end.     FRANCIS 

CRITICISM,  though  dignified  from  the  earliest 
ages  by  the  labours  of  men  eminent  for  know- 
ledge and  sagacity,  and,  since  the  revival  of  polite 
literature,  the  favourite  study  of  European  scho- 


No.  158.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

lars,  has  not  yet  attained  the  certainty  and  sta- 
bility of  science.  The  rules  hitherto  received  are 
seldom  drawn  from  any  settled  principle  or  self- 
evident  postulate,  or  adapted  to  the  natural  and 
invariable  constitution  of  things ;  but  will  be 
found,  upon  examination,  the  arbitrary  edicts  of 
legislators,  authorised  only  by  themselves,  who, 
out  of  various  means  by  which  the  same  end  may 
be  attained,  selected  such  as  happened  to  occur 
to  their  own  reflection,  and  then,  by  a  law  which 
idleness  and  timidity  were  too  willing  to  obey, 
prohibited  new  experiments  of  wit,  restrained 
fancy  from  the  indulgence  of  her  innate  inclina- 
tion to  hazard  and  adventure,  and  condemned  all 
future  flights  of  genius  to  pursue  the  path  of  the 
Meonian  eagle. 

This  authority  may  be  more  justly  opposed,  as 
it  is  apparently  derived  from  them  whom  they 
endeavour  to  control ;  for  we  owe  few  of  the 
rules  of  writing  to  the  acuteness  of  critics,  who 
have  generally  no  other  merit  than  that,  having 
read  the  works  of  great  authors  with  attention, 
they  have  observed  the  arrangement  of  their  mat- 
ter, or  the  graces  of  their  expression,  and  then 
expected  honour  and  reverence  for  precepts 
which  they  never  could  have  invented :  so  that 
practice  has  introduced  rules,  rather  than  rules 
have  directed  practice. 

For  this  reason  the  laws  of  every  species  of 
writing  have  been  settled  by  the  ideas  of  him 
who  first  raised  it  to  reputation,  without  inquiry 
whether  his  performances  were  not  yet  suscepti- 
ble of  improvement.  The  excellences  and  faults 
of  celebrated  writers  have  been  equally  recom- 
mended to  posterity ;  and,  so  far  has  blind  reve- 
rence prevailed,  that  even  the  number  of  their 
books  has  been  thcught  worthy  of  imitation. 

The  imagination  of  the  first  authors  of  lyric 
poetry  was  vehement  and  rapid,  and  their  know- 
ledge various  and  extensive.  Living  in  an  age 
when  science  had  been  little  cultivated,  and  when 
the  minds  of  their  auditors,  not  being  accustomed 
to  accurate  inspection,  were  easily  dazzled  by  glar- 
ing ideas,  they  applied  themselves  to  instruct, 
rather  by  short  sentences  and  striking  thoughts, 
than  by  regular  argumentation ;  and,  rinding  at- 
tention more  successfully  excited  by  sudden  sal- 
lies and  unexpected  exclamations,  than  by  the 
more  artful  and  placid  beauties  of  methodical  de- 
duction, they  loosed  their  genius  to  its  own  course, 
passed  from  one  sentiment  to  another  without 
expressing  the  intermediate  ideas,  and  roved  at 
large  over  the  ideal  world  with  such  lightness 
and  agility,  that  their  footsteps  are  scarcely  to  be 
traced. 

From  this  accidental  peculiarity  of  the  ancient 
writers,  the  critics  deduce  the  rules  of  lyric  po- 
etry, which  they  have  set  free  from  all  the  laws 
by  which  other  compositions  are  confined,  and 
allow  to  neglect  the  niceties  of  transition,  to  start 
into  remote  digressions,  and  to  wander  without 
restraint  from  one  scene  of  imagery  to  another. 

A  writer  of  later  times  has,  by  the  vivacity  of 
his  essays,  reconciled  mankind  to  the  same  licen- 
tiousness in  short  dissertations  ;  and  he  therefore 
who  wants  skill  to  form  a  plan,  or  diligence  to 
pursue  it,  needs  only  entitle  his  performance 
an  essay,  to  acquire  the  right  of  heaping  together 
the  collections  of  ha'f  his  life,  \vithout  order,  co- 
herence, or  propriety. 

In  writing,  as  in  life,  faults  are  endured  with- 
out disgust  when  they  are  associated  with  tran- 


243 


scendent  merit,  and  may  be  sometimes  recom- 
mended to  weak  judgments  by  the  lustre  which 
hey  obtained  from  their  union  with  excellence  ; 
but  it  is  the  business  of  those  who  presume  to 
superintend  the  taste  or  morals  of  mankind,  to 
separate  delusive  combinations,  and  distinguish 
that  which  may  be  praised  from  that  which  can 
only  be  excused.  As  vices  never  promote  happi- 
ness, though,  when  overpowered  by  more  active 
and  more  numerous  virtues,  they  cannot  totally 
destroy  it;  so  confusion  and  irregularity  produce 
no  beauty,  though  they  cannot  always  obstruct 
the  brightness  of  genius  and  learning.  To  pro- 
ceed from  one  truth  to  another,  and  connect  dis- 
tant propositions  by  regular  consequences,  is  the 
great  prerogative  of  man.  Independent  and  un- 
connected sentiments  flashing  upon  the  mind  in 
quick  succession,  may,  for  a  time,  delight  by  their 
novelty  ;  but  they  differ  from  systematical  rea- 
soning, as  single  notes  from  harmony,  as  glances 
of  lightning  from  the  radiance  of  the  sun. 

When  rules  are  thus  drawn,  rather  from  pre- 
cedents than  reason,  there  is  danger  not  only  from 
the  faults  of  an  author,  but  from  the  errors  of 
:hose  who  criticise  his  works  ;  since  they  may 
often  mislead  their  pupils  by  false  representa- 
tions, as  the  Ciceronians  of  the  sixteenth  century 
were  betrayed  into  barbarisms  by  corrupt  copies 
of  their  darling  writer. 

It  is  established  at  present,  that  the  proemial 
lines  of  a  poem,  in  which  the  general  subject  is 
proposed,  must  be  void  of  glitter  and  embellish- 
ment. "  The  first  lines  of  Paradise  Lost,"  says 
Addison,  "  are  perhaps  as  plain,  simple,  and  un- 
adorned, as  any  of  the  whole  poem  ;  in  which 
particular  the  author  has  conformed  himself  to  the 
example  of  Homer,  and  the  precept  of  Horace." 

This  observation  seems  to  have  been  made  by 
an  implicit  adoption  of  the  common  opinion, 
without  consideration  either  of  the  precept  or  ex- 
ample. Had  Horace  been  consulted,  he  would 
have  been  found  to  direct  only  what  should  be 
comprised  in  the  proposition,  not  how  it.  should 
be  expressed  ;  and  to  have  commended  Homer 
in  opposition  to  a  meaner  poet,  not  for  the  gradual 
elevation  of  his  diction,  but  the  judicious  expan- 
sion of  his  plan  ;  for  displaying  unpromised 
events,  not  for  producing  unexpected  elegances  : 

-  Speciota  dehinc  miracula  promit, 

Antiphatcn,  Scyllamgue  et  cum  Cyclope  Charybdim 

But  from  a  cloud  of  smoke  he  breaks  to  light, 
And  pours  his  specious  miracles  to  sight  ; 
Antiphates  his  hideous  feast  devours, 
Charybdis  barks,  and  Polyphemus  roars.  —  FRANCIS 

If  the  exordial  verses  of  Homer  be  compared 
with  the  rest  of  the  poem,  they  will  not  appear 
remarkable  for  plainness  or  simplicity,  but  rather 
eminently  adorned  and  illuminated  : 

^AvSpd  pot  evvtire  Moucra  TroXtfrpoirov,  8{  pa\a  iroXXi 
IlXay;£0i7,  iirti  Tpoiij?  hpov  irro\u6pov  cxcpaf 
IIoXX<3i>  &'  avdpunruiv  "Stv  dcrca,  Kat  v6ov  tyvia' 
HoAXd  S1  oy'  Iv  irdvTio  irdBtv  a\yca  ov  Kara  Bvptv, 
'Apvtitevos  r>v  re  ^/v^fiv  Kal  vdarov  iralpuv 
'AXX'  ot><5'  S>s  crdpovs  cppvtraro  lificrds  ttcp' 
Aurwv  yrcf>  fftytTtoijGiv  aTaffda\irjfftv  O\OVTO' 
NI/TIOI,  01  Kara  ftovs  tmcpiovog  'HtXi'oio 
*RaOiov'  avrap  b  rotatv  ri0£<XtTO  vdarijtov  rjftap' 
Tuv  apiOcv  ye,  $ca,  Sty          Aid    £iTf  Kal  ftv 


The  man  for  wisdom's  various  arts  renown'd, 
Long  exercised  in  woes,  O  Muse  !  resound  ; 
Who  when  his  arms  had  wrought  the  destined  fall 
Of  sacred  Troy,  and  razed  her  heaven-built  wall, 


244 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  159- 


Safe  witii'liis  friends  to  gain  his  uatal  shore. 

Vain  toils!  their  impious  folly  dared  to  prey 

On  herds  devoted  to  the  god  of  day : 

The  god  vindictive  doomed  them  never  more 

(Ah !  men  unblcss'd)  to  touch  that  natal  shore. 

O  snatch  some  portion  of  these  acts  from  fate 

Celestial  Muse  !  aud  to  our  world  relate.  POPE. 

The  first  verses  of  the  Iliad  are  in  like  manner 
particularly  splendid,  and  the  proposition  of  the 
Eneid  closes  with  dignity  and  magnificence  not 
often  to  be  found  even  in  the  poetry  of  Virgil. 

The  intent  of  the  introduction  is  to  raise  ex- 
pectation and  suspend  it:  something  therefore 
must  be  discovered,  and  something  concealed ; 
and  the  poet,  while  the  fertility  of  his  invention 
is  yet  unknown,  may  properly  recommend  him- 
self by  the  grace  of  his  language. 

He  that  reveals  too  much,  or  promises  too  lit- 
tle ;  he  that  never  irritates  the  intellectual  appe- 
tite, or  that  immediately  satiates  it,  equally  de- 
feats his  own  purpose.  It  is  necessary  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  reader,  that  the  events  should  not 
be  anticipated ;  and  how  then  can  his  attention 
be  invited,  but  by  grandeur  of  expression? 


No.  159.]    TUESDAY,  SEPT.  24,  1751. 

Svnt  verba  et  voces,  guibus  hunc  lenire  dolortm 
Possis  et  magnam  mnrbi  deponerepartem.  HOR. 

The  power  of  words,  and  soothing  sounds,  appease 
The  raging  pain,  and  lessen  the  disease.          FRANCIS. 

THE  imbecility  with  which  Verecundulus  com- 
plains that  the  presence  of  a  numerous  assembly 
freezes  his  faculties,  is  particularly  incident  to 
the  studious  part  of  mankind,  whose  education 
necessarily  secludes  them  in  their  earlier  years 
from  mingled  converse,  till,  at  their  dismission 
from  schools  and  academies,  they  plunge  at  once 
into  the  tumult  of  the  world,  and  coming  forth 
from  the  gloom  of  solitude,  are  overpowered  by 
the  blaze  of  public  life. 

It  is  perhaps  kindly  provided  by  nature,  that, 
as  the  feathers  and  strength  of  a  bird  grow  toge- 
ther, and  her  wings  are  not  completed  till  she 
is  abb  to  fly,  so  some  proportion  should  be  pre- 
served in  the  human  kind  between  judgment  and 
courage ;  the  precipitation  of  inexperience  is 
therefore  restrained  by  shame,  and  we  remain 
shackled  by  timidity  till  we  have  learned  to  speak 
and  act  with  propriety. 

I  believe  few  can  review  the  days  of  their 
youth  without  recollecting  temptations  which 
shame  rather  than  virtue  enabled  them  to  resist ; 
and  opinions  which,  however  erroneous  in  their 
principles  and  dangerous  in  their  consequences, 
they  have  panted  to  advance  at  the  hazard  of  con- 
tempt and  hatred,  when  they  found  themselves 
irresistibly  depressed  by  a  languid  anxiety  which 
seized  them  at  the  moment  of  utterance,  and  still 
gathered  strength  from  their  endeavours  to  re- 
sist it. 

It  generally  happens  that  assurance  keeps  an 
even  pace  with  ability  ;  and  the  fear  of  miscar- 
riage, which  hinders  our  first  attempts,  is  gradu- 
ally dissipated  as  our  skill  advances  towards  cer- 
tainty of  success.  That  bashfulness,  therefore, 
which  prevents  disgrace,  that  short  and  tempo- 
rary shame  which  secures  us  from  the  danger  of 
lasting  reproach,  cannot  be  properly  counted 
among  our  misfortunes. 


Bashfulness,  however  4t  may  incommode  for  a 
moment,  scarcely  ever  produces  evils  of  long 
continuance;  it  may  flush  the  cheek,  flutter  in 
the  heart,  deject  the  eyes,  and  enchain  the  tongue, 
but  its  mischiefs  soon  pass  off"  without  remem- 
brance. It  may  sometimes  exclude  pleasure,  but 
seldom  opens  any  avenue  to  sorrow  or  remorse. 
It  is  observed  somewhere,  that  few  have  repented 
of  having  foreborne  to  speak. 

To  excite  opposition,  and  inflame  malevolence, 
is  the  unhappy  privilege  of  courage  made  arro- 
gant by  consciousness  of  strength.  No  man 
finds  in  himself  any  inclination  to  attack  or  op- 
pose him  who  confesses  his  superiority  by  blush- 
ing in  his  presence,  dualities  exerted  with  ap- 
parent fearfulness  receive  applause  from  every 
voice,  and  support  from  every  hand.  Diffidence 
may  check  resolution  and  obstruct  performance, 
but  compensates  embarrassments  by  more  im- 
portant advantages :  it  conciliates  the  proud,  and 
softens  the  severe,  averts  envy  from  excellence, 
and  censure  from  miscarriage. 

It  may  indeed  happen  that  knowledge  and  vir- 
tue remain  too  long  congealed  by  this  frigorific 
power,  as  the  principles  of  vegetation  are  some- 
times obstructed  by  lingering  frosts.  He  that  en- 
ters late  into  a  public  station,  though  with  all  the 
abilities  requisite  to  the  discharge  of  his  duty,  will 
find  his  powers  at  first  impeded  by  a  timidity 
which  he  himself  knows  to  be  vicious,  and  must 
struggle  long  against  dejection  and  reluctance, 
before  he  obtains  the  full  command  of  his  own 
attention,  and  adds  the  gracefulness  of  ease  to 
the  dignity  of  merit. 

For  this  disease  of  the  mind  I  know  not  whe- 
ther any  remedies  of  much  efficacy  can  be  found. 
To  advise  a  man  unaccustomed  to  the  eyes  of 
multitudes  to  mount  a  tribunal  without  perturba- 
tion, to  tell  him  whose  life  was  passed  in  the 
shades  of  contemplation,  that  he  must  not  be  dis- 
concerted or  perplexed  in  receiving  and  returning 
the  compliments  of  a  splendid  assembly,  is  to  ad- 
vise an  inhabitant  of  Brazil  or  Sumatra  not  to 
shiver  at  an  English  winter,  or  him  who  has  al- 
ways lived  upon  a  plain  to  look  upon  a  precipice 
without  emotion.  It  is  to  suppose  custom  in 
stantaneously  controllable  by  reason,  and  to  en- 
deavour to  communicate,  by  precept,  that  which 
only  time  and  habit  can  bestow. 

He  that  hopes  by  philosophy  and  contcmpla 
tion  alone  to  fortify  himself  against  that  awe 
which  all,  at  their  first  appearance  on  the  stage 
of  life,  must  feel  from  the  spectators,  will,  at  the 
hour  of  need,  be  mocked  by  his  resolution  ;  and 
I  doubt  whether  the  preservatives  which  Plato 
relates  Alcibiades  to  have  received  from  Socra- 
tes, when  he  was  about  to  speak  in  public,  proved 
sufficient  to  secure  him  from  the  powerful  fas- 
cination. 

Yet,  as  the  effects  of  time  may  by  art  and  in- 
dustry be  accelerated  or  retarded,  it  cannot  be 
improper  to  consider  how  this  troublesome  in- 
stinct may  be  opposed  when  it  exceeds  its  just 
proportion,  and  instead  of  repressing  petulance 
and  temerity,  silences  eloquence,  and  debilitates 
force ;  since,  though  it  cannot  be  hoped  that 
anxiety  should  be  immediately  dissipated,  it  may 
be  at  least  •somewhat  abated  ;  and  the  passions 
will  operate  with  less  violence  when  Reason  rises 
against  them,  than  while  she  either  slumbers  in 
neutrality,  or,  mistaking  her  interest,  lends  them 
her  assistance. 


No    160.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


245 


No  cause  more  frequently  produces  bashful- 
ness  than  too  high  an  opinion  of  our  own  import- 
ance. He  that  imagines  an  assembly  rilled  with 
his  merit,  panting  with  expectation,  and  hushed 
with  attention,  easily  terrifies  himself  with  the 
dread  of  disappointing  them,  and  strains  his  ima- 
gination in  pursuit  of  something  that  may  vindi- 
cate the  veracity  of  fame,  and  show  that  his  repu- 
tation was  not  gained  by  chance.  He  considers, 
that  what  he  shall  say  or  do  will  never  be  forgot- 
'en  ;  that  renown  or  infamy  is  suspended  upon 
every  syllable,  and  that  nothing  ought  to  fall  from 
him  which  will  not  bear  the  test  of  time.  Under 
such  solicitude,  who  can  wonder  that  the  mind  is 
overwhelmed,  and,  by  struggling  with  attempts 
above  her  strength,  quickly  sinks  into  languish- 
ment  and  despondency ! 

The  most  useful  medicines  are  often  unpleas- 
ing  to  the  taste.  Those  who  are  oppressed  by 
their  own  reputation,  will,  perhaps,  not  be  com- 
forted by  hearing  that  their  cares  are  unneces- 
sary. But  the  truth  is,  that  no  man  is  much  re- 
garded by  the  rest  of  the  world.  He  that  consi-' 
ders  how  little  he  dwells  upon  the  condition  of 
others,  will  learn  how  little  the  attention  of  others 
s  attracted  by  himself.  While  we  see  multi- 
tudes passing  before  us,  of  whom,  perhaps,  not 
one  appears  to  deserve  our  notice,  or  excite  our 
sympathy,  we  should  remember,  that  we  likewise 
are  lost  in  the  same  throng  ;  that  the  eye  which 
happens  to  glance  upon  us  is  turned  in  a  moment 
on  him  that  follows  us;  and  that  the  utmost 
which  we  can  reasonably  hope  or  fear  is,  to  fill  a 
vacant  hour  with  prattle,  and  be  forgotten. 

No.  1GO.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  2S,  1751. 

Inter  se  convcnit  vrsit.  JUV. 

Beasts  of  each  kind  their  fellows  spare ; 
Bear  lives  iu  amity  with  bear. 

"THE  world,"  says  Locke,  "has  people  of  all 
sorts."  As  in  the  general  hurry  produced  by  the 
superfluities  of  some,  and  necessities  of  others, 
no  rnan  needs  to  stand  still  for  want  of  employ- 
ment, so  in  the  innumerable  gradations  of  ability, 
and  endless  varieties  of  study  and  inclination,  no 
employment  can  be  vacant  for  want  of  a  man 
qualified  to  discharge  it. 

Such  is  probably  the  natural  state  of  the  uni- 
verse ;  but  it  is  so  much  deformed  by  interest  and 
passion,  that  the  benefit  of  his  adaptation  of  men 
to  things  is  not  always  perceived.  The  folly  or 
indigence  of  those  who  set  their  services  to  sale, 
inclines  them  to  boast  of  qualifications  which 
they  do  not  possess,  and  attempt  business  which 
they  do  not  understand  ;  and  they  who  have  the 
power  of  assigning  to  others  the  task  of  life,  are 
seldom  honest  or  seldom  happy  in  their  nomina- 
tions. Patrons  are  corrupted  by  avarice,  cheated 
by  credulity,  or  overpowered  by  resistless  soli- 
citation. They  are  sometimes  too  strongly  influ- 
enced by  honest  prejudices  of  friendship,  or  the 
prevalence  of  virtuous  compassion.  For,  what- 
ever cool  reason  may  direct,  it  is  not  easy  for  a 
man  of  tender  and  scrupulous  goodness  to  over- 
look the  immediate  effect  of  his  own  actions,  by 
turning  his  eyes  upon  remoter  consequences,  and 
to  do  that  which  must  give  present  pain,  for  the 
sake  of  obviating  evil  yet  unfelt,  or  securing  ad- 
vantage in  time  to  come.  What  is  distant  is  in 


itself  obscure,  and  when  we  have  no  wish  to  see 
it,  easily  escapes  our  notice,  or  takes  such  a  form 
as  desire  or  imagination  bestows  upon  it. 

Every  man  might,  for  the  same  reason,  in  the 
multitudes  that  swarm  about  him,  find  some  kin- 
dred mind  with  which  he  could  unite  in  confi- 
dence and  friendship  ;  yet  we  see  many  strag- 
gling single  about  the  world,  unhappy  for  want 
of  an  associate,  and  pining  with  the  necessity  of 
confining  their  sentiments  to  their  own  bosoms. 

This  inconvenience  arises  in  like  manner,  from 
struggles  of  the  will  against  the  undei  standing. 
It  is  not  often  difficult  to  find  asuitablecompamon, 
if  every  man  would  be  content  with  such  as  he  is 
qualified  to  please.  But  if  vanity  tempts  him  to 
forsake  his  rank,  and  post  himself  among  those 
with  whom  no  common  interest  or  mutual  plea- 
sure can  ever  unite  him,  he  must  always  live  in  a 
state  of  unsocial  separation,  without  tenderness 
and  without  trust. 

There  are  many  natures  which  can  never  ap- 
proach within  a  certain  distance,  and  which,  when 
any  irregular  motive  impels  them  towards  con- 
tact, seem  to  start  back  from  each  other  by  some 
invincible  repulsion.  There  are  others  which 
immediately  cohere  whenever  they  come  into  the 
reach  of  mutual  attraction,  and  with  very  little 
formality  of  preparation  mingle  intimately  as 
soon  as  they  meet  Every  man,  whom  either  bu- 
siness or  curiosity  has  thrown  at  large  into  the 
world,  will  recollect  many  instances  of  fondness 
and  dislike,  which  have  forced  themselves  upon 
him  without  the  intervention  of  his  judgment ; 
of  dispositions  to  court  some  and  avoid  others, 
when  he  could  assign  no  reason  for  the  prefer- 
ence, or  none  adequate  to  the  violence  of  his  pas- 
sions ;  of  influence  that  acted  instantaneously 
upon  his  mind,  and  which  no  arguments  or  per- 
suasions could  ever  overcome. 

Among  those  with  whom  time  and  intercourse 
have  made  us  familiar,  we  feel  our  affections  di- 
vided in  different  proportions  without  much  re- 
fard  to  moral  or  intellectual  merit.  Every  man 
nows  some  whom  he  cannot  induce  himself  to 
trust,  though  he  has  no  reason  to  suspect  that 
they  would  betray  him  ;  those  to  whom  he  cannu*. 
complain,  though  he  never  observed  them  to  wan.t 
compassion  ;  those  in  whose  presence  he  never 
can  be  gay,  though  excited  by  invitations  to 
mirth  and  freedom ;  and  those  from  whom  he 
cannot  be  content  to  receive  instruction,  though 
they  never  insulted  his  ignorance  by  contempt  or 
ostentation. 

That  much  regard  is  to  be  had  to  those  in- 
stincts of  kindness  and  dislike,  or  that  reason 
should  blindly  follow  them,  1  am  far  from  intend- 
ing to  inculcate  :  it  is  very  certain,  that  by  indul- 
gence we  may  give  them  strength  which  they 
have  not  by  nature  ;  and  almost  every  example 
of  ingratitude  and  treachery  proves,  that  by  obey- 
ing them  we  may  commit  our  happiness  to  those 
who  are  very  unworthy  of  so  great  a  trust.  But  it 
may  deserve  to  be  remarked,  that  since  few  con- 
tend much  with  their  inclinations,  it  is  generally 
vain  to  solicit  the  good-will  of  those  whom  we  per- 
ceive thus  involuntarily  alienated  from  us  ;  nei- 
ther knowledge  nor  virtue  will  reconcile  antipa- 
thy ;  and  though  officiousness  may  for  a  time  be 
admitted,  and  diligence  applauded,  they  will  at 
last  be  dismissed  with  coldness,  or  discouraged 
by  neglect. 

Sorne  have  indeed  an  occult  power  of  stealing 


24<5 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  161 


upon  the  affections,  of  exciting  universal  benevo- 
lence, and  disposing  every  heart  to  fondness  and 
friendship.  But  this  is  a  felicity  granted  only  to 
the  favourite  of  nature.  The  greater  part  of  man- 
kind find  a  different  reception  from  different  dis- 
positions ;  they  sometimes  obtain  unexpected  ca- 
ressas  from  those  whom  they  never  Haltered  with 
uncommon  regard,  and  sometimes  exhaust  all 
their  arts  of  pleasing  without  effect.  To  these 
it  is  necessary  to  look  round,  and  attempt  every 
breast  in  which  they  find  virtue  sufficient  for  the 
foundation  of  friendship ;  to  enter  into  the  crowd, 
and  try  whom  chance  will  offer  to  their  notice, 
till  they  fix  on  some  temper  congenial  to  their 
own,  as  the  magnet  rolled  in  the  dust  collects  the 
fragments  of  its  kindred  metal  from  a  thousand 
particles  of  other  substances. 

Every  man  must  have  remarked  the  facility 
with  which  the  kindness  of  others  is  sometimes 
gained  by  thoss  to  whom  he  never  could  have 
imparted  his  own.  We  are,  by  our  occupations, 
education,  and  habits  of  life,  divided  almost  into 
different  species,  which  regard  one  another,  for 
the  most  part  with  scorn  and  malignity.  Each 
of  these  classes  of  the  human  race  has  desires, 
fears,  and  conversation,  vexations  and  merriment, 
peculiar  to  itself;  cares  which  another  cannot 
feel ;  pleasures  which  he  cannot  partake ;  and 
modes  of  expressing  every  sensation  which  he 
cannot  understand.  That  frolic  which  shakes 
one  man  with  laughter,  will  convulse  another 
with  indignation  ;  the  strain  of  jocularity  which 
in  one  place  obtains  treats  and  patronage,  would 
in  another  be  heard  with  indifference,  and  in  a 
third  with  abhorrence. 

To  raise  esteem  we  must  benefit  others,  to 
procure  love  we  must  please  them.  Aristotle 
observes,  that  old  men  do  not  readily  form 
friendships,  because  they  are  not  easily  suscepti- 
ble of  pleasure.  He  that  can  contribute  to  the 
hilarity  of  the  vacant  hour,  or  partake  with  equal 
gust  the  favourite  amusement ;  he  whose  mind 
is  employed  on  the  same  objects,  and  who  there- 
fore never  harassss  the  understanding  with  un- 
accustomed ideas,  will  bo  welcomed  with  ardour, 
and  left  with  regret,  unless  he  destroys  those  re- 
commendations by  faults  with  which  peace  and 
security  cannot  consist. 

It  were  happy,  if  in  forming  friendships,  virtue 
could  concur  with  pleasure ;  but  the  greatest 
part  of  human  gratifications  approach  so  nearly 
to  vice,  that  few  who  make  the  delight  of  others 
their  rule  of  conduct,  can  avoid  disingenuous 
compliances ;  yet  certainly  he  that  suffers  him- 
self to  be  driven  or  allured  from  virtue,  mistakes 
his  own  interest,  since  he  gains  succour  by 
means  for  which  his  friend,  if  ever  he  becomes 
wise,  must  scorn  him,  and  for  which  at  last  he 
must  scorn  himself. 


No.  161.]       TUESDAY,  OCT.  1,  1751. 

O<^  yap  0$AAo>),  ytvlr],  rolijtie  Kal  avSpuV         HOM. 

Frail  as  the  Isaves  that  quiver  on  the  spray*, 
Like  them  man  flourishes,  like  them  decays. 


SIR, 


MR.  RAMBLER. 


— -- 

You  have  formerly  observed  that  curiosity  often 
terminates  in  barren  knowledge,  and  that  the 
mind  is  prompted  to  study  and  inquiry  rather 


by  the  uneasiness  of  ignorance  than  the  hope  of 
profit.  Nothing  can  be  of  less  importance  to 
|  any  present  interest,  than  the  fortune  of  those 
!  who  have  been  long  lost  in  the  grave,  and  from 
whom  nothing  now  can  ho  hoped  or  feared. 
Yet,  to  rouse  the  zeal  of  a  true  antiquary,  little 
more  is  necessary  than  to  mention  a  name 
which  mankind  have  conspired  to  forget;  he 
will  make  his  way  to  remote  scenes  of  action 
through  obscurity  and  contradiction,  as  Tully 
sought  amidst  bushes  and  brambles  the  tomb  of 
Archimedes. 

It  is  not  easy  to  discover  how  it  concerns  him 
that  gathers  the  produce,  or  receives  the  rent  of 
an  estate,  to  know  through  what  families  the 
land  has  passed,  who  is  registered  in  the  Con- 
queror's survey  as  its  possessor,  how  often  it  has 
been  forfeited  by  treason,  or  how  often  sold  by 
prodigality.  The  power  or  wealth  of  the  present 
inhabitants  of  a  country  cannot  be  much  in- 
creased by  an  inquiry  after  the  names  of  those 
barbarians,  who  destroyed  one  another  twenty 
centuries  ago,  in  contests  forthe  shelter  of  woods, 
or  convenience  of  pasturage.  Yet  we  see  that 
no  man  can  be  at  rest  in  the  enjoyment  of  a 
new  purchase,  till  he  has  learned  the  history  of  his 
grounds  from  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  the  pa- 
rish, and  that  no  nation  omits  to  record  the  ac- 
tions of  their  ancestors,  however  bloody,  savage, 
and  rapacious. 

The  same  disposition,  as  different  opportuni- 
ties call  it  forth,  discovers  itself  in  great  or  little 
things.  1  have  always  thought  it  unworthy  of 
a  wise  man  to  slumber  in  total  inactivity,  only 
because  he  happens  to  have  no  employment 
equal  to  his  ambition  or  genius ;  it  is  therefore 
my  custom  to  apply  my  attention  to  the  objects 
before  me ;  and  as  I  cannot  think  any  place 
wholly  unworthy  of  notice  that  affords  a  habita- 
tion to  a  man  of  letters,  I  have  collected  the  his- 
tory and  antiquities  of  the  several  garrets  in 
which  1  have  resided. 

Qnantulacunque  estis,  vos  ego  magna  voeo 
How  small  to  others,  but  how  great  to  inc. 

Many  of  these  narratives  my  industry  has 
been  able  to  extend  to  a  considerable  length ;  but 
the  woman  with  whom  I  now  lodge  has  lived 
only  eighteen  months  in  the  house,  and  can  give 
no  account  of  its  ancient  revolutions  ;  the  plas- 
terer having,  at  her  entrance,  obliterated,  by  his 
white-wash,  all  the  smoky  memorials  which 
former  tenants  had  left  upon  the  ceiling,  and 
perhaps  drawn  the  veil  of  oblivion  over  politicians, 
philosophers,  and  poets. 

When  I  first  cheapened  my  lodgings,  the  land- 
lady told  me,  that  she  hoped  t  was  not  an  author, 
forthe  lodgers  on  the  first  floor  had  stipulatrd 
that  the  upper  rooms  should  not  be  occupied  by 
a  noisy  trade.  I  very  readily  promised  to  give 
no  disturbance  to  her  family,  and  soon  d  espatchcd 
a  bargain  on  the  usual  terms. 

I  had  not  slept  many  nighls  in  my  new  apart 
ment,  before  I  began  to  inquire  after  my  prede 
cessors,  and  found  my  landlady,  whose  imagina 
tion  is  filled  chiefly  with  her  own  affairs,  ver> 
ready  to  give  me  information. 

Curiosity,  like  all  other  desires,  produces  pain 
as  well  as  pleasure.  Before  she  began  her  nar- 
rative, I  had  heated  my  head  with  expectations 
of  adventures  and  discoveries,  of  elegance  in 


No.  162.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


247 


disguise, and  learning  in  distress;  and  was  some- 
what mortified  when  I  heard  that  the  first  tenant 
was  a  tailor,  of  whom  nothing  was  remembered 
but  that  he  complained  of  his  room  for  want  of 
light ;  and,  after  having  lodged  in  it  a  month, 
and  paid  only  a  week's  rent,  pawned  a  piece  of 
cloth  which  he  was  trusted  to  cut  out,  and  was 
forced  to  make  a  precipitate  retreat  from  this 
quarter  of  the  town. 

The  next  was  a  young  woman  newly  arrived 
from  the  country,  who  lived  for  five  weeks  with 
great  regularity,  and  became  by  frequent  treats 
very  much  the  favourite  of  the  family,  but  at  last 
received  visits  so  frequently  from  a  cousin  in 
Cheapside,  that  she  brought  the  reputation  of 
the  house  into  danger,  and  was  therefore  dis- 
missed with  good  advice. 

The  room  then  stood  empty  for  a  fortnight ; 
my  landlady  began  to  think  that  she  had  judged 
hardly,  and  often  wished  for  such  another  lodger. 
At  last,  an  elderly  man  of  a  grave  aspect  read 
the  bill,  and  bargained  for  the  room  at  the  very 
first  price  that  was  asked.  He  lived  in  close 
retirement,  seldom  went  out  till  evening,  and 
then  returned  early,  sometimes  cheerful,  and  at 
other  times  dejected.  It  was  remarkable,  that 
whatever  he  purchased,  he  never  had  small 
money  in  his  pocket ;  and,  though  cool  and  tem- 
perate on  other  occasions,  was  always  vehement 
and  stormy  till  he  received  his  change.  He  paid 
his  rent  with  great  exactness,  and  seldom  failed 
once  a  week  to  requite  my  landlady's  civility 
with  a  supper.  At  last,  such  is  the  fate  of  hu- 
man felicity,  the  house  was  alarmed  at  midnight 
by  the  constable,  who  demanded  to  search  the 
garrets.  My  landlady  assuring  him  that  he  had 
mistaken  the  door,  conducted  him  up  stairs, 
where  he  found  the  tools  of  a  coiner;  but  the 
tenant  had  crawled  along  the  roof  to  an  empty 
house,  and  escaped ;  much  to  the  joy  of  my 
landlady,  who  declares  him  a  very  honest  man, 
and  wonders  why  any  body  should  be  hanged 
for  making  money  when  such  numbers  are  in 
want  of  it.  She  however  confesses  that  she 
shall,  for  the  future,  always  question  the  charac- 
ter of  those  who  take  her  garret  without  beating 
down  the  price. 

The  bill  was  then  placed  again  in  the  window, 
and  the  poor  woman  was  teased  for  seven  weeks 
by  innumerable  passengers,  who  obliged  her  to 
climb  with  them  every  hour  up  five  stories,  and 
then  disliked  the  prospect,  hated  the  noise  of  a 
public  street,  thought  the  stairs  narrow,  ob- 

£'  ;cted  to  a  low  ceiling,  required  the  walls  to  be 
ung  with  fresher  paper,  asked  questions  about 
the  neighbourhood,  could  not  think  of  living  so 
far  from  their  acquaintance,  wished  the  windows 
had  looked  to  the  south  rather  than  the  west, 
told  how  the  door  and  chimney  might  have  been 
better  dispoeed,  bid  her  half  the  price  that  she 
asked,  or  promised  to  give  her  earnest  the  next 
day,  and  came  no  more. 

At  last,  a  short  meagre  man,  in  a  tarnished 
waistcoat,  desired  to  see  the  garret,  and,  when 
he  had  stipulated  for  two  long  shelves,  and  a 
larger  table,  hired  it  at  a  low  rate.  When  the 
afiair  was  completed,  he  looked  round  him  with 
great  satisfaction,  and  repeated  some  words 
which  the  woman  did  not  understand.  In  two 
days  he  brought  a  great  box  of  books,  took  pos- 
session of  his  room  and  lived  very  inoffensively, 
except  that  ha  frequently  disturbed  the  inhabit- 


ants of  the  next  floor  by  unseasonable  noises. 
He  was  generally  in  bed  at  noon  ;  but  from 
ey&ning  to  midnight  he  sometimes  talked  aloud 
with  great  vehemence,  sometimes  stamped  as  in 
rage,  sometimes  threw  down  his  poker,  then 
clattered  his  chairs,  then  sat  down  in  deep 
thought,  and  again  burst  out  into  loud  vocifera- 
tions; sometimes  he  would  sigh  as  oppressed 
with  misery,  and  sometimes  shake  with  convul- 
sive laughter.  When  he  encountered  any  of 
the  family,  he  gave  way  or  bowed,  but  rarelj 
spoke,  except  that  as  he  went  up  stairs  he  often 
repeated, 


-'Of  tir/prara  i^^ara  vatci. 


This  habitant  lh'  aerial  regions  boast : 

hard  words,  to  which  his  neighbours  listened  so 
often  that  they  learned  them  without  understand- 
ing them.  What  was  his  employment  she  did 
not  venture  to  ask  him,  but  at  last  heard  a  print- 
er's boy  inquire  for  the  author. 

My  landlady  was  very  often  advised  to  beware 
of  this  strange  man,  who,  though  he  was  quiet 
for  the  present,  might  perhaps  become  outrage 
ous  in  the  hot  months  ;  but  as  she  was  punc- 
tually paid,  she  could  not  find  any  sufficient  rea- 
son for  dismissing  him,  till  one  night  he  con 
vinced  her,  by  setting  fire  to  his  curtains,  lhat  it 
was  not  safe  to  have  an  author  for  her  inmate. 

She  had  then  for  six  weeks  a  succession  of 
tenants  who  left  the  house  on  Saturday,  and,  in- 
stead of  paying  their  rent,  stormed  at  their  land- 
lady. At  last  she  took  in  two  sisters,  one  of 
whom  had  spent  her  little  fortune  in  procuring 
remedies  for  a  lingering  disease,  and  was  now 
supported  and  attended  by  the  other:  she  climbed 
with  difficulty  to  the  apartment,  where  she  lan- 
guished eight  weeks  without  impatience,  or  la- 
mentation, except  for  the  expense  and  fatigue 
which  her  sister  suffered,  and  then  calmly  and 
contentedly  expired.  The  sister  followed  her  to 
the  grave,  paid  the  few  debts  which  they  had 
contracted,  wiped  away  the  tears  of  useless  sor 
row,  and  returning  to  the  business  of  common 
life,  resigned  to  me  the  vacant  habitation. 

Such,  Mr.  Rambler,  are  the  changes  which 
have  happened  in  the  narrow  space  where  my 
present  fortune  has  fixed  my  residence.  So  true 
it  is,  that  amusement  and  instruction  are  alwavs 
at  hand  for  those  who  have  skill  and  willingness 
to  find  them ;  and  so  just  is  the  observation  of 
Juvenal,  that  a  single  house  will  show  whatever 
is  done  or  suffered  in  the  world. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 


No.  162.]       TUESDAY,  OCT.  5,  1751. 

Orbvs  es,  et  lociiples,  et  Bruto  consult  natus: 

Esse  tibi  veras  credis  amicitias  ? 
Sunt  rerte  ;  scd  quas  jueenis,  qvas  pauper  habebit. 

Qut  notus  est,  mortem  diligit  ille  tuam.        MART. 

What !  old,  and  rich,  and  childless  too, 
And  yet  believe  your  friends  are  true? 
Truth  might  perhaps  to  those  belong:, 
To  those  who  loved  you  poor  and  jroung : 
But,  trust  me,  for  the  m-wyou  hnvc 
They'll  love  you  dearly — in  your  grave. 

F.   LEWIS 

ONE  of  the  complaints  uttered  by  Milton's  Sam- 
son, in  the  anguish  of  blindness,  is,  that  he  shall 


248 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  162. 


pass  his  life  under  the  direction  of  others ;  that 
be  cannot  regulate  his  conduct  by  his  own  know- 
ledge, but  must  lie  at  the  mercy  of  those  who 
undertake  to  guide  him. 

There  is  no  state  more  contrary  to  the  dignity 
of  wisdom  than  perpetual  and  unlimited  depend- 
ance  in  which  the  understanding  lies  useless, 
and  every  motion  is  received  from  external  im- 
pulse. Reason  is  the  great  distinction  of  human 
nature,  the  faculty  by  which  we  approach  to 
some  degree  of  association  with  celestial  intelli- 
gences ;  but  as  the  excellence  of  every  power  ap- 
pears only  i:i  its  operations,  not  to  have  reason, 
and  to  have  it  useless  and  unemployed,  is  nearly 
the  same. 

Such  is  the  weakness  of  man,  that  the  essence 
of  things  is  seldom  so  much  regarded  as  external 
and  accidental  appendages.  A  small  variation 
of  trifling  circumstances,  a  slight  change  of  form 
Dy  an  artificial  dress,  or  a  casual  difference  of 
appearance  by  a  new  light  and  situation,  will  con- 
ciliate affection  or  excite  abhorrence,  and  deter- 
mine us  to  pursue  or  to  avoid.  Every  man  con- 
siders a  necessity  of  compliance  with  any  will 
but  his  own  as  the  lowest  state  of  ignominy  arid 
meanness;  few  are  so  far  lost  in  cowardice  or 
negligence  as  not  to  rouse  at  the  first  insult  of 
tyranny,  and  exert  all  their  force  against  him 
who  usurps  their  property,  or  invadas  any  pri- 
vilege of  speech  or  action.  Yet  we  see  often 
thosswho  never  wanted  spirit  to  repel  encroach- 
ment or  oppose  violence,  at  last  by  a  gradual 
relaxation  of  vigilance,  delivering  up,  without 
capitulation,  the  fortress  which  they  defended 
against  assault,  and  laying  down  unbidden  the 
weapons  which  they  grasped  the  harder  for 
every  attempt  to  wrest  them  from  their  hands. 
Men  eminent  for  spirit  and  wisdom  often  resign 
themsslves  to  voluntary  pupilage,  and  suffer  their 
lives  to  be  modelled  by  officious  ignorance,  and 
their  choice  to  be  regulated  by  presumptuous 
stupidity. 

This  unresisting  acquiescence  in  the  determi- 
nation of  others,  may  be  the  consequence  of  ap- 
plication to  some  study  remote  from  the  beaten 
track  of  life,  some  employnmnt  which  does  not 
allow  leisure  for  sufficient  inspection  of  those 
petty  affairs  by  which  nature  has  decreed  a  great 
part  of  our  duration  to  be  filled.  To  a  mind  thus 
withdrawn  from  common  objects,  it  is  more  eli- 
gible to  repose  on  the  prudence  of  another,  than 
to  be  exposed  every  moment  to  slight  interrup- 
tions. The  submission  which  such  confidence 
requires  is  paid  without  pain,  because  it  implies 
no  confession  of  inferiority.  The  business  from 
which  we  withdraw  our  cognizance  is  not  above 
our  abilities,  but  below  our  notice.  We  please 
our  prido  with  the  effects  of  our  influence  thus 
weakly  exerted,  and  fancy  ourselves  placed  in  a 
higher  orb,  from  which  we  regulate  subordinate 
agents  by  a  slight  and  distant  superintendence. 
But  whatever  vanity  or  abstraction  may  suggest, 
no  man  can  safely  do  that  by  others  which  might 
be  done  by  himself:  he  that  indulges  negli- 
gence will  quickly  become  ignorant  of  his  own 
affairs;  and  he  that  trusts  without  reserve  will  at 
last  be  deceived. 

It  is,  however,  impossible  but  that,  as  the  at- 
tention tends  strongly  towards  one  thing,  it  must 
retire  from  another:  and  he  that  omits  the  care 
of  domestic  business,  because  he  is  engrossed  by 
•nqu'uries  of  more  importance  to  mankind,  has,  at 


least,  the  merit  of  suffering  in  a  good  cause.  But 
there  are  many  who  can  plead  no  such  extenu- 
ation of  their  folly  ;  who  shake  off" the  burden  of 
their  station,  not  that  they  may  soar  with  less  in- 
ctimbrance  to  the  heights  of  knowledge  or  virtue, 
but  that  they  may  loiter  at  ease  and  sleep  in 
quiet;  and  who  select  for  friendship  and  confi- 
dence not  the  faithful  and  the  virtuous,  but  the 
soft,  the  civil,  and  compliant. 

This  openness  to  flattery  is  the  common  dis- 
grace of  declining  life.  When  men  feel  weak- 
ness increasing  on  them,  they  naturally  desire 
to  rest  from  the  struggles  of  contradiction,  the 
fatigue  of  reasoning,  the  anxiety  of  circumspec- 
tion ;  when  they  are  hourly  tormented  with  pains 
and  diseases,  they  are  unable  to  bear  any  new 
disturbance,  and  consider  all  opposition  as  an 
addition  to  misery,  of  which  they  feel  already 
more  than  they  can  patiently  endure.  Thus 
desirous  of  peace,  and  thus  fearful  of  pain,  the 
old  man  seldom  inquires  after  any  other  quali- 
ties in  those  whom  he  caresses,  than  quickness 
in  conjecturing  his  desires,  activity  in  supplying 
his  wants,  dexterity  in  intercepting  complaints 
before  they  approach  near  enough  to  disturb  him, 
flexibility  to  his  present  humour,  submission  to 
hasty  petulance,  and  attention  to  wearisome  nar- 
rations. By  these  arts  alone  many  have  been 
able  to  defeat  the  claims  of  kindred  and  of  me- 
rit, and  to  enrich  themselves  with  presents  and 
legacies. 

Thrasybulus  inherited  a  large  fortune,  and 
augmented  it  by  the  revenues  of  several  lucra- 
tive employments,  which  he  discharged  with 
honour  and  dexterity.  He  was  at  last  wise 
enough  to  consider  that  life  should  not  be  de 
voted  wholly  to  accumulation  ;  and,  therefore, 
retiring  to  his  estate,  applied  himself  to  the  edu- 
cation of  his  children,  and  the  cultivation  of  do- 
mestic happiness. 

He  passed  several  years  in  this  pleasing 
amusement,  and  saw  his  care  amply  recom- 
pensed ;  his  daughters  were  celebrated  for  mo- 
desty and  elegance,  and  his  sons  for  learning, 
prudence,  and  spirit.  In  time,  the  eagerness 
with  which  the  neighbouring  gentlemen  courted 
his  alliance  obliged  him  to  resign  his  daughters 
toother  families;  the  vivacity  and  curiosity  of 
his  sons  hurried  them  out  of  rural  privacy  into 
the  open  world,  from  whence  they  had  not  soon 
an  inclination  to  return.  This,  however,  he  had 
always  hoped ;  he  pleased  himself  with  the  suc- 
cess of  his  schemes,  and  felt  no  inconvenience 
from  solitude  till  an  apoplexy  deprived  him  of 
his  wife. 

Thrasybulus  had  now  no  companion ;  and  the 
maladies  of  increasing  years  having  taken  from 
him  much  of  the  power  of  procuring  amusement 
for  himself,  he  thought  it  necessary  to  procure 
some  inferior  friend  who  might  ease  him  of  his 
economical  solicitudes,  and  divert  him  by  cheer- 
ful conversation.  All  these  qualities  he  soon 
recollected  in  Vafer,  a  clerk  in  one  of  the  offices 
over  which  he  had  formerly  presided.  V;ifer 
was  invited  to  visit  his  old  patron,  and  being  by 
his  station  acquainted  with  the  present  modes  of 
life,  and  by  constant  practice  dexterous  in  busi- 
ness, entertained  him  with  so  many  novehies, 
and  so  readily  disentangled  his  affairs,  that  he 
was  desired  to  resign  his  clerkship,  and  accept  a 
liberal  salary  in  the  house  of  Thrasybulus. 

Vafer,  having  always  lived  in  a  state  of  de 


IS*o.  163.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


249 


peadence,  was  well  versed  in  the  arts  by  which 
favour  is  obtained,  and  could,  without  repug- 
nancy, or  hesitation,  accommodate  himself'  to 
every  caprice,  and  echo  every  opinion.  He  ne- 
ver doubted  but  to  be  convinced,  nor  attempted 
opposition  but  to  flatter  Thrasybulus  with  the 
pleasure  of  a  victory.  By  this  practice  he  found 
Vis  way  into  his  patron's  heart ;  and,  having  first 
nade  himself  agreeable,  soon  became  important. 
His  insidious  diligence,  by  which  the  laziness  of 
3<ie  was  gratified,  engrossed  the  management  of 
affairs  ;  and  his  petty  offices  of  civility,  and  occa- 
sional intercessions,  persuaded  the  tenants  to 
consider  him  as  their  friend  and  benefactor,  and 
to  entreat  his  enforcement  of  their  representa- 
tions of  hard  years,  and  his  countenance,  to  peti- 
tions for  abatement  of  rent. 

Thrasybulus  had  now  banqueted  on  flattery, 
till  he  could  no  longer  bear  the  harshness  of 
remonstrance  or  the  insipidity  of  truth.  All  con- 
trariety to  his  own  opinion  shocked  him  like  a 
violation  of  some  natural  right,  and  all  recom- 
mendation of  his  affairs  to  his  own  inspection  was 
dreaded  by  him  as  a  summons  to  torture.  His 
children  were  alarmed  by  the  sudden  riches  of 
Vafer,  but  their  complaints  were  heard  by  their 
father  with  impatience,  as  the  result  of  a  conspi- 
racy against  his  quiet,  and  a  design  to  condemn 
him,  for  their  own  advantage,  to  groan  out  his 
last  hours  in  perplexity  and  drudgery.  The 
daughters  retired  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  but  the 
son  continued  his  importunities  till  he  found  his 
inheritance  hazarded  by  his  obstinacy.  Vafer 
triumphed  over  all  their  efforts,  and  continuing 
to  confirm  himself  in  authority,  at  the  death  of 
his  master  purchased  an  estate,  and  bade  defi- 
ance to  inquiry  and  justice. 


No.  163.]     TUESDAY,  OCT.  8,  1751. 

Mitte  superbapati  fastidia,  spemque  caducam 
Dcspice  ;  vice  tibi,  nam  moriere  tibi          SENECA. 

Bow  to  no  patron's  insolence  ;  rely 

On  no  frail  hopes,  in  freedom  live  and  die. 

F.  LEWIS. 

XOXE  of  the  cruelties  exercised  by  wealth  jand 
power  upon  indigence  and  dependance  is  more 
mischievous  in  its  consequences,  or  more  fre- 
quently practised  with  wanton  negligence,  than 
the  encouragement  of  expectations  which  are  ne- 
ver to  he  gratified,  and  the  elation  and  depression 
of  the  heart  by  needless  vicissitudes  of  hopes  and 
disappointment. 

Every  man  is  rich  or  poor,  according  to  the 
proportion  between  his  desires  and  enjoyments  ; 
any  enlargement  of  wishes  is  therefore  equally 
destructive  to  happiness  with  the  diminution  of 
possessions ;  and  he  that  teaches  another  to  long 
for  what  he  never  shall  obtain,  is  no  less  an  ene- 
my to  his  quiet,  than  if  he  had  robbed  him  of  part 
of  his  patrimony. 

But  representations  thus  refined  exhibit  no  ade- 
quate idea  of  the  guilt  of  pretended  friendship  ; 
of  artifices  by  which  followers  are  attracted  only 
to  decorate  the  retinue  of  pomp,  and  swell  the 
shout  of  popularity,  and  to  be  dismissed  with 
contempt  and  ignominy,  when  their  leader  has 
succeeded  or  miscarried,  when  he  is  sick  of  show, 
and  weary  of  noise.  While  a  man,  infatuated 
with  the  promises  of  greatness,  wastes  his  hours 

2G 


and  days  in  attendance  and  solicitation,  the  ho- 
nest opportunities  of  improving  his  condition 
pass  by  without  his  notice  ;  he  neglects  to  culti- 
vate his  own  barren  soil,  because  he  expects 
every  moment  to  be  placed  in  regions  of  sponta- 
neous fertility,  and  is  seldom  roused  from  his  de- 
lusion, but  by  the  gripe  of  distress  which  he  can- 
not resist,  and  the  sense  of  evils  which  cannot  bo 
remedied. 

The  punishment  of  Tantalus  in  the  infernal 
regions  affords  a  just  image  of  hungry  servility, 
flattered  with  the  approach  of  advantage,  doomed 
to  lose  it  before  it  comes  into  his  reach,  always 
within  a  few  days  of  felicity,  and  always  sinking 
back  to  his  former  wants  ; 

Kai  fiijv  Trti/raXov  cJ<r£<£ov,  vaX/T1  a'Xyc'  txpvra, 
'E<rra<!r'  iv  \ipvir  f/  Sf  rrpo<rf;rAa&  yevci'p' 
'S.TtvTo  Se  ii^.-d(jiv,  Tfihiv  6'  OVK  u%cv  AfoOar 
'Qccdici  yap  Keifti'  &  yfytav,  iriiciv  ptvcalvtav, 
Toaedx'  viiap  dvoXlcKir'  ava^po^lv  aptyl  Sf  iro»<rt 
Faia  ni\<tlva  QdvtaKe,  Kara^ijvaaKc  lie  iai/itav 
Aevcota  &'  ti/'tirfri/Aa  KaraKpijOtv  vet  Kapxdv, 
"Oy%vai,  xal  poiai,  Kai  ur;\lai  ayAaoKapiroi, 
Euicaf  re  y\VKcpat,  /cat  eXatat  Trj\c.06ti)<raC 
Tiav  birdr'  Wvatt'  t>  yepdiv  cm  %epal  nd<ra<?9at, 
TdffS'  avcftos  aiKTaaKt  -sarii  veipea  axtSevra. 

"  I  saw,"  says  Homer's  Ulysses,  "  the  severe  pu- 
nishment of  Tantalus.  In  a  lake,  whose  water 
approached  to  his  lips,  he  stood  burning  with 
thirst,  without  the  power  to  drink.  Whenever 
he  inclined  his  head  to  the  stream,  some  deity 
commanded  it  to  be  dry.  and  the  dark  earth  ap- 
peared at  his  feet  Around  him  lofty  trees  spread 
their  fruits  to  view :  the  pear,  the  pomegranate, 
and  the  apple,  the  green  olive,  and  the  luscious 
fig,  quivered  before  him,  which,  whenever  he  ex- 
tended his  hand  to  seize  them,  were  snatched  by 
the  winds  into  clouds  and  obscurity." 

This  image  of  misery  was  perhaps  originally 
suggested  to  some  poet  by  the  conduct  of  his  pa- 
tron, by  the  daily  contemplation  of  splendour 
which  he  never  must  partake,  by  fruitless  at- 
tempts to  catch  at  interdicted  happiness,  and  by 
the  sudden  evanescence  of  his  reward,  when  he 
thought  his  labours  almost  at  an  end.  To  groan 
with  poverty,  when  all  about  him  was  opulence, 
riot,  and  superfluity,  and  to  find  the  favours 
which  he  had  long  been  encouraged  to  hope,  and 
had  long  endeavoured  to  deserve,  squandered  at 
last  on  nameless  ignorance,  was  to  thirst  with  wa- 
ter flowing  before  him,  and  to  see  the  fruits,  to 
which  his  hunger  was  hastening,  scattered  by  the 
wind.  Nor  can  my  correspondent,  whatever  he 
may  have  suffered,  express  with  more  justness  or 
force  the  vexations  of  dependance. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

I  AM  one  of  those  mortals  who  have  been  courted 
and  envied  as  the  favourite  of  the  great.  Having 
often  gained  the  prize  of  composition  at  the  uni- 
versity, I  began  to  hope  that  I  should  obtain  the 
same  distinction  in  every  other  place,  and  deter- 
mined to  forsake  the  profession  to  which  I  was 
destined  by  my  parents,  and  in  which  the  interest 
of  my  family  would  have  procured  me  a  very  ad- 
vantageous settlement.  The  pride  of  wit  fluttered 
in  my  heart ;  and  when  I  prepared  to  leave  the 
college,  nothing  entered  my  imagination  but  ho- 
nours, caresses,  and  rewards;  riches  without 
labour,  and  luxury  without  expense. 


250 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  164. 


I  however  delayed  my  departure  for  a  time,  to 
finish  the  performance  "by  which  I  was  to  draw 
the  first  notice  of  mankind  upon  me.  When  it 
was  completed  I  hurried  to  London,  and  consi- 
dered every  moment  that  passed  before  its  pub- 
lication, as  lost  in  a  kind  of  neutral  existence,  and 
cut  oft' from  the  golden  hours  of  happiness  and 
fame.  The  piece  was  at  last  printed  and  dis- 
seminated by  a  rapid  sale ;  I  wandered  from  one 
place  of  concourse  to  another,  feasted  from  morn- 
ing to  night  on  the  repetition  of  my  own  praises, 
and  enjoyed  the  various  conjectures  of  critics,  the 
mistaken  candour  of  my  friends,  and  the  impo- 
tent malice  of  my  enemies.  Some  had  read  the 
manuscript,  and  rectified  its  inaccuracies ;  others 
had  seen  it  in  a  state  so  imperfect,  that  they 
could  not  forbear  to  wonder  at  its  present  excel- 
lence ;  some  had  conversed  with  the  author  at 
the  coffee-house ;  and  others  gave  hints  that  they 
had  lent  him  money. 

I  knew  that  no  performance  is  solavourably 
read  as  that  of  a  writer  who  suppresses  his  name, 
and  therefore  resolved  to  remain  concealed,  till 
those  by  whom  literary  reputation  is  established 
had  given  their  suffrages  too  publicly  to  retract 
them.  At  length  my  bookseller  informed  me 
that  Aurantius,  the  standing  patron  of  merit, 
had  sent  inquiries  after  me,  and  invited  me  to  his 
acquaintance. 

The  time  which  I  had  long  expected  was  now 
arrived.  I  went  to  Aurantius  with  a  beating 
heart,  for  I  looked  upon  our  interview  as  the  cri- 
tical moment  of  my  destiny.  I  was  received  with 
civilities,  which  my  academic  rudeness  made  me 
unable  to  repay ;  but  when  I  had  recovered  from 
my  confusion,  I  prosecuted  the  conversation  with 
such  liveliness  and  propriety,  that  I  confirmed 
my  new  friend  in  his  esteem  of  my  abilities,  and 
was  dismissed  with  the  utmost  ardour  of  profes- 
sion, and  raptures  of  fondness. 

I  was  soon  summoned  to  dine  with  Aurantius, 
who  had  assembled  the  most  judicious  of  his 
friends  to  partake  of  the  entertainment.  Again 
I  exerted  my  powers  of  sentiment  and  expres- 
sion, and  again  found  every  eye  sparkling  with 
delight,  and  every  tongue  silent  with  attention. 
I  now  become  familiar  at  the  table  of  Aurantius, 
but  could  never,  in  his  most  private  or  jocund 
hours,  obtain  more  from  him  than  general  declara- 
tions of  esteem,  or  endearments  of  tenderness, 
which  included  no  particular  promise,  and  there- 
fore conferred  no  claim.  This  frigid  reserve 
somewhat  disgusted  me,  and  when  he  complain- 
ed of  three  day's  absence,  1  took  care  to  inform 
him  with  how  much  importunity  of  kindness  I 
had  been  detained  by  his  rival  Pollio. 

Aurantius  now  considered  his  honour  as  endan- 
gered by  the  desertion  of  a  wit;  and,  lest  I  should 
have  an  inclination  to  wander,  told  me  that  I 
could  never  find  a  friend  more  constant  and  zeal- 
ous than  himself;  that  indeed  he  had  made  no 
promises,  because  he  hoped  to  surprise  me  with 
advancement,  but  had  been  silently  promoting 
my  interest,  and  should  continue  his  good  offices, 
unless  he  found  the  kindness  of  others  more  de- 
sired. 

If  you,  Mr.  Rambler,  have  ever  ventured  your 
philosophy  within  the  attraction  of  greatness, 
you  know  the  force  of  such  language  introduced 
with  a  smile  of  gracious  tenderness,  and  impress- 
ed at  the  conclusion  with  an  air  of  solemn  sin- 


;  cerity.  From  that  instant  I  gave  myself  up 
j  wholly  to  Aurantius  ;  and  as  he  immediately 
resumed  his  former  gayety,  expected  every  morn- 
ing a  summons  to  some  employment  of  dignity 
and  profit.  One  month  succeeded  another,  and, 
in  defiance  of  appearances,  I  still  fancied  myself 
nearer  to  my  wishes,  and  continued  to  dream  of 
success  and  wake  to  disappointment.  At  last 
the  failure  of  my  little  fortune  compelled  me  to 
abate  the  finery  which  I  hitherto  thought  neces- 
sary to  the  company  with  whom  I  associated, 
and  the  rank  to  which  I  should  be  raised.  Au- 
rantius, from  the  moment  in  which  he  discovered 
my  poverty,  considered  rne  as  fully  in  his  power, 
and  afterwards  rather  permitted  my  attendance 
than  invited  it ;  thought  himself  at  liberty  to  re- 
fuse my  visits,  whenever  he  had  other  amuse- 
ments within  reach,  and  often  suffered  me  to 
wait,  without  pretending  any  necessary  busi- 
ness. When  I  was  admitted  to  his  table,  if  any 
man  of  rank  equal  to  his  own  was  present,  he 
took  occasion  to  mention  my  writings,  and 
commend  my  ingenuity,  by  which  he  intended  to 
apologize  for  the  confusion  of  distinctions,  and 
the  improper  assortment  of  his  company;  and 
often  called  upon  rhe  to  entertain  his  friends  with 
my  productions,  as  a  sportsman  delights  the 
squires  of  his  neighbourhood  with  the  curvets  of 
his  horse,  or  the  obedience  of  his  spaniels. 

To  complete  my  mortification,  it  was  his  prao.- 
tice  to  impose  tasks  upon  me,  by  requiring  mo 
to  write  upon  such  subjects  as  he  thought  sus- 
ceptible of  ornament  and  illustration.  With 
these  extorted  performances  he  was  little  satis 
fied,  because  he  rarely  found  in  them  the  ideas 
which  his  own  imagination  had  suggested,  and 
which  he  therefore  thought  more  natural  than 
mine. 

When  the  pale  of  ceremony  is  broken,  rude- 
ness and  insult  soon  enter  the  breach.  He  now 
found  that  he  might  safely  harass  me  with  vexa- 
tion, that  he  had  fixed  the  shackles  of  patronage 
upon  me,  and  that  I  could  neither  resist  him  nor 
escape.  At  last,  in  the  eighth  year  of  my  servi- 
tude, when  the  clamour  of  creditors  was  vehe- 
ment, and  my  necessity  known  to  be  extreme,  he 
offered  me  a  small  office,  but  hinted  his  expecta- 
tion that  I  should  marry  a  young  woman  with 
whom  he  had  been  acquainted. 

I  was  not  so  far  depressed  by  my  calamities  as 
o  comply  with  this  proposal;  but,  knowing  that 
complaints  and  expostulations  would  but  gratify 
his  insolence,  I  turned  away  with  that  contempt 
with  which  I  shall  never  want  spirit  to  treat  the 
wretch  who  can  outgo  the  guilt  of  a  robber 
without  the  temptation  of  his  profit,  and  who 
lures  the  credulous  and  thoughtless  to  maintain 
the  show  of  his  levee,  and  the  mirth  of  his  table, 
at  the  expense  of  honour,  happiness,  and  life. 
I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

LIBERALIS. 


No.  164.]     SATURDAY,  OCT.  12,  1751. 

yitium,  Goitre,  Catonia  kabcs.  MART. 

Gaurus  pretends  to  Cato's  fame  ; 
And  proves — by  Cato's  vice,  his  claim. 

DISTINCTION  is  so  pleasing  to  the  pride  of  man, 
that  a  great  part  of  the  pain  and  pleasure  of  life 


No.  164.] 


THE  RAMBLER, 


251 


arises  from  the  gratification  of  disappointment  ol 
an  incessant  wish  for  superiority,  from  the  sue 
cess  or  miscarriage  of  secret  competitions,  from 
victories  and  defeats,  of  which,  though  they  ap 
pear  to  us  of  great  importance,  in  reality  non< 
are  conscious  except  ourselves. 

Proportionate  to  the  prevalence  of  this  love  ol 
praise  is  the  variety  of  means  by  which  its  attain- 
ment is  attempted.  Every  man,  however  hope- 
less his  pretensions  may  appear,  to  all  but  him- 
self, has  some  project  by  which  he  hopes  to  rise 
to  reputation ;  some  art  by  which  he  imagines 
that  the  notice  of  the  world  will  be  attracted ; 
some  quality,  good  or  bad,  which  discriminates 
him  from  the  common  herd  of  mortals,  and  by 
which  others  may  be  persuaded  to  love,  or  com- 
pelled to  fear  him.  The  ascents  of  honour,  how- 
ever steep,  never  appear  inaccessible ;  he  thai 
despairs  to  scale  the  precipices  by  which  learning 
and  valour  have  conducted  their  favourites,  dis- 
covers some  by-path,  or  easier  acclivity,  which, 
though  it  cannot  bring  him  to  the  summit,  will 
yet  enable  him  to  overlook  those  with  whom  he 
is  now  contending  for  eminence ;  and  we  sel- 
dom require  more  to  the  happiness  of  the  present 
hour,  than  to  surpass  him  that  stands  next  be- 
fore us. 

As  the  greater  part  of  human  kind  speak  and 
act  wholly  by  imitation,  most  of  those  who  aspire 
to  honour  and  applause,  propose  to  themselves 
some  example  which  serves  as  the  model  of  their 
conduct  and  the  limit  of  their  hopes.  Almost 
every  man,  if  closely  examined,  will  be  found  to 
have  enlisted  himself  under  some  leader  whom 
he  expects  to  conduct  him  to  renown  ;  to  have 
some  hero  or  other,  living  or  dead,  in  his  view, 
whose  character  he  endeavours  to  assume,  and 
whose  performances  he  labours  to  equal. 

When  the  original  is  well  chosen,  and  judici- 
ously copied,  the  imitator  often  arrives  at  excel- 
lence, which  he  could  never  have  attained  with- 
but  direction ;  for  few  are  born  with  abilities  to 
discover  new  possibilities  of  excellence,  and  to 
distinguish  themselves  by  means  never  tried  be- 
fore. 

But  folly  and  idleness  often  contrive  to  gratify 
pride  at  a  cheaper  rate  :  not  the  qualities  which 
are  most  illustrious,  but  those  which  are  of  easi- 
est attainment,  are  selected  for  imitation ;  and 
the  honours  and  rewards  which  public  gratitude 
has  paid  to  the  benefactors  of  mankind,  are  ex- 
pected by  wretches  who  can  only  imitate  them 
in  their  vices  and  defects,  or  adopt  some  petty 
singularities,  of  which  those  from  whom  they 
are  borrowed  were  secretly  ashamed. 

No  man  rises  to  such  a  height  as  to  become 
conspicuous,  but.  he  is  on  one  side  censured  by 
undiscerning  malice,  which  reproaches  him  for 
his  best  actions,  and  slanders  his  apparent  and 
incontestable  excellences ;  and  idolized  on  the 
other  by  ignorant  admiration,  which  exalts  his 
faults  and  follies  into  virtues.  It  may  be  ob- 
served, that  he  by  whose  intimacy  his  acquaint- 
ances imagine  themselves  dignified,  generally 
diffuses  among  them  his  mien  and  his  habits ; 
and,  indeed,  without  more  vigilance  than  is  ge- 
nerally applied  to  the  regulation  of  the  minuter 
parts  of  behaviour,  it  is  not  easy,  when  we  con- 
verse much  with  one  whose  general  character 
excites  our  veneration,  to  escape  all  contagion 
of  his  peculiarities,  even  when  we  do  not  de- 


liberately think  them  worthy  of  our  notice,  and 
when  they  would  have  excited  laughter  or 
disgust,  had  they  not  been  protected  by  their 
alliance  to  nobler  qualities,  and  accidentally 
consorted  with  knowledge  or  with  virtue. 

The  faults  of  a  man  loved  or  honoured  some- 
times steal  secretly  and  imperceptibly  upon  the 
wise  and  virtuous,  but,  by  injudicious  fondness 
or  thoughtless  vanity,  are  adopted  with  design. 
There  is  scarce  any  failing  of  mind  or  body,  any 
error  of  opinion,  or  depravity  of  practice,  which, 
instead  of  producing  shame  and  discontent,  its 
natural  effects,  has  not  at  one  time  or  other 
gladdened  vanity  with  the  hopes  of  praise,  and 
been  displayed  with  ostentatious  industry  by 


those  who  sought  kindred  minds  among  the"  wits 
or  heroes,  and  could  prove  their  relation  only 
by  similitude  of  deformity. 


iy 


In  consequence  of  this  perverse  ambition,  every 
habit  which  reason  condemns  may  be  indulged 
and  avowed.  When  a  man  is  upbraided  with 
his  faults,  he  may  indeed  be  pardoned  if  he  en- 
deavours to  run  for  shelter  to  some  celebrated 
name ;  but  it  is  not  to  be  suffered  that,  from  the 
retreats  to  which  he  fled  from  infamy,  he  should 
issue  again  with  the  confidence  of  conquests,  and 
call  upon  mankind  for  praise.  Yet  we  see  men 
that  waste  their  patrimony  in  luxury,  destroy 
their  health  with  debauchery,  and  enervate  their 
minds  with  idleness,  because  there  have  been 
some  whom  luxury  never  could  sink  into  con- 
tempt, nor  idleness  hinder  from  the  praise  of 
genius. 

This  general  inclination  of  mankind  to  copy 
characters  in  the  gross,  and  the  force  which  the 
recommendation  of  illustrious  examples  adds  to 
the  allurements  of  vice,  ought  to  be  considered 
by  all  whose  character  excludes  them  from  the 
shades  of  secrecy,  as  incitements  to  scrupulous 
caution  and  universal  purity  of  manners.  No 
man,  however  enslaved  to  his  appetites,  or  hur 
ried  by  his  passions,  can,  while  he  preserves  his 
intellects  unimpaired,  please  himself  with  pro- 
moting the  corruption  of  others.  He  whose 
merit  has  enlarged  his  influence,  would  surely 
wish  to  exert  it  for  the  benefit  of  mankind.  Yet 
such  will  be  the  effect  of  his  reputation,  while  he 
suffers  himself  to  indulge  in  any  favourite  fault, 
that  they  who  have  no  hope  to  reach  his  excel- 
lence will  catch  at  his  failings,  and  his  virtues 
will  be  cited  to  justify  the  copiers  of  his  vices. 

It  is  particularly  the  duty  of  those  who  con- 
sign illustrious  names  to  posterity,  to  take  care 
lest  their  readers  be  misled  by  ambiguous  exam- 
ples. That  writer  may  be  justly  condemned  as 
in  enemy  to  goodness,  who  suffers  fondness  or 
interest  to  confound  right  with  wrong,  or  to 
shelter  the  faults  which  even  the  wisest  and  the 
best  have  committed  from  that  ignominy  which 
guilt  ought  always  to  suffer,  and  with  which  it 
should  be  more  deeply  stigmatized  when  digni« 
ied  by  its  neighbourhood  to  uncommon  worth, 
since  we  shall  be  in  danger  of  beholding  it  with- 
out abhorrence,  unless  its  turpitude  be  laid  open, 
and  the  eye  secured  from  the  deception  of  sur 
rounding  splendour. 


252 
No.  165.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[JN'o.  165. 


TUESDAY,  OCT.  15,  1751. 


•Hv  fias,  «M<J  «'•"»*>  ™v  Y" 
~O,  uAvos  IK  rrdi'Tiav  oi/crpSf  tv 
•Of  r&rt.  uiv  xpii"0'" 


Voung  was  I  once  and  poor,  now  riclfcand  old  ; 
A  harder  case  than  mine  was  never  told  ; 
Bless'd  with  the  power  to  use  them—  I  had  none  ; 
Loaded  with  riches  now  —  the  power  is  gone. 

F.  LEWIS. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


THE  writers  who  have  undertaken  the  unpro- 
mising task  of  moderating  desire,  exert  all  the 
power  of  their  eloquence  to  show  that  happiness 
is  not  the  lot  of  man,  and  have,  by  many  argu- 
ments and  examples,  proved  the  instability  of 
every  condition  by  which  envy  or  ambition  are 
excited.  They  have  set  before  our  eyes  all  the 
calamities  to  which  we  are  exposed  from  the 
frailty  of  nature,  the  influence  of  accident,  or  the 
stratagems  of  malice  ;  they  have  terrified  great- 
ness with  conspiracies,  and  riches  with  anxieties, 
wit  with  criticism,  and  beauty  with  disease. 

All  the  force  of  reason,  and  all  the  charms  of 
language,  are  indeed  necessary  to  support  posi- 
tions which  every  man  hears  with  a  wish  to  con- 
fute them.  Truth  finds  an  easy  entrance  into 
the  mind  when  she  is  introduced  by  desire,  and 
attended  by  pleasure;  but  when  she  intrudes 
uncalled,  and  brings  only  fear  and  sorrow  in  her 
train,  the  passes  of  the  intellect  are  barred  against 
her  by  prejudice  and  passion  ;  if  she  sometimes 
forces  her  way  by  the  batteries  of  argument,  she 
seldom  long  keeps  possession  of  her  conquests, 
but  is  ejected  by  some  favoured  enemy,  or  at 
best  obtains  only  a  nominal  sovereignty,  without 
influence  and  without  authority, 

That  life  is  short  we  are  all  convinced,  and  yet 
suffer  not  that  conviction  to  repress  our  projects 
or  limit  our  expectations  ;  that  life  is  miserable 
we  all  feel,  and  yet  we  believe  that  the  time  is 
near  when  we  shall  feel  it  no  longer.  But  to 
hope  happiness  and  immortality  is  equally  vain. 
Our  state  may  indeed  be  more  or  less  embit- 
tered, as  our  duration  may  be  more  or  less  con- 
tracted ;  yet  the  utmost  felicity  which  we  can 
ever  attain  will  be  little  better  than  alleviation  of 
misery,  and  we  shall  always  feel  more  pain  from 
our  wants  than  pleasure  from  our  enjoyments. 
The  incident  which  I  am  going  to  relate  will 
show,  that  to  destroy  the  effect  of  all  our  suc- 
cess, it  is  not  necessary  that  any  signal  calamity 
should  fall  upon  us,  that  we  should  be  harassed 
by  implacable  persecution,  or  excruciated  by 
irremediable  pains ;  the  brightest  hours  of  pros- 
perity have  their  clouds,  and  the  stream  of  life, 
if  it  is  not  ruffled  by  obstructions,  will  grow  pu- 
trid by  stagnation. 

My  father  resolving  not  to  imitate  the  folly  of 
his  ancestors,  who  had  hitherto  left  the  younger 
sons  encumbrances  on  the  eldest,  destined  me  to 
a  lucrative  profession  |  and  I,  being  careful  to 
lose  no  opportunity  of  improvement,  was,  at  the 
usual  time  in  which  young  men  enter  the  world, 
well  qualified  for  the  exercise  of  the  business 
which  I  had  chosen. 

My  eagerness  to  distinguish  myself  in  public, 
and  my  impatience  of  the  narrow  scheme  of  life 
to  which  my  indigence  confined  me.  did  not 


suffer  me  to  continue  long  in  the  town  where  I 
was  born.  I  went  away  as  from  a  place  of  con- 
finement, with  a  resolution  to  return  no  more, 
till  1  should  be  able  to  dazzle  with  my  splendour 
those  who  now  looked  upon  me  wilh  contempt, 
to  reward  those  who  had  paid  honours  to  my 
dawning  merit,  and  to  show  all  who  had  suffered 
me  to  glide  by  them  unknown  and  neglected, 
how  much  they  mistook  their  interest  in  omitting 
to  propitiate  a  genius  like  mine. 

Such  were  my  intentions  when  I  sallied  forth 
into  the  unknown  world,  in  quest  of  riches  and 
honours,  which  I  expected  to  procure  in  a  very 
short  time  ;  for  what  could  withhold  them  from 
industry  and  knowledge  ?  He  that  indulges 
hope  will  always  be  disappointed.  Reputation  I 
very  soon  obtained ;  but  as  merit  is  much  more 
cheaply  acknowledged  than  rewarded,  I  did  not 
find  myself  yet  enriched  in  proportion  to  my  ce- 
lebrity. 

I  had,  however,  in  time,  surmounted  the  ob- 
stacles by  which  envy  and  competition  obstruct 
the  first  attempts  of  a  new  claimant,  and  saw  my 
opponents  and  censurers  tacitly  confessing  their 
despair  of  success,  by  courting  my  friendship 
and  yielding  to  my  influence.  They  who  once 
pursued  me,  were  now  satisfied  to  escape  from 
me  ;  and  they  who  had  before  thought  me  pre- 
sumptuous in  hoping  to  overtake  them,  had  now 
their  utmost  wish,  if  they  were  permitted,  at  no 
great  distance,  quietly  to  follow  me. 

My  wants  were  not  madly  multiplied  as  my 
acquisitions  increased,  and  the  time  came,  at 
length,  when  I  thought  myself  enabled  to  gratify 
all  reasonable  desires,  and  when,  therefore.  1  re- 
solved to  enjoy  that  plenty  and  serenity  which  I 
had  been  hitherto  labouring  to  procure,  to  enjoy 
them  while  I  was  yet  neither  crushed  by  age 
into  infirmity,  nor  so  habituated  to  a  particular 
manner  of  life  as  to  be  unqualified  for  new  stu- 
dies or  entertainments. 

I  now  quitted  my  profession,  and,  to  set  my- 
self at  once  free  from  all  importunities  to  resume 
it,  changed  my  residence,  and  devoted  the  re- 
maining part  of  my  time  to  quiet  and  amusement. 
Amidst  innumerable  projects  of  pleasure  which 
restless  idleness  incited  me  to  form,  and  of  which 
most,  when  they  came  to  the  moment  of  execu- 
tion, were  rejected  for  others  of  no  longer  con- 
tinuance, some  accident  revived  in  my  imagina 
ticn  the  pleasing  ideas  of  my  native  place.  It 
was  now  in  my  power  to  visit  those  from  whom 
I  had  been  so  long  absent,  in  such  a  manner  as 
was  consistent  with  my  former  resolution,  and  1 
wondered  how  it  could  happen  that  I  had  so 
long  delayed  my  own  happiness. 

Full  of  the  admiration  which  I  should  excite, 
and  the  homage  which  I  should  receive,  I  dressed 
my  servants  in  a  more  ostentatious  livery,  pur- 
chased a  magnificent  chariot,  and  resolved  to 
dazzle  the  inhabitants  of  the  little  town  with  an 
unexpected  blaze  of  greatness. 

While  the  preparations  that  vanity  required 
were  .made  for  my  departure,  which,  as  work- 
men will  not  easily  be  hurried  beyond  their  or- 
dinary rate,  I  thought  very  tedious,  I  solaced  my 
impatience  with  imaging  the  various  censures 
that  my  appearance  would  produce ;  the  hopes 
which  some  would  feel  from  my  bounty;  the 
terror  which  my  power  would  strike  on  others ; 
the  awkward  respect  with  which  I  should  be  ac- 
costed by  timorous  officiousness  ;  and  I  he  dia- 


No.  166.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


253 


tant  reverence  with  which  others,  less  familiar  to 
splendour  and  dignity,  would  be  contented  to 
gaze  upon  me.  I  deliberated  a  lo-g  time,  whe- 
ther 1  should  immediately  descend  to  a  level  with 
my  former  acquaintances,  or  make  my  condescen- 
sion more  grateful  by  a  gentle  transition  from 
haughtiness  and  reserve.  At  length  I  determin- 
ed to  forget  some  of  my  companions,  till  they 
discovered  themselves  by  some  indubitable  token, 
and  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  others  upon 
my  good  fortune  with  indifference,  to  show  that 
I  always  expected  whatl  had  now  obtained.  The 
acclamations  of  the  populace  I  purposed  to  re- 
ward with  six  hogsheads  of  ale,  and  a  roasted 
ox,  and  then  recommend  them  to  return  to 
their  work. 

At  last  all  the  trappings  of  grandeur  were  fitted, 
and  I  began  the  journey  of  triumph,  which  I 
could  have  wished  to  have  ended  in  the  same 
moment ;  but  my  horses  felt  none  of  their  mas- 
ter's ardour,  and  1  was  shaken  four  days  upon 
rugged  roads.  I  then  entered  the  town  ;  and 
having  graciously  let  fall  the  glasses  that  my  per- 
son might  be  seen,  passed  slowly  through  the 
streets.  The  noise  of  the  wheels  brought  the  inha- 
bitants to  their  doors,  but  1  could  not  perceive 
that  I  was  known  by  them.  At  last  I  alighted, 
and  my  name,  I  suppose,  was  told  by  my  serv- 
ants, for  the  barber  stepped  from  the  opposite 
house,  and  seized  me  by  the  hand  with  honest 
joy  in  his  countenance,  which,  according  to  the 
rule  that  I  had  prescribed  to  myself,  I  repressed 
with  a  frigid  graciousness.  The  fellow,  instead 
of  sinking  into  dejection,  turned  away  with  con- 
tempt, and  left  me  to  consider  hew  the  second 
salutation  should  be  received.  The  next  friend 
was  better  treated,  for  I  soon  found  that  I  must 
purchase  by  civility  that  regard  which  I  had  ex- 
pected to  enforce  by  insolence. 

There  was  yet  no  smoke  of  bonfires,  no  har- 
mony of  bells,  no  shout  of  crowds,  nor  riot  of  joy  ; 
the  business  of  the  day  went  forward  as  before  ; 
and,  after  having  ordered  a  splendid  supper, 
which  no  man  came  to  partake,  and  which  my 
chagrin  hindered  me  from  tasting,  I  went  to  bed, 
where  the  vexation  of  disappointment  overpow- 
ered the  fatigue  of  my  journey  and  kept  me  from 
sleep. 

I  rose  so  much  humbled  by  these  mortifica- 
tions, as  to  inquire  after  the  present  state  of  the 
town,  and  found  that  I  had  been  absent  too  long 
to  obtain  the  triumph  which  had  flattered  my  ex- 
pectation. Of  the  friends  whose  compliments  I 
expected,  some  had  long  ago  moved  to  distant 
provinces,  some  had  lost  in  the  maladies  of  age 
all  sense  of  another's  prosperity,  arid  some  had 
forgotten  our  former  intimacy  amidst  care  and 
distress'-s.  Of  three  whom  I  had  resolved  to 
punish  ror  their  former  offences  by  a  longer  con- 
tinuance of  neglect,  one  was,  by  his  own  industry, 
raised  above  my  scorn,  and  two  were  sheltered 
from  it  in  the  grave.  All  those  whom  T  loved, 
feared  or  hated,  all  whose  envy  or  whose  kind- 
ness I  had  hopes  of  contemplating  with  pleasure, 
were  swept  away,  and  their  place  was  filled  by  a 
new  generation  with  other  views  and  other  com- 
petitions ;  and  among  many  proofs  of  the  impo- 
tence of  wealth,  1  found  that  itconferred  upon  me 
very  few  distinctions  in  my  native  place. 
I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

SEROTINUS. 


No.  166.]  SATURDAY,  OCT.  19,  1751. 


Pauper  cris  temper,  si  pauper  es,  JEmiliane : 

Duntur  opes  n,,,.inunc  nisi  didtibus.  MA:.T. 

Once  poor,  my  friend,  <till  poor  you  mu.-t  remain  ; 
The  rich  aloue  have  all  the  means  oi'  gain. — ED  w.  CAVE 

No  complaint  has  been  more  frequently  repeated 
in  all  ages  than  that  of  the  neglect  of  merit  asso- 
ciated with  poverty,  and  the  difficulty  with  which 
valuable  or  pleasing  qualities  force  themselves 
into  view,  when  they  are  obscured  by  indigence. 
It  has  been  long  observed  that  native  beauty  has 
little  power  to  charm  without  the  ornaments 
which  fortune  bestows,  and  that  to  want  the  fa- 
vour of  others  is  often  sufficient  to  hinder  ua 
from  obtaining  it. 

Every  day  discovers  that  mankind  are  not  yet 
convinced  of  their  error,  or  that  their  conviction 
is  without  power  to  influence  their  conduct;  for 
poverty  still  continues  to  produce  contempt,  and 
still  obstructs  the  claims  of  kindred  and  of  virtue. 
The  eye  of  wealth  is  elevated  towards  higher 
stations,  and  seldom  descends  to  examine  the 
actions  of  those  who  are  placed  below  the  level 
of  its  notice,  and  who  in  distant  regions  and 
lower  situations  are  struggling  with  distress,  or 
toiling  for  bread.  Among  the  multitudes  over- 
whelmed with  insuperable  calamity,  it  is  com 
mon  to  find  those  whom  a  very  little  assistance 
would  enable  to  support  themselves  with  decen 
cy,  and  who  yet  cannot  obtain  from  near  rela 
tions,  what  they  see  hourly  lavished  in  ostenta 
tion,  luxury,  or  frolic. 

There  are  natural  reasons  why  poverty  does 
not  easily  conciliate  affection.  He  that  has  been 
confined  from  his  infancy  to  the  conversation  ol 
the  lowest  classes  of  mankind,  must  necessarily 
want  those  accomplishments  which  are  the  usual 
means  of  attracting  favour ;  and  though  truth, 
fortitude,  and  probity,  give  an  indisputable  right 
to  reverence  and  kindness,  they  will  not  be 
distinguished  by  common  eyes,  unless  they  are 
brightened  by  elegance  of  manners,  but  are  cast 
aside  like  unpolished  gems,  of  which  none  but 
the  artist  knows  the  intrinsic  value,  till  their  as- 
perities are  smoothed,  and  their  incrustations 
rubbed  away. 

The  grossness  of  vulgar  h,abits  obstructs  the 
efficacy  of  virtue,  as  impurity  and  harshness  of 
style  impair  the  force  of  reason,  and  rugged  num 
bers  turn  off"  the  mind  from  artifice  of  disposition, 
and  fertility  of  invention.  Few  have  strength 
of  reason  to  overrule  the  perceptions  of  sense  : 
and  yet  fewer  have,  curiosity  or  benevolence  to 
struggle  long  against  the  first  impression  ;  he 
therefore  who  fails  to  please  in  his  salutation  and 
address,  is  at  once  rejected,  and  never  obtains 
an  opportunity  of  showing  his  latent  excellences, 
or  essential  qualities, 

It  is,  indeed,  not  easy  to  prescribe  a  successful 
manner  of  approach  to  the  distressed  or  necessi- 
tous, whose  condition  subjects  every  kind  of  be- 
haviour equally  to  miscarriage.  He  whose  con 
fidence  of  merit  incites  him  to  meet,  without  any 
apparent  sense  of  inferiority,  the  eyes  of  those 
who  flattered  themselves  with  their  own  dignity, 
is  considered  as  an  insolent  leveller,  impatient 
of  the  just  prerogatives  of  rank  and  wealth,  eager 
to  usurp  the  station  to  which  he  has  no  right,  and 
to  confound  the  subordinations  of  society  ;  and 
who  would  contribute  to  the  exaltation  of  thai 


254 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  IS7. 


spirit  which  even  want  and  calamity  are  not  able 
to  restrain  from  rudeness  and  rebellion. 

But  no  better  success  will  commonly  be  found 
to  attend  servility  and  direction,  which  often  give 
pride  the  confidence  to  treat  them  with  contempt. 
A  request  made  with  diffidence  and  timidity  is 
easily  denied,  because  the  petitioner  himself 
seems  to  doubt  its  fitness. 

Kindness  is  generally  reciprocal ;  we  are  de- 
sirous of  pleasing  others,  because  we  receive  plea- 
sure from  them ;  but  by  what  means  can  the  man 
please,  whose  attention  is  engrossed  by  his  dis- 
tresses, and  who  has  no  leisure  to  be  officious ; 
whose  will  is  restrained  by  his  necessities,  and 
who  has  no  power  to  confer  benefits  ;  whose 
temper  is  perhaps  vitiated  by  misery,  and  whose 
understanding  is  impeded  by  ignorance  ? 

It  is  yet  a  more  offensive  discouragement,  that 
the  same  actions  performed  by  different  hands 
produce  different  effects,  and,  instead  of  rating 
the  man  by  his  performances,  we  rate  too  fre- 
quently the  performance  by  the  man.  It  some- 
times happens  in  the  combinations  of  life,  that 
important  services  are  performed  by  inferiors  ; 
but  though  their  zeal  and  activity  may  be  paid 
by  pecuniary  rewards,  they  seldom  excite  that 
flow  of  gratitude,  or  obtain  that  accumulation  of 
recompense  with  which  all  think  it  their  duty  to 
acknowledge  the  favour  of  those  who  descend  to 
their  assistance  from  a  higher  elevation.  To  be 
obliged,  is  to  be  in  some  respect  inferior  to  ano- 
ther ;  and  few  willingly  indulge  the  memory  of 
an  action  which  raises  one  whom  they  have  al- 
ways been  accustomed  to  think  below  them,  but 
satisfy  themselves  with  faint  praise  and  penuri- 
ous payment,  and  then  drive  it  from  their  own 
minds,  and  endeavour  to  conceal  it  from  the 
knowledge  of  others. 

It  may  be  always  objected  to  the  services  of 
those  who  can  be  supposed  to  want  a  reward, 
tlidt  they  were  produced  not  by  kindness,  but  in- 
terest ;  they  are  therefore,  when  they  are  no 
longer  wanted,  easily  disregarded  as  arts  of  in- 
sinuation, or  stratagems  of  selfishness.  Benefits 
which  are  received  as  gifts  from  wealth,  are  ex- 
acted as  debts  from  indigence ;  and  he  that  in  a 
high  station  is  celebrated  for  superfluous  good- 
ness, would  in  a  meaner  condition  have  barely 
been  confessed  to  bmve  done  his  duty. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  for  the  utmost  benevo- 
lence to  oblige,  when  exerted  under  the  disadvan- 
tages of  groat,  inferiority :  for,  by  the  habitual 
arrogance  of  wealth,  such  expectations  are  com- 
monly formed  as  no  zeal  or  industry  can  satisfy  ; 
and  what  regard  can  he  hope,  who  has  done  less 
than  was  demanded  from  him  ? 

There  are  indeed  kindnesses  conferred  which 
were  never  purchased  by  precedent  favours,  and 
there  is  an  aff'ction  not  arising  from  gratitude  or 
gross  interest,  by  which  similar  natures  are  at- 
tracted to  each  other,  without  prospect  of  any 
other  advantage  than  the  pleasure  of  exchanging 
r.entirnents,  and  the  hope  of  confirming  their 
osteem  of  themselves  by  the  approbation  of  each 
other.  But  this  spontaneous  fondness  seldom 
risns  at  the  sight  of  poverty,  which  every  one  re- 
gards with  habitual  contempt,  and  of  which  the 
applause  is  no  more  courted  by  vanity,  than  the 
countenance  is  solicited  by  ambition.  The  most 
generous  and  disinterested  friendship  must  be 
resolved  at  last  into  the  love  of  ourselves ;  he 
therefore  whose  reputation  or  dignity  inclines  us 


to  consider  his  esteem  as  a  testimonial  of  desert, 
will  always  find  our  hearts  open  to  his  endear- 
ments. We  every  day  see  men  of  eminence  fol- 
lowed with  all  the  obsequiousness  of  dcpcndance, 
and  courted  with  all  the  blandishments  of  flat- 
tery, by  those  who  want  nothing  from  them  but 
professions  of  regard,  and  who  think  themselves 
liberally  rewarded  by  a  bow,  a  smiie,  or  an  em- 
brace. 

But  those  prejudices  which  every  mind  feels 
more  or  less  in  favour  of  riches,  ought,  like  oth-^r 
opinions,  which  only  custom  and  example  havt 
impressed  upon  us,  to  be  in  time  subjected  to 
reason.  We  must  learn  how  to  separate  the  rea: 
character  from  extraneous  adhesion  and  casual 
circumstances,  to  consider  closely  him  whom  we 
are  about  to  adopt  or  to  reject;  to  regaid  his 
inclinations  as  well  as  his  actions  ;  to  trace  out 
those  virtues  which  lie  torpid  in  the  heart  for 
want  of  opportunity,  and  those  vices  that  lurk 
unseen  by  the  absence  of  temptation:  that  when 
we  find  worth  faintly  shooting  in  the  shades  of 
obscurity,  we  may  let  in  light  and  sunshine  upon 
it,  and  ripen  barren  volition  into  efficacy  and 
power. 


No.  167.]      TUESDAY,  OCT.  22,  1751. 

Candida  perpetuo  reside,  Concordia,  lecto, 
Tamqne  pari  semper  sit  Vtnus  tcqnajvgo. 

Diligat  ipsa  SKnem  quondam  :  sed  ct  ilia  marito, 
Tune  quoque  cumfuerit,  non  vidcaiur  anus. 

MART. 

Their  nuptial  lied  may  smiling- Concord  dress, 
And  Venus  still  the  happy  union  bless  ! 
Wrinkled  with  age,  may  mutual  love  and  truth 
To  their  dim  eyes  recall  the  bloom  of  youth. 

F.  LEWIS 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

IT  is  not  common  to  envy  those  with  whom  we 
cannot  easily  be  placed  in  comparison,  Every 
man  sees  without  malevolence  the  progress  of 
another  in  the  tracts  of  life,  which  he  has  himself 
no  desire  to  tread,  and  hears,  without  inclination 
to  cavils  or  contradiction,  the  renown  of  those 
whose  distance  will  not  suffer  them  to  draw  the 
attention  of  mankind  from  his  own  merit.  The 
sailor  never  thinks  it  necessary  to  contest  the 
lawyer's  abilities  ;  nor  would  the  Rambler,  how- 
ever jealous  of  his  reputation,  be  much  disturb- 
ed by  the  success  of  rival  wits  at  Agra  or  Is- 
pahan. 

We  do  not  therefore  ascribe  to  you  any  super- 
lative degree  of  virtue,  when  we  believe  that  we 
may  inform  you  of  our  change  of  condition  with- 
out danger  of  malignant  fascination  ;  and  that 
when  you  read  of  the  marriage  of  your  corres- 
pondents Hymenaeus  and  Tranquilla,  you  will 
join  your  wishes  to  those  of  their  other  fiiends 
for  the  happy  event  of  a  union  in  which  caprice 
and  selfishness  had  so  little  part. 

There  is  at  least  this  reason  why  we  should  be 
less  deceived  in  our  connubial  hopes  than  many 
who  enter  into  the  same  state,  that  we  have  al- 
lowed our  minds  to  form  no  unreasonable  expect- 
ations, nor  vitiated  our  fancies,  in  the  soft  hours 
of  courtship,  with  visions  of  felicity  which  human 
power  cannot  bestow,  or  of  perfection  which 
human  virtue  cannot  attain.  That  impartiality 


No.  167.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


255 


with  which  we  endeavour  to  inspect  the  manners 
of  all  whom  we  have  known  was  never  so  much 
overpowered  by  our  passion,  but  that  we  dis- 
covered some  faults  and  weaknesses  in  each 
other;  and  joined  our  hands  in  conviction,  that 
as  there  are  advantages  to  be  enjoyed  in  mar- 
riage, there  are  inconveniences  likewise  to  be 
endured ;  and  that,  together  with  confederate 
intellects  and  auxiliar  virtues,  we  must  find  dif- 
ferent opinions  and  opposite  inclinations. 

We  however  flatter  ourselves,  for  who  is  not 
flattered  by  himself  as  well  as  by  others  on  the 
day  ci  marriage  ?  that  we  are  eminently  qualified 
to  give  mutual  pleasure.  Our  birth  is  without 
any  such  remarkable  disparity  as  can  give  either 
an  opportunity  of  insulting  the  other  with  pom- 
pous names  and  splendid  alliances,  or  of  calling 
in,  upon  any  domestic  controversy,  the  over- 
bearing assistance  of  powerful  relations.  Our 
fortune  was  equally  suitable,  so  that  we  meet 
without  any  of  those  obligations  which  always 
produce  reproach  or  suspicion  of  reproach,  which, 
though  they  may  be  forgotten  in  the  gayeties  of 
the  first  month,  no  delicacy  will  always  suppress, 
or  of  which  the  suppression  must  be  considered 
•is  a  new  favour,  to  be  repaid  by  tameness  and 
submission,  till  gratitude  takes  the  place  of  .ove, 
and  the  desire  of  pleasing  degenerates  by  degrees 
into  the  fear  of  offending. 

The  settlements  caused  no  delay  :  for  we  did 
not  trust  our  affairs  to  the  negotiation  of  wretches 
who  would  have  paid  their  court  by  multiplying 
stipulations.  Tranquilla  scorned  to  detain  any 
part  of  her  fortune  from  him  into  whose  hands 
she  delivered  up  her  person  ;  and  Hymenaeus 
thought  no  act  of  baseness  more  criminal  than 
his  who  enslaves  his  wife  by  her  own  generosity, 
who,  by  marrying  without  a  jointure,  condemns 
her  to  all  the  dangers  of  accident  and  caprice, 
and  at  last  boasts  his  liberality,  by  granting  what 
only  the  indiscretion  of  her  kindness  enabled 
him  to  withhold.  He  therefore  received  on  the 
common  terms,  the  portion  which  any  other  wo- 
man might  have  brought  him,  and  reserved  all 
the  exuberance  of  acknowledgment  for  those 
excellences  which  he  has  yet  been  able  to  dis- 
cover only  in  Tranquilla. 

We  did  not  pass  the  weeks  of  courtship  like 
those  who  consider  themselves  as  taking  the  last 
draught  of  pleasure,  and  resolve  not  to  quit  the 
bowl  without  a  surfeit,  or  who  know  themselves 
about  lo  sst  happiness  to  hazard,  and  endeavour 
to  lose  their  sense  of  danger  in  the  ebriety  of 
perpetual  amusement,  and  whirl  round  the  gulf 
before  they  sink.  Hymenaeus  often  repeated  a 
medical  axiom,  that  the  succours  of  sickness  ought 
not  to  be  wasted  in  health.  We  know  that  how- 
s' n  our  eyes  may  yet  sparkle,  and  our  hearts 
bound  at  the  ,ir«<sence  of  each  other,  the  time  of 
listlessness  and  satiety,  of  peevishness  and  discon- 
tent, must  come  at  last,  in  >vhich  we  shall  be 
driven  for  relief  to  shows  and  recreations ;  that 
the  uniformity  of  life  must  be  sometimes  diver- 
sified, and  the  vacuities  of  conversation  some- 
times supplied.  We  rejoice  in  the  reflection  that 
we  have  stores  of  novelty  yet  unexhausted,  which 
may  be  opened  when  repletion  shall  call  for 
change,  and  gratifications  yet  untasted,  by  which 
life,  when  it  shall  become  vapid  or  bitter,  may 
DC  restored  to  its  former  sweetness  and  spright- 
liness,  and  again  irritate  the  appetite,  and  again 
sparkle  in  the  cup. 


Our  time  will  probably  be  less  tasteless  than 
that  of  those  whom  the  authority  and  avarice  ot 
parents  unite  almost  without  their  consent  in. 
their  early  years,  before  they  have  accumulated 
any  fund  of  reflection,  or  collected  materials  for 
mutual  entertainment.  Such  we  have  often  seen 
rising  in  the  morning  to  cards,  and  retiring  in  the 
afternoon  to  doze,  whose  happiness  was  cele- 
brated by  their  neighbours,  because  they  hap- 
pened to  grow  rich  by  parsimony,  and  to  be  kept 
quiet  by  insensibility,  and  agreed  to  eat  and  to 
sleep  together. 

We  have  both  mingled  with  the  world,  and  are 
therefore  no  strangers  to  the  faults  and  virtues, 
the  designs  and  competitions,  the  hopes  and 
fears  of  our  contemporaries.  We  have  both 
amused  our  leisure  with  books,  and  can  there- 
fore recount  the  events  of  former  times,  or  cite 
the  dictates  of  ancient  wisdom.  Every  occur- 
rence furnishes  us  with  some  hint  which  one  or 
the  other  can  improve,  and  if  it  should  happen 
that  memory  or  imagination  fail  us,  we  can  retiro 
to  no  idle  or  unimproving  solitude. 

Though  our  characters,  beneld  at  a  distance, 
exhibit  this  general  resemblance,  yet  a  nearer 
inspection  discovers  such  a  dissimilitude  of  our 
habitudes  and  sentiments,  as  leaves  each  son;o 
peculiar  advantages  and  affords  that  concordix. 
discors,  that  suitable  disagreement  which  is  al- 
ways necessary  to  intellectual  harmony.  There 
may  be  a  total  diversity  of  ideas  which  admits 
no  participation  of  the  same  delight,  and  there 
may  likewise  be  such  a  conformity  of  notions  as 
leaves  neither  any  thing  to  add  to  the  decisions 
of  the  other.  With  such  contrariety  there  can 
be  no  peace,  with  such  similarity  there  can  be  no 
pleasure.  Our  reasonings,  though  often  formed 
upon  different  views,  terminate  generally  in  the 
same  conclusion.  Our  thoughts,  like  rivulets 
issuing  from  distant  springs,  are  each  impreg- 
nated in  its  course  with  various  mixtures,  and 
tinged  by  infusions  unknown  to  the  other,  yet, 
at  last,  easily  unite  into  one  stream,  and  pur.fy 
themselves  by  the  gentle  effervescence  of  con- 
trary qualities. 

These  benefits  we  receive  in  a  greater  degree 
as  we  converse  without  reserve,  because  we  have 
nothing  to  conceal.  We  have  no  debts  to  be 
paid  by  imperceptible  deductions  from  avowed 
expenses,  no  habits  to  be  indulged  by  the  private 
subserviency  of  a  favoured  servant,  no  private 
interviews  with  needy  relations,  no  intelligence 
with  spies  placed  upon  each  other.  We  consi- 
dered marriage  as  the  most  solemn  league  of 
perpetual  friendship,  a  state  from  which  artifice 
and  concealment  are  to  be  banished  forever,  and 
in  which  every  act  of  dissimulation  is  a  breach 
of  faith. 

The  impetuous  vivacity,  of  youth,  and  that  ar- 
dour of  desire,  which  the  first  sight  of  pleasure 
naturally  produces,  have  long  ceased  to  hurry  us 
into  irregularity  and  vehemence;  and  experience 
has  shown  us  that  few  gratifications  are  too 
valuable  to  be  sacrificed  to  complaisance.  We 
have  thought  it  convenient  to  rest  from  the  fatigue 
of  pleasure,  and  now  only  continue  that  course 
of  life  into  which  we  haa  before  entered,  con- 
firmed in  our  choice  by  mutual  approbation, 
supported  in  our  resolution  by  mutual  encou- 
ragement, and  assisted  in  our  efforts  by  mutual 
exhortation.  Such,  Mr.  Rambler,  is  our  pros- 
pect of  life,  a  prospect  which,  as  it  is  behel-1 


256 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  168. 


with  more  attention,  ser.ms  to  open  more  exten- 
sive happiness,  and  spr  ;ads,  by  degrees,  into  the 
boundless  region*  of  .termty.  But  if  all  our 
' 


uounmess    n.p»j  --V-  -  .  4i  ru-  .      1*7      j         i-    i 

'prudence  has  been  vain,  and  we  are  doomed  to    the  reason  of  his  merriment.    Words  which  c 
give   one  instance  more  of  the   uncertainty  of  vey  ideas  of  dignity  in  one  age,  are  banished  fr 


human  discernment,  we  shall  comfort  ourselves 
amidst  our  disappointments,  that  we  were  not 
betrayed  by  such  delusions  as  caution  could  not 
escap'e,  since  we  sought  happiness  only  in  the 


arms  of  virtue. 


We  are,  Sir, 

Your  humble  servants, 
HYMENJECS, 
TRANQUILLA. 


No.  168.]     SATURDAY,  6cj.  26,  1751. 

Decipit 

Front  prima  multos,  rara  mens  inlelligit 

Quod  interiure  condidit  euro,  angulo.  PHJEDRUS. 

The  tinsel  glitter,  and  the  specious  mien, 
Delude  the  most;  few  pry  behind  the  scene. 

IT  has  been  observed  by  Boileau,  that  "  a  mean 
or  common  thought,  expressed  in  pompous  dic- 
tion, generally  pleases  more  than  a  new  or  noble 
sentiment  delivered  in  low  and  vulgar  language  ; 
because  the  number  is  greater  of  those  whom 
custom  has  enabled  to  judge  of  words,  than 
whom  study  has  qualified  to  examine  things." 

This  solution  might  satisfy,  if  such  only  were 
offended  with  meanness  of  expression  as  are  un- 
able to  distinguish  propriety  of  thought,  and  to 
separate  propositions  or  images  from  the  vehicles 
by  which  they  are  conveyed  to  the  understand- 
ing. But  this  kind  of  disgust  is  by  no  means 
confined  to  the  ignorant  or  superficial ;  it  ope- 
rates uniformly  and  universally  upon  readers  of 
all  classes ;  every  man,  however  profound  or 
abstracted,  perceives  himself  irresistibly  alien- 
ated by  low  terms ;  they  who  profess  the  most 
zealous  adherence  to  truth  are  forced  to  admit 
that  she  owes  part  of  her  charms  to  her  orna- 
ments ;  s\nd  loses  much  of  her  power  over  the 
soul  when  ^e  appears  disgraced  by  a  dress  un- 
couth or  ill-adjusted. 

We  are  all  offended  by  low  terms,  but  are  not 
disgusted  alike  by  the  same  compositions,  be- 
cause we  do  not  all  agree  to  censure  the  same 
terms  as  low.  No  word  is  naturally  or  intrinsi- 
cally meaner  than  another;  our  opinion  there- 
fore of  words,  as  of  other  things  arbitrarily  and 
capriciously  established,  depends  wholly  upon 
accident  and  custom.  The  cottager  thinks  those 
apartments  splendid  and  spacious,  which  an  in- 
habitant of  palaces  will  despise  for  their  inele- 
gance ;  and  to  him  who  has  passed  most  of  his 
hours  with  the  delicate  and  polite,  many  expres- 
sions will  seem  sordid,  which  another,  equally 
acute,  may  hear  without  offence  ;  but  a  mean 
term  never  fails  to  displease  him  to  whom  it  ap- 
pears mean,  as  poverty  is  certainly  and  invaria- 
bly despised,  though  he  who  is  poor  in  the  eyes 
of  some,  may,  by  others,  be  envied  for  his  wealth. 

Words  become  low  by  the  occasions  to  which 
they  are  applied,  or  the  general  character  of  them 
who  use  them  ;  and  the  disgust  which  they  pro- 
duce arises  from  the  revival  of  those  images  with 
which  they  are  commonly  united.  Thus,  if,  in 
the  most  solemn  discourse,  a  phrase  happens  to 
occur  which  has  been  successfully  employed  in 
«ome  ludicrous  narrative,  the  gravest  auditor 


finds  it  difficult  to  refrain  from  laughter,  when 
they  who  are  not  prepossessed  by  the  same  acci- 
dental association,  are  utterly  unable  to  guess 
the  reason  of  his  merriment.  Words  which  con- 


elegant writing  or  conversation  in  another,  be- 
cause they  are  in  time  debased  by  vulgar  mouths, 
and  can  be  no  longer  heard  without  the  involun- 
tary recollection  of  unpleasing  images. 

When  Macbeth  is  confirming  himself  in  the 
horrid  purpose  of  stabbing  his  king,  he  breaks 
out  amidst  his  emotions  into  a  wish  natural  for  • 
a  murderer  : 

-  Come,  thick  night! 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dumiest  smoke  of  hell, 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes; 
Nor  Heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 
To  cry,  Hold,  hold! 

In  this  passage  is  exerted  all  the  force  of  poetry  . 
that  force  which  calls  new  powers  into  being, 
which  embodies  sentiment,  and  animates  mat- 
ter ;  yet,  perhaps,  scarce  any  man  now  peruses 
it  without  some  disturbance  of  his  attention  from 
the  counteraction  of  the  words  to  the  ideas. 
What  can  be  more  dreadful  than  to  implore  the 
presence  of  night,  invested,  not  in  common  ob- 
scurity, but  in  the  smoke  of  hell  ?  Yet  the  effi- 
cacy of  this  invocation  is  destroyed  by  the  inser- 
tion of  an  epithet  now  seldom  heard  but  in  the 
stable,  and  dun  night  may  come  or  go  without 
any  other  notice  than  contempt. 

If  we  start  into  raptures  when  some  hero  of 
the  Iliad  tells  us  that  &6pv  nalvtrai,  his  lance  rages 
with  eagerness  to  destroy  ;  if  we  are  alarmed  at 
the  terror  of  the  soldiers  commanded  by  Ciesar 
to  hew  down  the  sacred  grove,  who  dreaded, 
says  Lucan,  lest  the  axe  aimed  at  the  oak  should 
fly  hack  upon  the  striker  : 

Si  robora  sacra  ferirent, 

In  tua  credebant  rcdituras  mcmlra  secures, 

None  dares  with  impious  steel  the  grove  to  rend 
Lest  on  himself  the  destined  stroke  descend  ; 

we  cannot  surely  but  sympathise  with  the  hoi 
rors  of  a  wretch  about  to  murder  his  master,  his 
friend,  his  benefactor,  who  suspects  that  the 
weapon  will  refuse  its  office,  and  start  back  from 
the  breast  which  he  is  preparing  to  violate.  Yet 
this  sentiment  is  weakened  by  the  name  of  an 
instrument  used  by  butchers  and  cooks  in  the 
meanest  employments;  we  do  not  immediately 
conceive  that  any  crime  of  importance  is  to  be 
committed  with  a  knife  ;  or  who  does  not,  at  last, 
from  the  long  habit  of  connecting  a  knife  with 
sordid  offices,  feel  aversion  rather  than  terror  ? 

Macbeth  proceeds  to  wish,  in  the  madness  of 
guilt,  that  the  inspection  of  Heaven  may  be  in- 
tercepted, and  that  he  may  in  the  involutions  of 
infernal  darkness,  escape  the  eye  of  Providence. 
This  is  the  utmost  extravagance  of  determined 
wickedness  :  yet  this  is  so  debased  by  two  unfor- 
tunate words,  that  while  I  endeavour  to  impress 
on  my  reader  the  energy  of  the  sentiment,  1  can 
scarcely  check  my  risibility,  when  the  expression 
forces  itself  upon  my  mind  ;  for  who,  without 
some  relaxation  of  his  gravity,  can  hear  of  the 
avengers  of  guilt  peeping  through  a  blanket  ? 

These  imperfectionsofdictionareless  obvious  to 
the  reader,  as  he  is  less  acquainted  with  common 
usages  ;  they  are  therefore  wholly  imperceptible 


No.  169.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


to  a  foreigner,  who  learns  our  language  from 
books,  and  will  strike  a  solitary  academic  less 
forcibly  than  a  modish  lady. 

Among  the  numerous  requisites  that  most  con- 
cur to  complete  an  author,  few  are  of  more  im- 
oortance  than  an  early  entrance  into  the  living 
world.  The  seeds  of  knowledge  maybe  planted 
in  solitude,  but  must  be  cultivated  in  public.  Ar- 
gumentation maybe  taught  in  colleges,  and  theo- 
ries formed  in  retirement ;  but  the  artifice  of  em- 
bellishment, and  the  powers  of  attraction,  can  be 
gained  only  by  general  converse. 

An  acquaintance  with  prevailing  customs  and 
fashionable  elegance  is  necessary  likewise  for 
other  purposes.  The  injury  that  grand  imagery 
suffers  from  unsuitable  language,  personal  merit 
may  fear  from  rudeness  and  indelicacy.  When 
the  success  of  JEueas  depended  on  the  favour  of 
the  queen  upon  whose  coasts  he  was  driven,  his 
celestial  protectress  thought  him  not  sufficiently 
secured  against  rejection  by  his  piety  or  bravery, 
but  decorated  him  for  the  interview  with  preter- 
natural beauty.  Whoever  desires,  for  his  writ- 
ings or  himself,  what  none  can  reasonably  con- 
temn, the  favour  of  mankind,  must  add  grace  to 
strength,  and  make  his  thoughts  agreeable  as 
well  as  useful.  Many  complain  of  neglect  who 
never  tried  to  attract  regard.  It  cannot  be  ex- 
pected that  the  patrons  of  science  or  virtue  should 
be  solicitous  to  discover  excellences,  which  they 
who  possess  them  shade  and  disguise.  Few  have 
abilities  so  much  needed  by  the  rest  of  the  world 
as  to  be  caressed  on  their  own  terms  ;  and  he 
that  will  not  condescend  to  recommend  himself 
by  external  embellishments,  must  submit  to  the 
fate  of  just  sentiments  meanly  expressed,  and  be 
ridiculed  and  forgotten  before  he  is  understood. 


No    169.]     TUESDAY,  OCT.  29, 1751. 

ffecpluteum  cttdit,  nee  demorsos  sapit  ungves. 

PERSIUS. 

No  blood  from  bitten  nails  those  poems  drew; 
But  churn'd,  like  spittle  from  the  lips  they  flew. 

DRYDEN. 

NATURAL  historians  assert  that  whatever  is  form- 
ed for  long  duration  arrives  slowly  to  its  maturity. 
Thus  the  firmest  timber  is  of  tardy  growth,  and 
animals  generally  exceed  each  other  in  longevi- 
ty, in  proportion  to  the  time  between  their  con- 
ception and  their  birth. 

The  same  observation  maybe  extended  to  the 
offspring  of  the  mind.  Hasty  compositions,  how- 
ever they  please  at  first  by  flowery  luxuriance, 
and  spread  in  the  sunshine  of  temporary  favour, 
can  seldom  endure  the  change  of  seasons,  but 
perish  at  the  first  blast  of  criticism,  or  frost  of 
neglect.  When  Apelles  was  reproached  with  the 
paucity  of  his  productions,  and  the  incessant  at- 
tention with  which  he  retouched  his  pieces,  he 
condescended  to  make  no  other  answer  than  that 
he  painted  for  perpetuity. 

No  vanity  can  more  justly  incur  contempt  and 
indignation  than  that  which  boasts  of  negligence 
and  hurry.  For  who  can  bear  with  patience  the 
writer  who  claims  such  superiority  to  the  rest  of 
his  species,  as  to  imagine  that  mankind  are  at 
leisure  for  attention  to  his  extemporary  sallies, 
and  that  posterity  will  reposit  his  casual  effusions 
among  the  treasures  of  ancient  wisdom? 
2H 


Men  have  sometimes  appeared  of  such  tran- 
scendant  abilities,  that  their  slightest  and  most 
cursory  performances  excel  all  that  labour  and 
study  can  enable  meaner  intellects  to  compose ; 
as  there  are  regions  of  which  the  spontaneous 
products  cannot  be  equalled  in  other  soils  by  care 
and  culture.  But  it  is  no  less  dangerous  for  any 
man  to  place  himself  in  this  rank  of  understand- 
ing, and  fancy  that  he  is  born  to  be  illustrious 
without  labour,  than  to  omit  the  cares  of  hus 
bandry,  and  expect  from  his  ground  the  bios 
soms  of  Arabia. 

The  greatest  part  of  those  who  congratulate 
themselves  upon  their  intellectual  dignity,  and 
usurp  the  privileges  of  genius  are  men  whom 
only  themselves  would  ever  have  marked  out  as 
enriched  by  uncommon  liberalities  of  nature,  or 
entitled  to  veneration  and  immortality  on  easy 
terms.  This  ardour  of  confidence  is  usually  found 
among  those  who,  having  not  enlarged  their  no  • 
tions  by  books  or  conversation,  are  persuaded  by 
the  partiality  which  we  all  feel  in  our  own  fa- 
vour, that  they  have  reached  the  summit  of  ex- 
cellence, because  they  discover  none  higher 
than  themselves ;  and  who  acquiesce  in  the  first 
thoughts  that  occur,  because  their  scantiness  of 
knowledge  allows  them  little  choice;  and  the 
narrowness'  of  their  views  affords  them  no 
glimpse  of  perfection,  of  that  sublime  idea  which 
human  industry  has  from  the  first  ages  been 
vainly  toiling  to  approach.  They  see  a  little, 
and  believe  that  there-  is  nothing  beyond  their 
sphere  of  vision,  as  the  Patuecos  of  Spain,  who 
inhabited  a  small  valley,  conceived  the  surround- 
ing mountains  to  be  the  boundaries  of  the  world. 
In  proportion  as  perfection  is  more  distinctly 
conceived,  the  pleasure  of  contemplating  our  own 
performances  will  be  lessened ;  it  may  therefore 
be  observed,  that  they  who  most  deserve  praise 
are  often  afraid  to  decide  in  favour  of  their  own 
performances ;  they  know  how  much  is  still 
wanting  to  their  completion,  and  wait  with  anxi- 
ety and  terror  the  determination  of  the  public. 
"  I  please  every  one  else,"  says  Tully,  "  but  ne- 
ver satisfy  myself." 

It  has  often  been  inquired,  why,  notwithstand- 
ing the  advances  of  latter  ages  in  science,  and 
the  assistance  which  the  infusion  of  so  many  new 
ideas  has  given  us,  we  still  fall  below  the  ancients 
in  the  art  of  composition.  Some  part  of  their 
superiority  may  be  justly  ascribed  to  the  graces 
of  their  language,  from  which  the  most  polished 
of  the  present  European  tongues  are  nothing 
more  than  barbarous  degenerations.  Some  ad- 
vantage they  might  gain  merely  by  priority, 
which  put  them  in  possession  of  the  most  natural 
sentiments,  and  left  us  nothing  but  servile  repe- 
tition or  forced  conceits.  But  the  greater  part  of 
their  praise  seems  to  have  been  the  just  reward 
of  modesty  and  labour.  Their  sense  of  human 
weakness  confined  them  commonly  to  one  study, 
which  their  knowledge  of  the  extent  of  every 
science  engaged  them  to  prosecute  with  indefati- 
gable diligence. 

Among  the  writers  of  antiquity  I  remember 
none  except  Statius  who  ventures  to  mention  the 
speedy  production  of  his  writings  either  as  an  ex- 
tenuation of  his  faults,  or  a  proof  of  his  facility. 
Nor  did  Statius,  when  he  considered  himself  as  a 
candidate  for  lasting  reputation,  think  a  closer 
attention  unnecessary,  but  amidst  all  his  pride 
and  indigence,  the  two  great  hasteners  of  modem 


258 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  170. 


-)oems,  employed  twelve  years  upon  the  The- 
Laid,  and  thinks  his  claim  to  renown  proportion- 
ate to  his  labour. 

Thebais,  mv.Ua  cruciata  lima, 
Tcntat,  audacijidc,  Mantuana 
Gaudia  famtc. 

Polished  with  endless  toil,  my  lays 
At  length  aspire  to  Mautuan  praise. 

Ovid  indeed  apologizes  in  his  banishment  for 
the  imperfection  of  his  letters,  but  mentions  his 
want  of  leisure  to  polish  them,  as  an  addition  to 
his  calamities  ;  and  was  so  far  from  imagining 
revisals  and  corrections  unnecessary,  that  at  his 
departure  from  Rome  he  threw  his  Metamor- 
phoses into  the  fire,  lest  he  should  be  disgraced 
by  a  book  which  he  could  not  hope  to  finish. 

It  seems  not  often  to  have  happened  that  the 
same  writer  aspired  to  reputation  in  verse  and 
prose ;  and  of  those  few  that  attempted  such  di- 
versity of  excellence,  I  know  not  that  even  one 
succeeded.  Contrary  characters  they  never 
imagined  a  single  mind  able  to  support,  and 
therefore  no  man  is  recorded  to  have  undertaken 
more  than  one  kind  of  dramatic  poetry. 

What  they  had  written,  they  did  not  venture 
in  their  first  fondness  to  thrust  into  the  world, 
but,  considering  the  impropriety  of  sending  forth 
inconsiderately  that  which  cannot  be  recalled, 
deferred  the  publication,  if  not  nine  years,  ac- 
cording to  the  direction  of  Horace,  yet  till  their 
fancy  was  cooled  after  the  raptures  of  invention 
and  the  glare  of  novelty  had  ceased  to  dazzle  the 
judgment. 

There  were  in  those  days  no  weekly  or  diur- 
nal writers ;  multa  dies,  et  multa  litura,  much 
time,  and  many  rasures,  were  considered  as  in- 
dispensable requisites ;  and  that  no  other  method 
of  attaining  lasting  praise  has  been  yet  discover- 
ed, may  be  conjectured  from  the  blotted  manu- 
scripts of  Milton  now  remaining,  and  from  the 
tardy  emission  of  Pope's  compositions,  delayed 
more  than  once  till  the  incidents  to  which  they 
alluded  were  forgotten,  till  his  enemies  were  se- 
cure from  his  satire,  and,  what  to  an  honest 
mind  must  be  more  painful,  his  friends  were 
deaf  to  his  encomiums. 

To  him,  whose  eagerness  of  praise  hurries  his 
productions  soon  into  the  light,  many  imperfec- 
tions are  Unavoidable,  even  where  the  mind  fur- 
nishes the  materials,  as  well  as  regulates  their 
disposition,  and  nothing  depends  upon  search  or 
information.  Delay  opens  new  veins  of  thought, 
the  subject  dismissed  for  a  time  appears  with  a 
new  train  of  dependent  images,  the  accidents  of 
reading  or  conversation  supply  new  ornaments 
or  allusions,  or  mere  intermission  of  the  fatigue 
of  thinking  enables  the  mind  to  collect  new 
force,  and  make  new  excursions.  But  all  those 
benefits  come  too  late  for  him,  who,  when  he 
was  weary  with  labour,  snatched  at  the  recom- 
pense, and  gave  his  work  to  his  friends  and  his 
enemies  as  soon  as  impatience  and  pride  per- 
suaded him  to  conclude  it. 

One  of  the  most  pernicious  effects  of  haste  is 
obscurity.  He  that  teems  with  a  quick  succes- 
sion of  ideas,  and  perceives  how  one  sentiment 
produces  another,  easily  believes  that  he  can 
clearly  express  what  he  so  strongly  compre- 
hends ;  he  seldom  suspects  his  thoughts  of  em- 
barrassment, while  he  preserves  in  his  own  me- 
mory the  series  of  connexion,  or  his  diction  of 


ambiguity,  while  only  one  sense  is  present  to  hia 
mind.  Yet  if  he  has  been  employed  on  an  ab- 
struse or  complicated  argument,  he  will  find, 
when  he  has  a  while  withdrawn  his  mind,  and 
returns  as  a  new  reader  to  his  work,  that  he  has 
only  a  conjectural  glimpse  of  his  own  meaning, 
and  that  to  explain  it  to  those  whom  he  desires 
to  instruct,  he  must  open  his  sentiments,  disen 
tangle  his  method,  and  alter  his  arrangement. 

Authors  and  lovers  always  suffer  some  infatu- 
ation, from  which  only  absence  can  set  them 
free  ;  and  every  man  ought  to  restore  himself  to 
the  full  exercise  of  his  judgment,  before  he  does 
that  which  he  cannot  do  improperly,  without  in 
juring  his  honour  and  his  quiet. 


No.  170.]     SATURDAY,  Nov.  2,  1751. 

Confiteor:  si  quidprodest  delicta  fateri.        oviu 
I  grant  the  charge :  forgive  the  fault  confess'd. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

S1R, 

I  AM  one  of  those  beings  from  whom  many,  that 
melt  at  the  sight  of  all  other  misery,  think  it 
meritorious  to  withhold  relief;  one  whom  the 
rigour  of  virtuous  indignation  dooms  to  suffer 
without  complaint,  and  perish  without  regard ; 
and  whom  I  myself  have  formerly  insulted  in  the 
pride  of  reputation  and  security  of  innocence. 

I  am  of  a  good  family,  but  my  father  was  bur- 
dened with  more  children  than  he  could  decently 
support.  A  wealthy  relation,  as  he  travelled 
from  London  to  his  country-seat,  condescending 
to  make  him  a  visit,  was  touched  with  compas- 
sion of  his  narrow  fortune,  and  resolved  to  ease 
him  of  part  of  his  charge,  by  taking  the  care  of  a 
child  upon  himself.  Distress  on  one  side,  and 
ambition  on  the  other,  were  too  powerful  for  pa- 
rental fondness,  and  the  little  family  passed  in 
review  before  him,  that  lie  might  make  his 
choice.  I  was  then  ten  years  old,  and,  without 
knowing  for  what  purpose,  I  was  called  to  my 
great  cousin,  endeavoured  to  recommend  myself 
by  my  best  courtesy,  sung  him  my  prettiest  song, 
told  the  last  story  that  I  had  read,  and  so  much 
endeared  myself  by  my  innocence,  that  he  de- 
clared his  resolution  to  adopt  me,  and  to  educate 
me  with  his  own  daughters. 

My  parents  felt  the  common  struggles  at  the 
thought  of  parting,  and  some  natural  tears  they 
dropped,  but  wiped  them  soon.  They  considered, 
not  without  that  false  estimation  of  the  value  of 
wealth  which  poverty  long  continued  always 
produces,  that  I  was  raised  to  higher  rank  than 
they  could  give  me,  and  to  hopes  of  more  ample 
fortune  than  they  could  bequeath.  My  mother 
sold  some  of  her  ornaments  to  dress  me  in  such 
a  manner  as  might  secure  me  from  contempt  at 
my  first  arrival ;  and,  when  she  dismissed  me, 
pressed  me  to  her  bosom  with  an  embrace  that  I 
still  feel,  gave  me  some  precepts  of  piety,  which, 
however  neglected,  I  have  not  forgotten,  and  ut- 
tered prayers  for  my  final  happiness,  of  which  I 
have  not  yet  ceased  to  hope  that  they  will  at  last 
be  granted. 

My  sisters  envied  my  new  finery,  and  seemed 
not  much  to  regret  our  separation ;  my  father 
conducted  me  to  the  stage-coach  with  a  kind  of 
cheerful  tenderness ;  and  in  a  very  short  time  I 
was  transported  to  splendid  apartments,  and  a 


Ko.  171.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


259 


luxurious  table,  and  grew  familiar  to  show,  noise, 
and  gayety. 

In  three  years  my  mother  died,  having  im- 
plored a  blessing  on  her  family  with  her  last 
breath.  I  had  little  opportunity  to  indulge  a 
sorrow  which  there  was  none  to  partake  with 
me,  and  therefore  soon  ceased  to  reflect  much 
upon  my  loss.  My  father  turned  all  his  care 
upon  his  other  children,  whom  some  fortunate 
adventures  and  unexpected  legacies  enabled  him, 
when  he  died  four  years  after  my  mother,  to 
leave  in  a  condition  above  their  expectations. 

I  should  have  shared  the  increase  of  his  for- 
tune, and  had  once  a  fortune  assigned  me  in  his 
will ;  but  my  cousin  assuring  him  that  all  care 
for  me  was  needless,  since  he  had  resolved  to 
place  me  happily  in  the  world,  directed  him  to 
Ji\  ide  my  part  amongst  my  sisters. 

Thus  I  was  thrown  upon  dependance  without 
resource.  Being  now  at  an  age  in  which  young 
women  are  initiated  into  company,  I  was  no 
longer  to  be  supported  in  my  former  character 
but  at  considerable  expense ;  so  that  partly  lest 
1  should  waste  money,  and  partly  lest  my  ap- 
pearance might  draw  too  many  compliments  and 
assiduities,  I  was  insensibly  degraded  from  my 
equality,  and  enjoyed  few  privileges  above  the 
head  servant  but  that  of  receiving  no  wages. 

I  felt  every  indignity,  but  knew  that  resent- 
ment would  precipitate  my  fall.  I  therefore  en- 
deavoured to  continue  my  importance  by  little 
services  and  active  officiousness,  and,  for  a  time, 
preserved  myself  from  neglect,  by  withdrawing 
all  pretences  to  competition,  and  studying  to 
please  rather  than  to  shine.  But  my  interest, 
notwithstanding  this  expedient,  hourly  declined, 
and  my  cousin's  favourite  maid  began  to  ex- 
change repartees  with  me,  and  consult  me  about 
alterations  of  a  cast  gown. 

I  was  now  completely  depressed ;  and  though 
I  had  seen  mankind  enough  to  know  the  neces- 
sity of  outward  cheerfulness,  1  often  withdrew 
to  my  chamber  to  vent  my  grief,  or  turn  my  con- 
dition in  my  mind,  and  examine  by  what  means 
I  might  escape  from  perpetual  mortification.  At 
last  my  schemes  and  sorrows  were  interrupted 
by  a  sudden  change  of  my  relation's  behaviour, 
who  one  day  took  an  occasion,  when  we  were 
left  together  in  a  room,  to  bid  me  suffer  myself 
no  longer  to  be  insulted,  but  assume  the  place 
which  he  always  intended  me  to  hold  in  the 
family.  He  assured  me  that  his  wife's  preference 
of  her  own  daughters  should  never  hurt  me ; 
and,  accompanying  his  professions  with  a  purse 
of  gold,  ordered  me  to  bespeak  a  rich  suit  at  the 
mercer's,  and  to  apply  privately  to  him  for  money 
when  I  wanted  it,  and  insinuate  that  my  other 
friends  supplied  me,  which  he  would  take  care  to 
confirm. 

By  this  stratagem,  which  I  did  not  then  un- 
derstand, he  filled  me  with  tenderness  and  grati- 
tude, compelled  me  to  repose  on  him  as  my  only 
support,  and  produced  a  necessity  of  private  con- 
versation. He  often  appointed  interviews  at 
the  house  of  an  acquaintance,  and  sometimes 
called  on  me  with  a  coach,  and  carried  me  abroad. 
My  sense  of  his  favour,  and  the  desire  of  retain- 
ing it,  disposed  me  to  unlimited  complaisance, 
and,  though  I  saw  his  kindness  grow  every  day 
more  fond,  I  did  not  suffer  any  suspicion  to  enter 
my  thoughts.  At  last  the  wretch  took  advan- 
tage of  the  familiarity  which  he  enjoyed  as  my 


relation,  and  the  submission  which  he  exacted 
as  my  benefactor,  to  complete  the  ruin  of  an  or- 
phan, whom  his  own  promises  had  made  indi- 
gent, whom  his  indulgence  had  melted,  and  hia 
authority  subdued. 

I  know  not  why  it  should  afford  subject  of 
exultation,  to  overpower  on  any  terms  the  reso- 
lution, or  surprise  the  caution  of  a  girl ;  but  of 
all  the  boasters  that  deck  themselves  in  the  spoils 
of  innocence  and  beauty,  they  surely  have  the 
least  pretensions  to  triumph,  who  submit  to  owe 
their  success  to  some  casual  influence.  They 
neither  employ  the  graces  of  fancy,  nor  the  force 
of  understanding,  in  their  attempts ;  they  cannot 
please  their  vanity  with  the  art  of  their  ap- 
proaches, the  delicacy  of  their  adulations,  the 
elegance  of  their  address,  or  the  efficacy  of  their 
eloquence ;  nor  applaud  themselves  as  possessed 
of  any  qualities  by  which  affection  is  attracted. 
They  surmount  no  obstacles,  they  defeat  no  ri- 
vals, but  attack  only  those  who  cannot  resist, 
and  are  often  content  to  possess  the  body,  with- 
out any  solicitude  to  gain  the  heart. 

Many  of  these  despicable  wretches  does  my 
present  acquaintance  with  infamy  and  wicked 
ness  enable  me  to  number  among  the  heroes  of 
debauchery ;  reptiles  whom  their  own  servants 
would  have  despised,  had  they  not  been  their 
servants,  and  with  whom  beggary  would  have 
disdained  intercourse,  had  she  not  been  allured 
by  hopes  of  relief.  Many  of  the  beings  which 
are  now  rioting  in  taverns,  or  shivering  in  the 
streets,  have  been  corrupted,  not  by  arts  of  gal- 
lantry which  stole  gradually  upon  the  affections 
and  laid  prudence  asleep,  but  by  the  fear  of  losing 
benefits  which  were  never  intended,  or  of  incur- 
ring resentment  which  they  could  not  escape ; 
some  have  been  frighted  by  masters,  and  some 
awed  by  guardians  into  ruin. 

Our  crime  had  its  usual  consequence,  and  he 
soon  perceived  that  I  could  not  long  continue  in 
his  family.  I  was  distracted  at  the  thought  of 
the  reproach  which  I  now  believed  inevitable. 
He  comforted  me  with  hopes  of  eluding  all  dis- 
covery, and  often  upbraided  me  with  the  anxiety 
which  perhaps  none  but  himself  saw  in  my  coun- 
tenance ;  but  at  last  mingled  his  assurances  of 
protection  and  maint.encnce  with  menaces  of 
total  desertion,  if,  in  the  moments  of  perturba- 
tion, I  should  suffer  his  secret  to  escape,  or  en- 
deavour to  throw  on  him  any  part  of  my  infamy. 

Thus  passed  the  dismal  hours,  till  my  retreat 
could  no  longer  be  delayed.  It  was  pretended 
that  my  relations  had  sent  for  me  to  a  distant 
country,  and  I  entered  upon  a  state  which  shall 
be  described  in  my  next  letter. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

MISELLA. 


No.  171.]     TUESDAY,  Nov.  5,  1751. 

Tadet  cadi  convexa  tueri.  VIRC. 

Dark  is  the  sun,  and  loathsome  is  the  day 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

MISELLA  now  sits  down  to  continue  her  narra- 
tive. I  am  convinced  that  nothing  would  more 
powerfully  preserve  youth  from  irregularity,  or 
cruard  inexperience  from  seduction,  than  a  just 
description  of  the  condition  into  which  the  wan 


260 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  171. 


ton  plunges  herself,  and  therefore  hope  that  my 
letter  may  be  a  sufficient  antidote  to  my  ex- 
ample. 

After  the  distraction,  hesitation,  and  delays 
which  the  timidity  of  guilt  naturally  produces,  I 
was  removed  to  lodgings  in  a  distant  part  of  the 
town,  under  one  of  the  characters  commonly  as- 
sumed upon  such  occasions.  Here  being  by  my 
circumstances  condemned  to  solitude,  I  passed 
most  of  my  hours  in  bitterness  and  anguish.  The 
conversation  of  the  people  with  whom  I  was 
placed  was  not  at  all  capable  of  engaging  my  at- 
tention, or  dispossessing  the  reigning  ideas.  The 
books  which  I  carried  to  my  retreat  were  such 
as  heightened  my  abhorrence  of  myself;  for  I 
was  not  so  far  abandoned  as  to  sink  voluntarily 
into  corruption,  or  endeavourto  conceal  from  my 
own  mind  the  enormity  of  my  crime. 

My  relation  remitted  none  of  his  fondness,  but 
visited  me  so  often,  that  I  was  sometimes  afraid 
lest  his  assiduity  should  expose  him  to  suspicion. 
Whenever  he  came  he  found  me  weeping,  and 
was  therefore  less  delightfully  entertained  than 
he  expected.  After  frequent  expostulations  upon 
the  unreasonableness  of  my  sorrow,  and  innume- 
rable protestations  of  everlasting  regard,  he  at 
last  found  that  I  was  more  affected  with  the  loss 
of  my  innocence  than  the  danger  of  my  fame, 
and,  that  he  might  not  be  disturbed  by  my  remorse, 
began  to  lull  my  conscience  with  the  opiates  of 
irreligion.  His  arguments  were  such  as  my 
course  of  life  has  since  exposed  me  often  to  the 
necessity  of  hearing,  vulgar,  empty,  and  falla- 
cious ;  yet  they  at  first  confounded  me  by  their 
novelty,  filled  me  with  doubt  and  perplexity,  and 
interrupted  that  peace  which  I  began  to  feel  from 
the  sincerity  of  my  repentance,  without  substi- 
tuting any  other  support  I  listened  awhile  to 
his  impious  gabble ;  but  its  influence  was  soon 
overpowered  by  natural  reason  and  early  educa- 
tion, and  the  convictions  which  this  new  attempt 
gave  me  of  his  baseness  completed  my  abhor- 
rence. I  have  heard  of  barbarians,  who,  when 
tempests  drive  ships  upon  their  coast,  decoy  them 
to  the  rocks  that  they  may  plunder  their  lading 
— and  have  always  thought  that  wretches,  thus 
merciless  in  their  depredations,  ought  to  be  de- 
stroyed by  a  general  insurrection  of  all  social  be- 
ings ;  yet,  how  light  is  this  guilt  to  the  crime  of 
him,  who,  in  the  agitations  of  remorse,  cuts  away 
the  anchor  of  piety,  and,  when  he  has  drawn 
aside  credulity  from  the  paths  of  virtue,  hides 
the  light  of  heaven  which  would  direct  her  to  re- 
turn !  I  had  hitherto  considered  him  as  a  man 
equally  betrayed  with  myself  by  the  concurrence 
of  appetite  and  opportunity ;  but  I  now  saw  with 
horror  that  he  was  contriving  to  perpetuate  his 
gratification,  and  was  desirous  to  fit  me  to  his 
purpose,  by  complete  and  radical  corruption. 

To  escape,  however,  was  not  yet  in  my  power. 
I  could  support  the  expenses  of  my  condition, 
>n|y  by  the  continuance  of  his  favour.    He  pro- 
vided all  that  was  necessary,  and  in  a  few  weeks 
congratulated  me  upon  my  escape  from  the  dan- 
ger which  we  had  both  expected  with  so  much 
nxiety.    I  then  began  to  remind  him  of  his  pro- 
nise  to  restore  me  with  my  fame  uninjured  to 
ie  world.    He  promised  me  in  general  terms, 
1 ?° jJng  should  be  wanting  which  his  power 
ild  add  to  my  happiness,  but  forehore  to  re- 
e  me  from  my  confinement.     I  knew  how 
uch  my  reception  in  the  world  depended  upon 


my  speedy  return,  and  was  therefore  outrage- 
ously impatient  of  his  delays,  which  I  now  per- 
ceived to  be  only  artifices  of  Icwdness.  He  told 
me  at  last,  with  an  appearance  of  sorrow,  that 
all  hopes  of  restoration  to  rny  former  state  were 
for  ever  precluded ;  that  chance  had  discovered  my 
secret,  and  malice  divulged  it ;  and  that  nothing 
now  remained,  but  to  seek  a  retreat  more  private, 
where  curiosity  or  hatred  could  never  find  us. 

The  rage,  anguish,  and  resentment,  which  I 
felt  at  this  account  are  not  to  be  expressed.  I 
was  in  so  much  dread  of  reproach  and  infamy, 
which  he  represented  as  pursuing  me  with  full 
cry,  that  1  yielded  myself  implicitly  to  his  dis- 
posal, and  was  removed,  with  a  thousand  studied 
precautions,  through  by-ways  and  dark  passages 
to  another  house,  where  I  harassed  him  with 
perpetual  solicitations  for  a  small  annuity  that 
might  enable  me  to  live  in  the  country  in  obscu- 
rity and  innocence. 

This  demand  he  at  first  evaded  with  ardent 
professions,  but  in  time  appeared  offended  at  my 
importunity  and  distrust;  and  having  one  day  en- 
deavoured to  soothe  me  with  uncommon  expres- 
sions of  tenderness,  when  he  found  my  discontent 
immoveable,  left  me  with  some  inarticulate  mur- 
murs of  anger.  I  was  pleased  that  he  was  at 
last  roused  to  sensibility,  and  expecting  that  at 
his  next  visit  he  would  comply  with  my  request, 
lived  with  great  tranquillity  upon  the  money  in 
my  hands,  and  was  so  much  pleased  with  this 
pause  of  persecution,  that  I  did  not  reflect  how 
much  his  absence  had  exceeded  the  usual  inter- 
vals, till  I  was  alarmed  with  the  danger  of  want- 
ing subsistence.  I  then  suddenly  contracted  my 
expenses,  but  was  unwilling  to  supplicate  for  as- 
sistance. •  Necessity,  however,  soon  overcame 
my  modesty  or  my  pride,  and  I  applied  to  him 
by  letter,  but  had  no  answer.  I  writ  in  terms 
more  pressing,  but  without  effect  I  then  sent 
an  agent  to  inquire  after  him,  who  informed  me. 
that  he  had  quitted  his  house,  and  was  gone  with 
his  family  to  reside  for  some  time  upon  his  estate 
in  Ireland. 

However  shocked  at  this  abrupt  departure,  I 
was  yet  unwilling  to  believe  that  he  could  wholly 
abandon  me,  and  therefore,  by  the  sale  of  my 
clothes,  I  supported  myself,  expecting  that  every 
post  would  bring  me  relief.  Thus  1  passed  seven 
months  between  hope  and  dejection,  in  a  gradual 
approach  to  poverty  and  distress,  emaciated  with 
discontent,  and  bewildered  with  uncertainty.  At 
last,  my  landlady,  after  many  hints  of  the  neces- 
sity of  a  new  lover,  took  the  opportunity  of  my 
absence  to  search  my  boxes,  and,  missing  some 
of  my  apparel,  seized  the  remainder  for  rent,  and 
led  me  to  the  door. 

To  remonstrate  against  legal  cruelty  was  vain: 
to  supplicate  obdurate  brutality  was  hopeless.  I 
went  away  I  knew  not  whither,  and  wandered 
about  without  any  settled  purpose,  unacquainted 
with  the  usual  expedients  of  misery,  unqualified 
for  laborious  offices,  afraid  to  meet  an  eye  that 
had  seen  me  before,  and  hopeless  of  relief  from 
those  who  were  strangers  to  my  former  condi- 
tiont  Night  came  on  in  the  midst  of  my  distrac- 
tion, and  I  still  continued  to  wander  till  the  me- 
naces of  the  watch  obliged  me  to  shelter  myself 
in  a  covered  passage. 

Next  day,  I  procured  a  lodging  in  the  back- 
ward garret  of  a  mean  house,  and  employed  my 
landlady  to  inquire  for  a  service.  My  applica 


No.  172.}  THE  RAMBLER. 

tions  were  generally  rejected  for  want  of  a  charac- 
ter. At  length  I  was  received.at  a  draper's  ;  hut 
when  it  was  known  to  my  mistress  that  I  had 
only  one  gown,  and  that  of  silk,  she  was  of 
opinio  » that  I  looked  like  a  thief,  and  without 
warning  hurried  me  away.  I  then  tried  to  sup- 
port myself  by  my  needle ;  and,  by  my  landlady's 
recommendation,  obtained  a  little  work  from  a 
shop,  and  for  three  weeks  lived  without  repining; 
but  when  my  punctuality  had  gained  me  so  much 
reputation  that  I  was  trusted  to  make  up  a  head 
of  some  value,  one  of  my  fellow  lodgers  stole  the 
lace,  and  I  was  obliged  to  fly  from  a  prosecution. 

Thus  driven  again  into  the  streets,  I  lived  upon 
the  least  that  could  support  me,  and  at  night  ac- 
commodated myself  under  pent-houses  as  well  as 
I  could.  At  length  I  became  absolutely  penni- 
less, and,  having  strolled  all  day  without  suste- 
nance, was,  at  the  close  of  evening,  accosted 
by  an  elderly  man,  with  an  invitation  to  a  tavern. 
I. refused  him  with  hesitation  ;  he  seized  me  by 
the  hand,  and  drew  me  into  a  neighbouringhouse, 
where  when  he  saw  my  face  pale  with  hunger, 
and  my  eyes  swelling  with  tears,  he  spurned  me 
from  him,  and  bade  me  cant  and  whine  in  some 
other  place  ;  he  for  his  part  would  take  care  of 
his  pockets. 

I  still  continued  to  stand  in  the  way,  having 
scarcely  strength  to  walk  further,  when  another 
soon  addressed  me  in  the  same  manner.  When 
he  saw  the  same  tokens  of  calamity,  he  consi- 
dered that  I  might  be  obtained  at  a  cheap  rate, 
and  therefore  quickly  made  overtures,  which  I 
had  no  longer  firmness  to  reject.  By  this  man  I 
was  maintained  four  months  in  penurious  wick- 
edness, and  then  abandoned  to  my  former  con- 
dition, from  which  I  was  delivered  by  another 
keeper. 

la  this  abject  state,  I  have  now  passed  four 
years,  the  drudge  of  extortion  and  the  sport  of 
drunkenness;  sometimes  the  property  of  one 
man,  and  sometimes  the  common  prey  of  acci- 
dental lewdness ;  at  one  time  tricked  up  for  sale 
by  the  mistress  of  a  brothel ;  at  another  begging 
in  ths  streets  to  be  relieved  from  hunger  by 
wickedness  ;  without  any  hope  in  the  day  but  of 
finding  some  whom  folly  or  excess  may  expose 
to  my  allurements,  and  without  any  reflections 
at  night,  but  such  as  guilt  and  terror  impress 
upon  me. 

If  those  who  pass  theirdays  in  plenty  and  se- 
curity, could  visit  for  an  hour  the  dismal  recep- 
tacles to  which  the  prostitute  retires  from  her 
nocturnal  excursions,  and  see  the  wretches  that 
lie  crowded  together,  mad  with  intemperance, 
ghastly  with  famine,  nauseous  with  filth,  and 
noisome  with  disease  :  it  would  not  be  very  easy 
for  any  degree  of  abhorrence  to  harden  them 
against  compassion,  or  to  repress  the  desire 
which  they  must  immediately  feel  to  rescue  such 
numbers  of  human  beings  from  a  state  so 
dreadful. 

It  is  said  that  in  France  they  annually  evacu- 
ate their  streets,  and  ship  their  prostitutes  and 
vagabonds  to  their  colonies.  If  the  women  that 
infest  this  city  had  the  same  opportunityof  escap- 
ing from  their  miseries,  I  believe  very  little  force 
would  be  necessary  ;  for  who  among  them  can 
dread  any  change  ?  Many  of  us  indeed  are 
wholly  unqualified  for  any  but  most  servile  em- 
ployments, and  those  perhaps  would  require  the 
care  of  a  magistrate  to  hinder  them  from  follow- 


201 

ing  the  same  practices  in  another  country  ;  but 
others  are  only  precluded  by  infamy  from  reform- 
ation, and  would  gladly  be  delivered  on  any 
terms  from  the  necessity  of  guilt,  and  the  tyranny 
of  chance.  No  place  but  a  populous  city  can 
afford  opportunities  for  open  prostitution,  and 
where  the  eye  of  justice  can  attend  to  indivi  • 
duals,  those  who  cannot  be  made  good  may  be 
restrained  from  mischief.  For  my  part,  I  should 
exult  at  the  privilege  of  banishment,  and  think 
myself  happy  in  any  region  that  should  restore 
me  once  again  to  honesty  and  peace. 
I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

MISELLA. 


No.  172.]         SATURDAY,  Nov,  9,  1751, 

Sape-t  ogare  soles  qualis  sun,  Pritce,  futurta 
Si  jiam  locuples ;  simque  repeats  patens. 

Quemqu'im  posse  putas  mores  nar  rare  futures? 
£Hc  miki,  sijias  ta  leo,  qualis  eris.  MART 

Priscus,  you've  often  asked  me  how  I'd  live, 
Should  fate  at  once  both  wealth  and  honour  give, 
What  soul  his  future  conduct  can  foresee? 
Tell  me  what  sort  of  liou  you  would  be. 

F.  LEV/IS 

NOTHING  has  been  longer  observed,  than  that  a 
change  of  fortune  causes  a  change  of  manners ; 
and  that  it  is  difficult  to  conjecture  from  the  con- 
duct of  him  whom  we  see  in  a  low  condition, 
how  he  would  act,  if  wealth  and  power  were  put 
into  his  hands.  But  it  is  generally  agreed,  that 
few  men  are  made  better  by  affluence  or  exalta- 
tion ;  and  that  the  powers  of  the  mind,  when 
they  are  unbound  and  expanded  by  the  sunshine 
of  felicity,  more  frequently  luxuriate  into  follies 
than  blossom  into  goodness. 

Many  observations  have  concurred  to  establish 
this  opinion,  and  it  is  not  likely  soon  to  become 
obsolete,  for  want  of  new  occasions  to  revive  it. 
The  greater  part  of  mankind  are  corrupt  in  every 
condition,  and  differ  in  high  and  low  stations, 
only  as  they  have  more  or  fewer  opportunities 
of  gratifying  their  desires,  or  as  they  are  more  or 
less  restrained  by  human  censures.  Many  vitiate 
their  principles  in  the  acquisition  of  riches ;  and 
who  can  wonder  that  what  is  gained  by  fraud  and 
extortion  is  enjoyed  with  tyranny  and  excess  ? 

Yet  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  the  deprava- 
tion of  the  mind  by  external  advantages,  though 
certainly  not  uncommon,  yet  approaches  not  so 
nearly  to  universality,  as  some  have  asserted  in 
the  bitterness  of  resentment,  or  heat  of  declama- 
tion? 

Whoever  rises  above  those  who  once  pleased 
themselves  with  equality,  will  have  many  male- 
volent gazers  at  his  eminence.  To  gain  sooner 
than  others  that  which  all  pursue  with  the  same 
ardour,  and  to  which  all  imagine  themselves  en- 
titled, will  for  ever  be  a  crime.  When  those 
who  started  with  us  in  the  race  of  life,  leave  us 
so  far  behind  that  we  have  little  hope  to  overtake 
them,we  revenge  our  disappointment  by  remarks 
on  the  arts  of  supplantation  by  which  they  gained 
the  advantage,  or  on  the  folly  and  arrogance 
with  which  they  possess  it  Of  them  whose  rise 
we  could  not  hinder,  we  solace  ourselves  by 
prognosticating  the  fall. 

It  is  impossible  for  human  purity  not  to  betray 
to  an  eye,  thus  sharpened  by  malignity,  some 
stains  which  lay  concealed  and  unregarded, 
while  none  thought  it  their  interest  to  discover 


262 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  173. 


them ;  nor  can  the  most  circumspect  attention, 
or  steady  rectitude,  escape  blame  from  censors 
who  have  no  inclination  to  approve.  Riches 
therefore,  perhaps,  do  not  so  often  produce 
crimes  as  incite  accusers. 

The  common  charge  against  those  who  rise 
above  their  original  condition,  is  that  of  pride.  It 
is  certain  that  success  naturally  confirms  us  in  a 
favourable  opinion  of  our  own  abilities.  Scarce 
any  man  is  willing  to  allot  to  accident,  friend- 
ship, and  a  thousand  causes,  which  concur  in 
every  event  without  human  contrivance  or  inter- 
position, the  part  which  they  may  justly  claim  in 
his  advancement.  We  rate  ourselves  by  our 
fortune  rather  than  our  virtues,  and  exorbitant 
claims  are  quickly  produced  by  imaginary  merit. 
But  captiousness  and  jealousy  are  likewise  easily 
offended,  and  to  him  who  studiously  looks,  for  an 
affront,  every  mode  of  behaviour  will  supply  it ; 
freedom  will  be  rudeness,  and  reserve  sullen- 
ness;  mirth"  will  be  negligence,  and  seriousness 
formality ;  when  he  is  received  with  ceremony, 
distance  and  respect  are  inculcated;  if  he  is 
treated  with  familiarity,  he  concludes  himself 
insulted  by  condescensions. 

It  must  however  be  confessed,  that  as  all  sud- 
den changes  are  dangerous,  a  quick  transition 
from  poverty  to  abundance  can  seldom  be  made 
with  safety.  He  that  has  long  lived  within  sight 
of  pleasures  which  he  could  not  reach,  will  need 
more  than  common  moderation,  not  to  lose  his 
reason  in  unbounded  riot,  when  they  are  first  put 
into  his  power. 

Every  possession  is  endeared  by  novelty; 
every  gratification  is  exaggerated  by  desire.  It 
is  difficult  not  to  estimate  what  is  lately  gained 
above  its  real  value;  it  is  impossible  not  to  annex 
greater  happiness  to  that  condition  from  which 
we  are  unwillingly  excluded,  than  nature  has 
qualified  us  to  obtain.  For  this  reason,  the  re- 
mote inheritor  of  an  unexpected  fortune  may  be 
generally  distinguished  from  those  who  are  en- 
riched in  the  common  course  of  lineal  descent, 
by  his  greater  haste  to  enjoy  his  wealth,  by  the 
finery  of  his  dress,  the  pomp  of  his  equipage,  the 
splendour  of  his  furniture,  and  the  luxury  of  his 
table. 

A  thousand  things  which  familiarity  discovers 
to  be  of  little  value,  have  power  for  a  time  to 
seize  the  imagination.  A  Virginian  king,  when 
the  Europeans  had  fixed  a  lock  on  his  door,  was 
so  delighted  to  find  his  subjects  admitted  or  ex- 
cluded with  such  facility,  that  it  was  from  morn- 
ing to  evening  his  whole  employment  to  turn  the 
key.  We,  among  whom  locks  and  keys  have 
been  longer  in  use,  are  inclined  to  laugh  at  this 
American  amusement ;  yet  I  doubt  whether  this 
paper  will  have  a  single  reader  that  may  not 
apply  the  story  to  himself,  and  recollect  some 
hours  of  his  life  in  which  he  has  been  equally 
overpowered  by  the  transitory  charms  of  trifling 
novelty. 

Some  indulgence  is  due  to  him  whom  a  happy 
gale  of  fortune  has  suddenly  transported  into 
new  regions,  where  unaccustomed  lustre  dazzles 
liis  eyes,  and  untasted  delicacies  solicit  his  appe- 
tite. Let  him  not  be  considered  as  lost  in  hope- 
less degeneracy,  though  he  for  a  while  forgets 
the  regard  due  to  others,  to  indulge  the  contem- 
plation of  himself,  and  in  the  extravagance  of  his 
first  raptures  expects  that  his  eye  should  regu- 
late the  motions  of  all  that  approach  him,  and 


ills  opinion  be  received  as  decisive  and  oraculous. 
His  intoxication  will  give  way  to  time ;  the  mad- 
ness of  joy  will  fume  imperceptibly  away  ;  the 
sense  of  his  insufficiency  will  soon  return ;  he 
will  remember  that  the  co-operation  of  others  is 
necessary  to  his  happiness,  and  learn  to  con- 
ciliate their  regard  by  reciprocal  beneficence. 

There  is,  at  least,  one  consideration  which 
ought  to  alleviate  our  censures  of  the  powerful 
and  rich.  To  imagine  them  chargeable  with  all 
the  guilt  and  folly  of  their  own  actions,  is  to  be 
very  little  acquainted  with  the  world. 

De  I'absolu  pouvoir  vous  ignorcz  I'yvresse, 
Et  du  lache  flatcur  la  voix  enchanteresse. 

Thou  hast  not  known  the  giddy  whirls  of  fate, 
Nor  servile  flatteries  which  enchant  the  great. 

MISS  A.  w. 

He  that  can  do  much  good  or  harm  will  not 
find  many  whom  ambition  or  cowardice  will 
suffer  to  be  sincere.  While  we  live  upon  the 
level  with  the  rest  of  mankind,  we  are  reminded 
of  our  duty  by  the  admonitions  of  friends  and  re- 
proaches of  enemies  ;  but  men  who  stand  in  the 
highest  ranks  of  society,  seldom  hear  of  their 
faults  ;  if  by  any  accident  an  opprobrious  clamour 
reaches  their  ears,  flattery  is  always  at  hand  to 
pour  in  her  opiates,  to  quiet  conviction,  and  ob- 
tund  remorse. 

Favour  is  seldom  gained  but  by  conformity  in 
vice.  Virtue  can  stand  without  assistance,  and 
considers  herself  as  very  little  obliged  by  coun- 
tenance and  approbation ;  but  vice,  spiritless 
and  timorous,  seeks  the  shelter  of  crowds,  and 
support  of  confederacy.  The  sycophant,  there- 
fore, neglects  the  good  qualities  of  his  patron, 
and  employs  all  his  art  on  his  weakness  and  fol- 
lies, regales  his  reigning  vanity,  or  stimulates  his 
prevalent  desires. 

Virtue  is  sufficiently  difficult  with  any  circum- 
stances, but  the  difficulty  is  increased  when  re- 
proof and  advice  are  frighted  away.  In  common 
life,  reason  and  conscience  have  only  the  appe- 
tites and  passions  to  encounter ;  but  in  higher 
stations  they  must  oppose  artifice  and  adulation. 
He,  therefore,  that  yields  to  such  temptations, 
cannot  give  those  who  look  upon  his  miscarriage 
much  reason  for  exultation,  since  few  can  justly 
presume  that  from  the  same  snare  they  should 
have  been  able  to  escape. 


No.  173.]       TUESDAY,  Nov.  12,  1751. 


-Quo  virtus,  quoferat  error. 


Now  say,  where  virtue  stops,  and  vice  begins  ? 

As  any  action  or  posture,  long  continued,  will 
distort  and  disfigure  the  limbs;  so  the  mind 
likewise  is  crippled  and  contracted  by  perpetual 
application  to  the  same  set  of  ideas.  It  is  easy 
to  guess  the  trade  of  an  artisan  by  his  knees,  his 
fingers,  or  his  shoulders :  and  there  are  few 
among  menofthe  moreliberal  professions,  whose 
minds  do  not  carry  the  brand  of  their  calling,  or 
whose  conversation  does  not  quickly  discover  to 
what  class  of  the  community  they  belong. 

These  peculiarities  have  been  of  great  use,  in 
the  general  hostility  which  every  part  of  mankind 
exercises  against  the  rest,  to  furnish  insults  and 
sarcasms.  Every  art  has  its  dialect,  uncouth 
and  ungrateful  to  all  whom  custom  has  not  re- 
conciled to  its  sound,  and  which  therefore  be 


No.  173.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


2G; 


comes  ridiculous  by  a  slight  misapplication,  or 
unnecessary  repetition. 

The  general  reproach  with  which  ignorance 
revenges  the  superciliousness  of  learning,  is  that 
of  pedantry;  a  censure  which  every  man  incurs, 
who  has  at  any  time  the  misfortune  to  talk  to 
those  who  cannot  understand  him,  and  by  which 
the  modest  and  timorous  are  sometimes  frighted 
from  the  display  of  their  acquisitions,  and  the  ex- 
ertion of  their  powers. 

The  name  of  a  pedant  is  so  formidable  to  young 
men  when  they  first  sally  from  their  colleges, 
and  is  so  liberally  scattered  by  those  who  mean 
to  boast  their  elegance  of  education,  easiness  of 
manners,  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  that  it 
seems  to  require  particular  consideration  ;  since, 
perhaps,  if  it  were  once  understood,  many  a  heart 
might  be  freed  from  painful  apprehensions,  and 
many  a  tongue  delivered  from  restraint. 

Pedantry  is  the  unseasonable  ostentation  of 
learning.  It  may  be  discovered  either  in  the 
choice  of  a  subject,  or  in  the  manner  of  treating 
it  He  is  undoubtedly  guilty  of  pedantry,  who, 
when  he  has  made  himself  master  of  some  ab- 
struse and  uncultivated  part  of  knowledge,  ob- 
trudes his  remarks  and  discoveries  upon  those 
whom  he  believes  unable  to  judge  of  his  profi- 
ciency, and  from  whom,  as  he  cannot  fear  con- 
tradiction, he  cannot  properly  expect  applause. 

To  this  error  the  student  is  sometimes  betrayed 
by  the  natural  recurrence  of  the  mind  to  its  com- 
mon employment,  by  the  pleasure  which  every 
man  receives  from  the  recollection  of  pleasing 
imases,  and  the  desire  of  dwelling  upon  topics 
on  which  he  knows  himself  able  to  speak  with 
justness.  But  because  we  are  seldom  so  far  pre- 
judiced in  favour  of  each  other,  as  to  search  out 
for  palliations,  this  failure  of  politeness  is  imputed 
always  to  vanity;  and  the  harmless  collegiate, 
who,  perhaps,  intended  entertainment  and  in- 
struction, or  at  worst  only  spoke  without  suffi- 
cient reflection  upon  the  character  of  his  hear- 
ers, is  censured  as  arrogant  or  overbearing,  and 
eager  to  extend  his  renown,  in  contempt  of  the 
convenience  of  society,  and  the  laws  of  conver- 
sation. 

All  discourse  of  which  others  cannot  partake, 
is  not  only  an  irksome  usurpation  of  the  time  de- 
voted to  pleasure  and  entertainment,  but,  what 
never  fails  to  excite  very  keen  resentment,  an  in- 
solent assertion  of  superiority,  and  a  triumph 
over  less  enlightened  understandings.  The  pe- 
dant is,  therefore,  not  only  heard  with  weariness, 
but  malignity ;  and  thosa  who  conceive  them- 
selves insulted  by  his  knowledge,  never  fail  to 
tell  with  acrimony  how  injudiciously  it  was  ex- 
erted. 

To  avoid  this  dangerous  imputation,  scholars 
sometimes  divest  themselves  with  too  much  haste 
of  their  academical  formality,  and,  in  their  endea- 
vours to  accommodate  their  notions  and  their 
style  to  common  conceptions,  talk  rather  of  any 
thing  than  of  that  which  they  understand,  and 
sink  into  insipidity  of  sentiment  and  meanness 
sider  argument  or  criticism  as  perpetually  inter- 
of  expression. 

There  prevails  among  men  of  letters  an  opinion, 
that  all  appearance  of  science  is  particularly  hate- 
ful to  women ;  and  that  therefore,  whoever  de- 
sires to  be  well  received  in  female  assemblies, 
must  qualify  himself  by  a  total  rejection  of  all 
that  is  serious,  rational  or  important ;  must  con- 


dieted  ;  and  devote  all  his  attention  to  trifles,  and 
all  his  eloquence  to  compliment. 

Students  often  form  their  notions  of  the  present 
generation  from  the  writings  of  the  past,  and  are 
very  early  informed  of  those  changes  which  the 
gradual  difi'usion  of  knowledge,  or  the  sudden 
caprice  of  fashion,  produces  in  the  world.  What- 
ever might  be  the  state  of  female  literature  in  the 
last  century,  there  is  now  no  longer  any  danger 
lest  the  scholar  should  want  an  adequate  audience 
at  the  tea-table ;  and  whoever  thinks  it  necessary 
to  regulate  his  conversation  by  antiquated  rules, 
will  be  rather  despised  for  his  futility  than  ca- 
ressed for  his  politeness. 

To  talk  intentionally  in  a  manner  above  the 
comprehension  of  those  whom  we  address,  is  un- 
questionable pedantry ;  but  surely  complaisance, 
requires,  that  no  man  should,  without  proof,  con 
elude  his  company  incapable  of  following  him  to 
the  highest  elevation  of  his  fancy,  or  the  utmost 
extent  of  his  knowledge.  It  is  always  safer  to 
err  in  favour  of  others  than  of  ourselves,  and 
therefore  we  seldom  hazard  much  by  endeavour- 
ing to  excel. 

It  ought  at  least  to  be  the  care  of  learning, 
when  she  quits  her  exaltation,  to  descend  with 
dignity.  Nothing  is  more  despicable  than  the 
airiness  and  jocularity  of  a  man  bred  to  severe  sci- 
ence, and  solitary  meditation.  To  trifle  agreea- 
bly is  a  secret  which  schools  cannot  impart ;  that 
gay  negligence  and  vivacious  levity,  which  charm 
down  resistance  wherever  they  appear,  are  never 
attainable  by  him  who,  having  spent  his  first 
years  among  the  dust  of  libraries,  enters  late  into 
the  gay  world  with  an  unpliant  attention  and 
established  habits. 

It  is  observed  in  the  panegyric  on  Fabricius 
the  mechanist,  that,  though  forced  by  public  em- 
ployments into  mingled  conversation,  he  never 
lost  the  modesty  and  seriousness  of  the  convent, 
nor  drew  ridicule  upon  himself  by  affected  imita- 
tion of  fashionable  life.  To  the  same  praise 
every  man  devoted  to  learning  ought  to  aspire. 
If  he  attempts  the  softer  arts  of  pleasing,  and  en- 
deavours to  learn  the  grateful  bow  and  the  fa- 
miliar embrace,  the  insinuating  accent  and  the 
general  smile,  he  will  lose  the  respect  due  to  the 
character  of  learning,  without  arriving  at  the  en- 
vied honour  of  doing  nothing  with  elegance  and 
facility. 

Theophrastus  was  discovered  not  to  be  a  na- 
tive of  Athens,  by  so  strict  an  adherence  to  the 
Attic  dialect,  as  showed  that  he  had  learned  it 
not  by  custom,  but  by  rule.  A  man  not  early 
formed  to  habitual  elegance,  betrays  in  like  man- 
ner the  effects  of  his  education,  by  an  unneces* 
sary  anxiety  of  behaviour.  It  is  as  possible  to 
become  pedantic  by  fear  of  pedantry,  as  to  be 
troublesome  by  ill-timed  civility.  There  is  no 
kind  of  impertinence  more  justly  censurable, 
than  his  who  is  always  labouring  to  level  thoughts 
to  intellects  higher  than  his  own ;  who  apolo- 
gizes for  every  word  which  his  own  narrowness 
of  converse  inclines  him  to  think  unusual ;  keeps 
the  exuberance  of  his  faculties  under  visible  re- 
straint; is  solicitous  to  anticipate  inquiries  by 
needless  explanations  ;  and  endeavours  to  shade 
his  own  abilities,  lest  weak  eyes  should  be  das 
zled  with  their  lustre. 


204 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  174. 


No.  174.]     SATURDAY,  NOT.  15,  1751. 

Fanum  hdbet  in  cornu ;  longefvge ;  dummodo  risum 
Excutiat  sibi,  non  hie  cuiquam  parcel  amico.         HOR 

Yonder  he  drives — avoid  that  furious  beast : 

If  he  may  have  his  jest,  he  never  cares 

At  whose  expense  ;  nor  friend  nor  patron  spares. 

FRANCIS. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

MR.  RAMBLER, 

THE  laws  of  social  benevolence  require,  that 
every  man  should  endeavour  to  assist  others  by 
his  experience.  He  that  has  at  last  escaped  into 
port  from  the  fluctuations  of  chance,  and  the 
gusts  of  opposition,  ought  to  make  some  im- 
provements in  the  chart  of  life,  by  marking  the 
rocks  on  which  he  has  been  dashed,  and  the 
shallows  where  he  has  been  stranded. 

The  error  into  which  I  was  betrayed,  when 
custom  first  gave  me  up  to  my  own  direction, 
is  very  frequently  incident  to  the  quick,  the 
sprightly,  the  fearless,  and  the  gay ;  to  all  whose 
ardour  hurries  them  into  precipitate  execution  of 
their  designs,  and  imprudent  declaration  of  their 
opinions ;  who  seldom  count  the  cost  of  plea- 
sure, or  examine  the  distant  consequences  of 
any  practice  that  flatters  them  with  immediate 
gratification. 

I  came  forth  into  the  crowded  world  with  the 
usual  juvenile  ambition,  and  desired  nothing  be- 
yond the  title  of  a  wit.  Money  I  considered  as 
below  my  care  ;  for  I  saw  such  multitudes  grow 
rich  without  understanding,  that  I  could  not  for- 
bear to  look  on  wealth  as  an  acquisition  easy  to 
industry  directed  by  genius,  and  therefore  threw  it 
aside  as  a  secondary  convenience,  to  be  procured 
when  my  principal  wish  should  be  satisfied,  and 
my  claim  to  intellectual  excellence  universally 
acknowledged. 

With  this  view  I  regulated  my  behaviour  in 
public,  and  exercised  my  meditations  in  solitude. 
My  life  was  divided  between  the  care  of  provid- 
ing topics  for  the  entertainment  of  my  company, 
and  that  of  collecting  company  worthy  to  be  en- 
tertained ;  for  I  soon  found,  that  wit,  like  every 
other  power,  has  its  boundaries ;  that  its  success 
depends  upon  the  aptitude  of  others  to  receive 
impressions ;  and  that  as  some  bodies,  indisso- 
luble by  heat,  can  set  the  furnace  and  crucible  at 
defiance,  there  are  minds  upon  which  the  rays  of 
fancy  may  be  pointed  without  effect,  and  which 
no  fire  of  sentiment  can  agitate  or  exalt. 

It  was,  however,  not  long,  before  I  fitted  my- 
self with  a  set  of  companions  who  knew  how  to 
laugh,  and  to  whom  no  other  recommendation 
was  necessary  than  the  power  of  striking  out  a 
jest.  Among  those  I  fixed  my  residence,  and 
for  a  time  enjoyed  the  felicity  of  disturbing  the 
neighbours  every  night  with  the  obstreperous  ap- 
plause which  my  sallies  forced  from  the  audience. 
The  reputation  of  our  club  every  day  increased, 
and  as  my  flights  and  remarks  were  circulated 
by  my  admirers,  every  day  brought  new  solicita- 
tions for  admission  into  our  society. 

To  support  this  perpetual  fund  of  merriment, 
I  frequented  every  place  of  concourse,  cultivated 
the  acquaintance  of  all  the  fashionable  race,  and 
passed  the  day  in  a  continual  succession  of  visits, 
in  which  I  collected  a  treasure  of  pleasantry  for 
the  expenses  of  the  evening.  Whatever  error  of 
conduct  I  could  discover,  whatever  peculiarity  of 
manner  I  could  observe,  whatever  weakness  was 


betrayed  by  confidence,  whatever  lapse  was  suf- 
fered by  neglect,  all  was  drawn  together  for  the 
diversion  of  my  wild  companions,  who  when  they 
had  been  taught  the  art  of  ridicule,  never  failed 
to  signalize  themselves  by  a  zealous  imitation, 
and  filled  the  town  on  the  ensuing  day  with  scan- 
dal and  vexation,  with  merriment  and  shame. 

I  can  scarcely  believe,  when  I  recollect  my 
own  practice,  that  I  could  have  been  so  far  de- 
luded with  petty  praise,  as  to  divulge  the  secrets 
of  trust,  and  to  expose  the  levities  of  frankness  ; 
to  waylay  the  walks  of  the  cautious,  and  surprise 
the  security  of  the  thoughtless.  Yet  it  is  certain, 
that  for  many  years  I  heard  nothing  but  with  de- 
sign to  tell  it,  and  saw  nothing  with  any  other 
curiosity  than  after  some  failure  that  might  fur- 
nish out  a  jest. 

My  heart,  indeed,  acquits  me  of  deliberate  ma- 
lignity, or  interested  insidiousness.  I  had  no 
other  purpose  than  to  heighten  the  pleasure  of 
laughter  by  communication,  nor  ever  raised  any 
pecuniary  advantage  from  the  calamities  of 
others.  I  led  weakness  and  negligence  into  dif 
ficulties,  only  that  I  might  divert  myself  with 
their  perplexities  and  distresses;  and  violated 
every  law  of  friendship,  with  no  other  hope  than 
that  of  gaining  the  reputation  of  smartness  and 
waggery. 

I  would  not  be  understood  to  charge  myself 
with  any  crimes  of  the  atrocious  or  destructive 
kind.  I  never  betrayed  an  heir  to  gamesters,  or 
a  girl  to  debauchees;  never  intercepted  the  kind- 
ness of  a  patron,  or  sported  away  the  reputation 
of  innocence.  My  delight  was  only  in  petty  mis- 
chief and  momentary  vexations,  and  my  acute- 
ness  was  employed  not  upon  fraud  and  oppres- 
sion, which  it  had  been  meritorious  to  detect, 
but  upon  harmless  ignorance  or  absurdity,  pre- 
judice or  mistake. 

This  inquiry  I  pursued  with  so  much  diligence 
and  sagacity,  that  I  was  able  to  relate,  of  every 
man  whom  I  knew,  some  blunder  or  miscar- 
riage ;  to  betray  the  most  circumspect  of  my 
friends  into  follies,  by  a  judicious  flattery  of  his 
predominant  passion ;  or  expose  him  to  con- 
tempt, by  placing  him  in  circumstances  which 
ut  his  prejudices  into  action,  brought  to  view 
is  natural  defects,  or  drew  the  attention  of  the 
company  on  his  airs  of  affectation. 

The  power  had  been  possessed  in  vain  if  it 
had  never  been  exerted ;  and  it  was  not  my  cus- 
tom to  let  any  arts  of  jocularity  remain  unem- 
ployed. My  impatienceofapplau.se  brought  me 
always  early  to  the  place  of  entertainment;  and 
I  seldom  failed  to  lay  a  scheme  with  the  small 
knot  that  first  gathered  round  me,  by  which 
some  of  those  whom  we  expected  might  be  made 
subservient  to  our  sport.  Every  man  has  some 
favourite  topic  of  conversation,  on  which,  by  a 
feigned  seriousness  of  attention,  he  may  be  drawn 
to  expatiate  without  end.  Every  man  has  some 
habitual  contortion  of  body,  or  established  mode 
of  expression,  which  never  fails  to  raise  mirth  if 
it  be  pointed  out  to  notice.  By  premonitions  of 
these  particularities  I  secured  our  pleasantry. 
Our  companion  entered  with  his  usual  gayety, 
and  began  to  partake  of  our  noisy  cheerfulness, 
when  the  conversation  was  imperceptibly  di- 
verted to  a  subject  which  pressed  upon  his  tender 
part,  and  extorted  the  expected  shrug,  the  cus- 
tomary exclamation,  or  the  predicted  remark. 
A  general  clamour  of  joy  then  burst  from  afl 


No.  175.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


265 


that  were  admitted  to  the  stratagem.  Our  mirth 
was  often  increased  by  the  triumph  of  him  that 
occasioned  it ;  for,  as  we  do  not  hastily  form 
conclusions  against  ourselves,  seldom  any  one 
suspected  that  he  had  exhilarated  us  otherwise 
than  by  his  wit 

You  will  hear,  I  believe,  with  very  little  sur- 
prise that  by  this  conduct  I  had  in  a  short  time 
united  mankind  against  me,  and  that  every 
tongue  was  diligent  in  prevention  or  revenge.  I 
soon  perceived  myself  regarded  with  malevo- 
lence or  distrust,  but  wondered  what  had  been 
discovered  in  me  either  terrible  or  hateful.  I 
had  invaded  no  man's  property  ;  I  had  rivalled 
no  man's  claims  ;  nor  had  ever  engaged  in  any 
of  those  attempts  which  provoke  the  jealousy  of 
ambition,  or  the  rage  of  faction.  I  had  lived  but 
to  laugh,  and  make  others  laugh  ;  and  believed 
that  I  was  loved  by  all  who  caressed,  and  fa- 
voured by  all  who  applauded  me.  I  never 
imagined  that  he  who,  in  the  mirth  of  a  nocturnal 
revel,  concurred  in  ridiculing  his  friend,  would 
consider  in  a  cooler  hour,  that  the  same  trick 
might  be  played  against  himself;  or  that,  even 
where  there  is  no  sense  of  danger,  the  natural 
pride  of  human  nature  rises  against  him,  who, 
by  general  censures,  lays  claim  to  general  supe- 
riority. 

I  was  convinced,  by  a  total  desertion,  of  the 
impropriety  of  my  conduct ;  every  man  avoided, 
and  cautioned  others  to  avoid  me.  Wherever  I 
came,  I  found  silence  and  dejection,  coldness 
and  terror.  No  one  would  venture  to  speak,  lest 
lie  should  lay  himself  open  to  unfavourable  re- 
presentations ;  the  company,  however  numerous 
dropped  off  at  my  entrance,  upon  various  pre- 
tences ;  and,  if  I  retired  to  avoid  the  shame  of 
being  left,  I  heard  confidence  and  mirth  revive 
at  my  departure. 

If  those  whom  I  had  thus  offended  could  have 
contented  themselves  with  repaying  one  insult 
for  another,  and  kept  up  the  war  only  by  a  reci- 
procation of  sarcasms,  they  might  have  perhaps 
vexed,  but  would  never  much  have  hurt  me ;  for 
no  man  heartily  hates  him  at  whom  he  can 
laugh.  But  these  wounds  which  they  give  me 
as  they  fly,  are  without  cure  ;  this  alarm  which 
they  spread  by  their  solicitude  to  escape  me,  ex- 
cludes me  from  all  friendship  and  from  all  plea- 
sure. I  am  condemned  to  pass  a  long  interval 
of  my  life  in  solitude,  as  a  man  suspected  of  in- 
fection is  refused  admission  into  cities  ;  and  must 
linger  in  obscurity,  till  my  conduct  shall  con- 
vince the  world,  that  I  may  be  approached  with- 
out hazard.  I  am,  &c. 

DICACULUS. 


No.  175.]       TUESDAY,  Nov.  19,  1751. 

Rari  quippe  boni,  numero  tixsunt  totidem  quot 
Thebarum  porta,  vel  divitis  ostia  Ifili.  JUV. 

Good  men  are  scarce,  the  just  are  thinly  sown  ; 

They  thrive  but  ill,  nor  can  they  last  when  grown, 

And  should  we  count  them,  and  our  store  compile, 

Yet  Thebes  more  gates  could  show,  more  mouths  the  Nile. 

CREECH. 

NONE  of  the  axioms  of  wisdom  which  recom- 
mend the  ancient  sages  to  veneration,  seems  to 
have  required  less  extent  of  knowledge  or  per- 
spicacity of  penetration,  than  the  remark  of  Bias, 
that  oi  Moves  KOKOI,  the  majority  are  wicked. 
21 


The  depravity  of  mankind  is  so  easily  dis- 
coverable that  nothing  but  the  desert  or  the  cell 
can  exclude  it  from  notice.  The  knowledge  ol 
crimes  intrudes  uncalled  and  undesired.  They 
whom  their  abstraction  from  common  occur- 
rences hinders  from  seeing  iniquity,  will  quickly 
have  their  attention  awakened  by  feeling  it. 
Even  he  who  ventures  not  into  the  world,  may 
learn  its  corruption  in  his  closet.  For  what  are 
treatises  of  morality,  but  persuasives  to  the  prac- 
tice of  duties,  for  which  no  arguments  would  be 
necessary,  but  that  we  are  continually  tempted 
to  violate  or  neglect  them?  What  are  all  the 
records  of  history,  but  narratives  of  successive 
villanies,  of  treasons  and  usurpations,  massacres, 
and  wars  ? 

But,  perhaps,  the  excellence  of  aphorisms  con- 
sists not  so  much  in  the  expression  of  some  rare 
or  abstruse  sentiment,  as  in  the  comprehension 
of  some  obvious  and  useful  truth  in  a  few  words. 
We  frequently  fall  into  error  and  folly,  not  be- 
cause the  true  principles  of  action  are  not  known, 
but  because  for  a  time  they  are  not  remembered ; 
and  he  may  therefore  be  justly  numbered  among 
the  benefactors  of  mankind,  who  contracts  the 
great  rules  of  life  into  short  sentences,  that  may 
be  easily  impressed  on  the  memory,  and  taught 
by  frequent  recollection  to  recur  habitually  to  the 
mind. 

However  those  who  have  passed  through  half 
the  life  of  man,  may  now  wonder  that  any  should 
require  to  be  cautioned  against  corruption,  they 
will  find,  that  they  have  themselves  purchased 
their  conviction  by  many  disappointments  and 
vexations  which  an  earlier  knowledge  would 
have  spared  them  ;  and  may  see  on  every  side 
some  entangling  themselves  in  perplexities,  and 
some  sinking  into  ruin,  by  ignorance  or  neglect 
of  the  maxim  of  Bias. 

Every  day  sends  out,  in  quest  of  pleasure  and 
distinction,  some  heir  fondled  in  ignorance,  and 
flattered  into  pride.  He  comes  forth  with  all  the 
confidence  of  a  spirit  unacquainted  with  supe- 
riors, and  all  the  benevolence  of  a  mind  not  yei 
irritated  by  opposition,  alarmed  by  fraud,  or  em- 
bittered by  cruelty.  He  loves  all,  because  he 
imagines  himself  the  universal  favourite.  Every 
exchange  of  salutation  produces  new  acquaint- 
ance, and  every  acquaintance  kindles  into 
friendship. 

Every  season  brings  a  new  flight  of  beauties 
into  the  world,  who  have  hitherto  heard  only  of 
their  own  charms,  and  imagine  that  the  heait 
feels  no  passion  but  that  of  love.  They  are  seen 
surrounded  by  admirers  whom  they  credit,  be- 
cause they  tell  them  only  what  is  heard  with  de- 
light. Whoever  gazes  upon  them  is  a  lover; 
and  whoever  forces  a  sigh,  is  pining  in  despair. 

He  surely  is  a  useful  monitor,  who  inculcates 
to  these  thoughtless  strangers,  that  the  majority 
are  wicked;  who  informs  them,  that  the  train 
which  wealth  and  beauty  draw  after  them  is 
lured  only  by  the  scent  of  prey  ;  and  that,  per- 
haps, among  all  those  who  crowd  about  them 
with  professions  and  flatteries,  there  is  not  one 
who  does  not  hope  for  some  opportunity  to  de- 
vour or  betray  them,  to  glut  himself  by  their 
destruction,  or  to  share  their  spoils  with  a 
stronger  savage. 

Virtue,  presented  singly  to  the  imagination  oi 
the  reason,  is  so  well  recommended  by  its  own 
graces,  and  so  strongly  supported  by  argument*, 


266 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  176. 


that  a  food  man  wonders  how  any  can  be  bad ; 
and  they  who  are  ignorant  of  the  force  of  passion 
and  interest,  who  never  observed  the  arts  of 
seduction,  the  contagion  of  example,  the  gradual 
descent  from  one  crime  to  another,  or  the  insen- 
sible depravation  of  the  principles  by  loose  con- 
versation, naturally  expect  to  find  integrity  in 
every  bosom,  and  veracity  on  every  tongue. 

It  is,  indeed,  impossible  not  to  hear  from  those 
who  have  lived  longer,  of  wrongs  and  falsehoods, 
of  violence  and  circumvention  ;  but  such  narra- 
tives are  commonly  regarded  by  the  young,  the 
heady,  and  the  confident,  as  nothing  more  than 
the  murmurs  of  peevishness,  or  the  dreams  of 
dotage ;  and,  notwithstanding  all  the  documents 
of  hoary  wisdom,  we  commonly  plunge  into  the 
world  fearless  and  credulous  without  any  fore- 
sight of  danger,  or  apprehension  of  deceit. 

I  have  remarked,  in  a  former  paper,  that  cre- 
dulity is  the  common  failing  of  unexperienced 
virtue ;  and  that  he  who  is  spontaneously  sus- 
picious, may  be  justly  charged  with  radical  cor- 
ruption ;  for,  if  he  has  not  known  the  prevalence 
of  dishonesty  by  information,  nor  had  time  to 
observe  it  with  his  own  eyes,  whence  can  he  take 
his  measures  of  judgment  but  from  himself? 

They  who  best  deserve  to  escape  the  snares  of 
artifice,  are  most  likely  to  be  entangled.  He  that 
endeavours  to  live  for  the  good  of  others,  must 
always  be  exposed  to  the  arts  of  them  who  live 
only  for  themselves,  unless  he  is  taught  by  timely 
precepts  the  caution  required  in  common  trans- 
actions, and  shown  at  a  distance  the  pitfalls  of 
treachery. 

To  youth,  therefore,  it  should  be  carefully  in- 
culcated, that,  to  enter  the  road  of  life  without 
caution  or  reserve,  in  expectation  of  general 
fidelity  and  justice,  is  to  launch  on  the  wide 
ocean  without  the  instruments  of  steerage,  and 
to  hope  that  every  wind  will  be  prosperous,  and 
that  every  coast  will  afford  a  harbour. 

To  enumerate  the  various  motives  to  deceit 
and  injury,  would  be  to  count  all  the  desires  that 
prevail  among  the  sons  of  men ;  since  there  is 
no  ambition  however  petty,  no  wish  however 
absurd,  that  by  indulgence  will  not  be  enabled  to 
overpower  the  influence  of  virtue.  Many  there 
are,  who  openly  and  almost  professedly  regulate 
all  their  conduct  by  their  love  of  money  ;  who 
have  no  other  reason  for  action  or  forbearance, 
for  compliance  or  refusal,  than  that  they  hope  to 
gain  more  by  one  than  by  the  other.  These 
are  indeed  the  meanest  and  cruellest  of  human 
beings,  a  race  with  whom,  as  with  some  pesti- 
ferous animals,  the  whole  creation  seems  to  be 
at  war ;  but  who,  however  detested  or  scorned, 
long  continue  to  add  heap  to  heap,  and,  when 
they  have  reduced  one  to  beggary,  are  still  per- 
mitted to  fasten  on  another. 

Others,  yet  less  rationally  wicked,  pass  their 
lives  in  mischief,  because  they  cannot  bear  the 
sight  of  success,  and  mark  out  every  man  for 
hatred,  whose  fame  or  fortune  they  believe  in- 
creasing. 

Many,  who  have  not  advanced  to  these  de- 
grees of  guilt,  are  yet  wholly  unqualified  for 
friendship,  and  unable  to  maintain  any  constant 
or  regular  course  of  kindness.  Happiness  may 
he  destroyed  not  only  by  union  with  the  man 
who  is  apparently  the  slave  of  interest,  but  with 
him  whom  a  wild  opinion  of  the  dignity  of  per- 
"everanre,  in  whatever  cause,  disposes  to  pursue 


every  injury  with  unwearied  and  perpetual  re- 
sentment ;  with  him  whose  vanity  inclines  him 
to  consider  every  man  as  a  rival  in  every  preten- 
sion ;  with  him  whose  airy  negligence  puts  his 
friend's  affairs  or  secrets  in  continual  hazard,  and 
who  thinks  his  forgetfulness  of  others  excused 
by  his  inattention  to  himself;  and  with  him 
whose  inconstancy  ranges  without  any  settled 
rule  of  choice  through  varieties  of  friendship,  and 
who  adopts  and  dismisses  favourites  by  the  sud- 
den impulse  of  caprice. 

Thus  numerous  are  the  dangers  to  which  the 
converse  of  mankind  exposes  us,  and  which  can 
be  avoided  only  by  prudent  distrust.  He  there- 
fore that,  rememberingthis  salutarymaxim  learns 
early  to  withhold  his  fondness  from  fair  appear- 
ances, will  have  reason  to  pay  some  honours  to 
Bias  of  Priene,  who  enabled  him  to  become  wise 
without  the  cost  of  experience. 


No.  176.]      SATURDAY,  Nov.  23,  1751 

Ifaso  suspendere  ad-unco.  HUH 

On  me  you  turn  the  nose. 

THERE  are  many  vexatious  accidents  and  un- 
easy situations  which  raise  little  compassion  for 
the  sufferer,  and  which  no  man  but  those  whom 
they  immediately  distress  can  regard  with  seri- 
ousness. Petty  mischiefs,  that  have  no  influence 
on  futurity,  nor  extend  their  effects  to  the  rest  of 
life,  are  always  seen  with  a  kind  of  malicious 
pleasure.  A  mistake  or  embarrassment,  which 
for  the  present  moment  fills  the  face  with  blushes, 
and  the  mind  with  confusion,  will  have  no  other 
effect  upon  those  who  observe  it,  than  that  of 
convulsing  them  with  irresistible  laughter.  Some 
circumstances  of  misery  are  so  powerfully  ridicu- 
lous, that  neither  kindness  nor  duty  can  with- 
stand them ;  they  bear  down  love,  interest,  and 
reverence,  and  force  the  friend,  the  dependent, 
or  the  child,  to  give  way  to  instantaneous  mo- 
tions of  merriment. 

Among  the  principal  of  comic  calamities  may 
be  reckoned  trie  pain  which  an  author,  not  yet 
hardened  into  insensibility,  feels  at  the  onset  of  a 
furious  critic,  whose  age,  rank,  or  fortune,  gives 
him  confidence  to  speak  without  reserve ;  who 
heaps  one  objection  upon  another,  and  obtrudes 
his  remarks,  and  enforces  his  corrections,  without 
tenderness  or  awe. 

The  author,  full  of  the  importance  of  his  work, 
and  anxious  for  the  justification  of  every  sylla- 
ble, starts  and  kindles  at  the  slightest  attack  > 
the  critic,  eager  to  establish  his  superiority,  tri- 
umphing in  every  discovery  of  failure,  and  zeal 
ous  to  impress  the  cogency  of  his  arguments 
pursues  him  from  line  to  line  without  cessation 
or  remorse.  The  critic,  who  hazards  little,  pro- 
ceeds with  vehemence,  impetuosity,  and  fearless- 
ness; the  author,  whose  quiet  and  fame,  and 
life  and  immortality,  are  involved  in  the  contro- 
versy, tries  every  art  of  subterfuge  and  defence ; 
maintains  modestly  what  he  resolves  never  to 
yield,  and  yields  unwillingly  what  cannot  be 
maintained.  The  critic's  purpose  is  to  conquer, 
the  author  only  hopes  to  escape ;  the  critic  there- 
fore knits  his  brow,  and  raises  his  voice,  and  re- 
joices whenever  he  perceives  any  tokens  of  pain 
excited  by  the  pressure  of  his  assertions,  or  the 


JSo.  177.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


26? 


point  of  his  sarcasms.  The  author,  whose  en 
dcavour  is  at  once  to  mollify  and  elude  his  perse 
cutor,  composes  his  features  and  softens  his  ac 
cent,  breaks  the  force  of  assault  by  retreat,  an> 
rather  steps  aside  than  flies  or  advances. 

As  it  very  seldom  happens  that  the  rage  of  ex 
temporary  criticisminflicts  fatal  or  lasting  wounds 
I  know  not  that  the  laws  of  benevolence  entitL 
this  distress  to  much  sympathy.  The  diversion 
of  baiting  an  author  has  the  sanction  of  all  ages 
and  nations,  and  it  is  more  lawful  than  the  spor 
of  teasing  other  animals,  because,  for  the  mos 
part,  he  comes  voluntarily  to  the  stake,  furnish- 
ed, as  he  imagines,  by  the  patron  powers  of  lite- 
rature, with  resistless  weapons  and  impenetra- 
ble armour,  with  the  mail  of  the  boar  of  Eyr- 
manth,  and  the  paws  of  the  lion  of  Nemea. 

But  the  works  of  genius  are  sometimes  pro- 
duced by  other  motives  than  vanity ;  '  and  he 
whom  necessity  or  duty  enforces  to  write,  is  no 
always  so  well  satisfied  with  himself,  as  not  to  be 
discouraged  by  censorious  impudence.  It  may 
therefore  be  necessary  to  consider  how  they 
whom  publication  lays  open  to  the  insults  ol 
such  as  their  obscurity  secures  against  reprisals, 
may  extricate  themselves  from  unexpected  en- 
counters. 

Vida,  a  man  of  considerable  skill  in  the  poli- 
tics of  literature,  directs  his  pupil  wholly  to  aban- 
don his  defence,  and,  even  when  he  can  irrefra- 
gably  refute  all  objections,  to  suffer  tamely  the 
exultations  of  his  antagonist. 

This  rule  may  perhaps  be  just,  when  advice  is 
asked,  and  severity  solicited,  because  no  man 
tells  his  opinion  so  freely  as  when  he  imagines 
it  received  with  implicit  veneration  ;  and  critics 
ought  never  to  be  consulted,  but  while  errors 
may  yet  be  rectified  or  insipidity  suppressed. 
But  when  the  book  has  once  been  dismissed  into 
the  world,  and  can  be  no  more  retouched,  I  know 
not  whether  a  very  different  conduct  should  not 
be  prescribed,  and  whether  firmness  and  spirit 
may  not  sometimes  be  of  use  to  overpower  arro- 
gance and  repel  brutality.  Softness,  diffidence, 
and  moderation  will  often  be  mistaken  for  imbeci- 
lity and  dejection ;  they  lure  cowardice  to  the 
attack  by  the  hopes  of  easy  victory,  and  it  will 
soon  be  found  that  he  whom  every  man  thinks 
he  can  conquer,  shall  never  be  at  peace. 

The  animadversions  of  critics  are  commonly 
such  as  may  easily  provoke  the  sedatest  writer 
to  some  quickness  of  resentment  and  asperity  of 
reply.  A  man  who  by  long  consideration  has 
familiarized  a  subject  to  his  own  mind,  carefully 
surveyed  the  series  of  his  thoughts,  and  planned 
all  the  parts  of  his  composition  into  a  regular 
dependance  on  each  other,  will  often  start  at  the 
sinistrous  interpretations  or  absurd  remarks  of 
haste  and  ignorance,  and  wonder  by  what  infa- 
tuation they  have  been  led  away  from  the  obvi- 
ous sense,  and  upon  what  peculiar  principles  of 
judgment  they  decide  against  him. 

The  eye  of  the  intellect,  like  that  of  the  body, 
is  not  equally  perfect  in  all,  nor  equally  adapted 
in  any  to  all  objects  ;  the  end  of  criticism  is  to 
supply  its  defects ;  rules  are  the  instruments  of 
mental  vision,  which  may  indeed  assist  our  facul- 
ties when  properly  used,  but  produce  confusion 
and  obscurity  by  unskilful  application. 

Some  seem  always  to  read  with  the  microscope 
of  criticism,  and  employ  their  whole  attention 
upon  minute  elegance,  or  faults  scarcely  visible 


to  common  observation.  The  dissonance  of  a 
syllable,  the  recurrence  of  the  same  sound,  the 
repetition  of  a  particle,  the  smallest  deviation 
from  propriety,  the  slightest  defect  in  construction 
or  arrangement,  swell  before  their  eyes  into  enor- 
mities. As  they  discern  with  great  exactness, 
they  comprehend  but  a  narrow  compass,  and 
know  nothing  of  the  justness  of  the  design,  the 
general  spirit  of  the  performance,  the  artifice  of 
connexion,  or  the  harmony  of  the  parts ;  they 
never  conceive  how  small  a  proportion  that  which 
they  are  busy  in  contemplating  bears  to  the 
whole,  or  how  the  petty  inaccuracies  with  which 
they  are  offended,  are  absorbed  and  lost  in  ge- 
neral excellence. 

Others  are  furnished  by  criticism  with  a  tele- 
scope. They  see  with  great  clearness  whatever 
is  too  remote  to  be  discovered  by  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, but  are  totally  blind  to  all  that  lies  immedi- 
ately before  them.  They  discover  in  every  pas- 
sage some  secret  meaning,  some  remote  allusion, 
some  artful  allegory,  or  some  occult  imitation, 
which  no  other  reader  ever  suspected  ;  but  they 
have  no  perception  of  the  cogency  of  arguments, 
the  force  of  pathetic  sentiments,  the  various  co- 
lours of  diction,  or  the  flowery  embellishments 
of  fancy ;  of  all  that  engages  the  attention  of 
others  they  are  totally  insensible,  while  they  pry 
into  worlds  of  conjecture,  and  amuse  themselves 
with  phantoms  in  the  clouds. 

In  criticism,  as  in  every  other  art,  we  fail  some- 
times by  our  weakness,  but  more  frequently  by 
our  fault.  We  are  sometimes  bewildered  by  ig- 
norance, and  sometimes  by  prejudice ;  but  we 
seldom  deviate  far  from  the  right,  but  when  we 
deliver  ourselves  up  to  the  direction  of  vanity. 


No.  177.]     TUESDAY,  Nov.  26,  1751. 

Turpe  ctt  dijficiles  hdbere  migas.  MART. 

Those  things  which  now  seem  frivolous  and  slight, 
Wiii  be  of  serious  consequence  to  you, 
When  they  have  made  you  once  ridiculous. 

ROSCOMMON. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

WHEN  I  was,  at  the  usual  time,  about  to  enter 
upon  the  profession  to  which  my  friends  had  des- 
tined me,  being  summoned,  by  the  death  of  my 
father,  into  the  country,  I  found  myself  master 
of  an  unexpected  sum  of  money,  and  of  an  estate, 
which,  though  not  large,  was,  in  my  opinion,  suf- 
icient  to  support  me  in  a  condition  far  preferable 
to  the  fatigue,  dependance,  and  uncertainty  of 
any  gainful  occupation.  I  therefore  resolved  to 
devote  the  rest  of  my  life  wholly  to  curiosity,  and 
without  any  confinement  of  my  excursions,  or 
:ermination  of  my  views,  to  wander  over  the 
>oundless  regions  of  general  knowledge. 

This  scheme  of  life  seemed  pregnant  with  in- 
exhaustible variety,  and  therefore  I  could  not  for- 
>ear  to  congratulate  myself  upon  the  wisdom  of 
my  choice.  I  furnished  a  large  room  with  all 
conveniences  for  study ;  collected  books  of  every 
dnd;  quitted  every  science  at  the  first  perception 
of  disgust ;  returned  to  it  again  as  soon  as  my 
brmer  ardour  happened  to  revive ;  and  having 
no  rival  to  depress  me  by  comparison,  nor  any 
critic  to  alarm  me  with  objections,  I  spent  day 
after  day  in  profound  tranquillity,  with  only  so  . 


203 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  177. 


much  complaisance  in  my  own  improvements,  as 
served  to  excite  and  animate  my  application. 

Thus  I  lived  for  some  years  with  complete  ac- 
quiescence in  my  own  plan  of  conduct,  rising 
early  to  read,  and  dividing  the  latter  part  of  the 
day  between  economy,  exercise,  and  reflection, 
But  in  time  I  began  to  find  my  mind  contracted 
and  stiffened  by  solitude.  My  ease  and  elegance 
were  sensibly  impaired  ;  I  was  no  longer  able  to 
accommodate  myself  with  readiness  to  the  acci- 
dental current  of  conversation ;  my  notions  grew 
particular  and  paradoxical,  and  my  phraseology 
formal  and  unfashionable ;  I  spoke,  on  common 
occasions,  the  language  of  books.  My  quick- 
ness of  apprehension,  and  celerity  of  reply,  had 
entirely  deserted  me ;  when  I  delivered  my  opinion, 
or  detailed  my  knowledge,  I  was  bewildered  by 
an  unseasonable  interrogatory,  disconcerted  by 
any  slight  opposition,  and  overwhelmed  and 
lost  in  dejection,  when  the  smallest  advantage 
was  gained  against  me  in  dispute.  I  became  de- 
cisive and  dogmatical,  impatient  of  contradic- 
tion, perpetually  jealous  of  my  character,  inso- 
lent to  such  as  acknowledged  my  superiority,  and 
sullen  and  malignant  to  all  who  refused  to  re- 
ceive my  dictates. 

This  I  soon  discovered  to  be  one  of  those  in- 
tellectual diseases  which  a  wise  man  should 
make  haste  to  cure.  I  therefore  resolved  for  a 
time  to  shut  my  books,  and  learn  again  the  art 
of  conversation ;  to  defecate  and  clear  my  mind 
by  brisker  motions  and  stronger  impulses  ;  and  to 
unite  myself  once  more  to  the  living  generation. 
For  this  purpose  I  hasted  to  London,  and 
entreated  one  of  my  academical  acquaintances 
to  introduce  me  into  some  of  the  little  societies 
of  literature  which  are  formed  in  taverns  and  cof- 
fee-houses. He  was  pleased  with  an  opportunity 
of  showing  me  to  his  friends,  and  soon  obtained 
me  admission  among  a  select  company  of  curi- 
ous men,  who  met  once  a  week  to  exhilarate 
their  studies  and  compare  their  acquisitions. 

The  eldest  and  most  venerable  of  this  society 
was  Hirsutus,  who,  after  the  first  civilities  of 
my  reception,  found  means  to  introduce  the  men- 
tion of  his  favourite  studies,  by  a  severe  censure 
of  those  who  want  the  due  regard  for  their  native 
country.  He  informed  me  that  he  had  early 
withdrawn  his  attention  from  foreign  trifles,  and 
that,  since  he  began  to  addict  his  mind  to  serious 
and  manly  studies,  he  had  very  carefully  amass- 
ed all  the  English  books  that  were  printed  in  the 
black  character.  This  search  he  had  pursued  so 
diligently,  that  he  was  able  to  show  the  deficien- 
cies of  the  best  catalogues.  He  had  long  since 
completed  his  Caxton,  had  three  sheets  of  Tre- 
veris  unknown  to  the  antiquaries,  and  wanted  to 
a  perfect  Pynson  but  two  volumes,  of  which  one 
was  promised  him  as  a  legacy  by  its  present  pos- 
sessor, and  the  other  he  was  resolved  to  buy  at 
whatever  price,  when  duisquilius's  library  should 
be  sold.  Hirsutus  had  no  other  reason  for  the 
valuing  or  slighting  a  book,  than  that  it  was 
printed  in  the  Roman  or  the  Gothic  letter,  nor 
any  ideas  but  such  as  his  favourite  volumes  had 
supplied ;  when  he  was  serious,,  he  expatiated 
on  the  narratives  of  Johan  de  Trevisa,  and, 
when  he  was  merry,  regaled  us  with  a  quotation 
from  the  Shippe  of  Poles. 

While  I  was  listening  to  this  hoary  student, 

•erratus  entered   in  a  hurry,  and  informed  us 

.with  the  abruptness  of  ecstacv,  that  his  set  of 


lialfpence  was  now  complete ;  he  had  just  re- 
ceived in  a  handful  of  change  the  piece  that  he 
had  so  long  been  seeking,  and  could  now  defy 
mankind  to  outgo  his  collection  of  English  co\t- 
per. 

Chartophylax  then  observed  how  fatally  hu- 
man sagacity  was  sometimes  baffled,  and  how 
often  the  most  valuable  discoveries  are  made  by 
chance.  He  had  employed  himself  and  his 
emissaries  seven  years  at  great  expense  to  per- 
fect his  series  of  Gazettes,  but  had  long  wanted 
a  single  paper,  which,  when  he  despaired  of  ob- 
taining it,  was  sent  him  wrapped  round  a  parcel 
of  tobacco. 

Cantilenus  turned  all  his  thoughts  upon  old 
ballads,  for  he  considered  them  as  the  genuine 
records  of  the  national  taste.  He  offered  to  show 
me  a  copy  of  The  Children  in  the  Wood,  which 
lie  firmly  believed  to  be  of  the  first  edition,  and 
by  the  help  of  which  the  text  might  be  freed  from 
several  corruptions,  if  this  age  of  barbarity  had 
any  claim  to  such  favours  from  him. 

Many  were  admitted  into  this  society  as  infe- 
rior members,  because  they  had  collected  old 
prints  and  neglected  pamphlets,  or  possessed  some 
fragment  of  antiquity,  as  the  seal  of  an  ancient 
corporation,  the  charter  of  a  religious  house, 
the  genealogy  of  a  family  extinct,  or  a  letter 
written  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 

Every  one  of  these  virtuosos  looked  on  all  his 
associates  as  wretches  of  depraved  taste  and  nar- 
row notions.  Their  conversation  was,  there- 
fore, fretful  and  waspish,  their  behaviour  brutal, 
their  merriment  bluntly  sarcastic,  and  their  seri- 
ousness gloomy  and  suspicious.  They  were 
totally  ignorant  of  all  that  passes,  or  has  lately 
passed,  in  the  world ;  unable  to  discuss  any 
question  of  religious,  political,  or  military  know 
ledge  ;  equally  strangers  to  science  and  politer 
learning  ;  and  without  any  wish  to  improve  their 
minds,  or  any  other  pleasure  than  that  of  display- 
ing rarities  of  which  they  would  not  suffer  others 
to  make  the  proper  use. 

Hirsutus  graciously  informed  me,  that  the 
number  of  their  society  was  limited,  but  that  I 
might  sometimes  attend  as  an  auditor.  I  was 
pleased  to  find  myself  in  no  danger  of  an  honour 
which  I  could  not  have  willingly  accepted,  nor 
gracefully  refused,  and  left  them  without  any  in- 
tention of  returning ;  for  I  soon  found  that  the 
suppression  of  those  habits  with  which  I  was  vi- 
tiated, required  association  with  men  very  differ- 
ent from  this  solemn  race. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c.         VIVACULUS. 

It  is  natural  to  feel  grief  or  indignation,  when 
any  thing  necessary  or  useful  is  wantonly  wast- 
ed, or  negligently  destroyed  ;  and  therefore  my 
correspondent  cannot  be  blamed  for  looking  with 
uneasiness  on  the  waste  of  life.  Leisure  and  cu- 
riosity might  soon  make  great  advances  in  useful 
knowledge,  were  they  not  diverted  by  minute 
emulation  and  laborious  trifles.  It  may,  how- 
ever, somewhat  mollify  his  anger  to  reflect,  that 
perhaps  none  of  the  assembly  which  he  describes 
was  capable  of  any  nobler  employment,  and  that 
he  who  does  his  best,  however  little,  is  always 
to  be  distinguished  from  him  who  does  nothing. 
Whatever  busies  the  mind  without  corrupting  it, 
has  at  least  this  use,  that  it  rescues  the  day  from 
idleness,  and  he  that  is  never  idle  will  not  often 
be  vicious. 


No.  178.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


269 


No.  178.]     SATURDAY,  Nov.  30,  1751. 

Pars  sanitatis  ve.tte  sanarifuit.  SENECA. 

To  yield  to  remedies  is  half  the  cure. 

PYTHAGORAS  is  reported  to  have  required  from 
those  whom  he  instructed  in  philosophy  a  pro- 
bationary silence  of  five  years.  Whether  this 
prohibition  of  speech  extended  to  all  the  parts  of 
his  time,  as  seems  generally  to  be  supposed,  or 
was  to  be  observed  only  in  the  school  or  in  the 
presence  of  their  master,  as  is  more  probable,  it 
was  sufficient  to  discover  the  pupil's  disposition ; 
to  try  whether  he  was  willing  to  pay  the  price  of 
learning ;  or  whether  he  was  one  of  those  whose 
ardour  was  rather  violent  than  lasting,  and  who 
expected  to  grow  wise  on  other  terms  than  those 
of  patience  and  obedience. 

Many  of  the  blessings  universally  desired,  are 
very  frequently  wanted,  because  most  men,  when 
they  should  labour,  content  themselves  to  com- 
plain, and  rather  linger  in  a  state  in  which  they 
cannot  be  at  rest,  than  improve  their  condition 
by  vigour  and  resolution. 

Providence  has  fixed  the  limits  of  human  en- 
joyment by  immoveable  boundaries,  and  has  set 
different  gratifications  at  such  a  distance  from 
each  other,  that  no  art  or  power  can  bring  them 
together.  This  great  law  it  is  the  business  of 
every  rational  being  to  understand,  that  life  may 
not  pass  away  in  an  attempt  to  make  contradic- 
tions consistent,  to  combine  opposite  qualities, 
and  to  unite  things  which  the  nature  of  their  be- 
ing must  always  keep  asunder. 

Of  two  objects  tempting  at  a  distance  on  con- 
trary sides,  it  is  impossible  to  approach  one  but 
by  receding  from  «he  other ;  by  long  deliberation 
and  dilatory  projects,  they  may  be  both  lost,  but 
can  never  be  both  gained.  It  is,  therefore,  neces- 
sary to  compare  them,  and,  when  we  have  deter- 
mined the  preference,  to  withdraw  our  eyes  and 
our  thoughts  at  once  from  that  which  reason  di- 
rects us  to  reject.  This  is  more  necessary,  if 
that  which  we  are  forsaking  has  the  power  of 
delighting  the  senses,  or  firing  the  fancy.  He 
that  once  turns  aside  to  the  allurements  of  un- 
lawful pleasure  can  have  no  security  that  he  shall 
ever  regain  the  paths  of  virtue. 

The  philosophic  goddess  of  Boethius,  having 
related  the  story  of  Orpheus,  who,  when  he  had 
recovered  his  wife  from  the  dominions  of  death, 
lost  her  again  by  looking  back  upon  her  in  the 
confines  of  light,  concludes  with  a  very  elegant 
and  forcible  application.  Whoever  you  are  that 
endeavour  to  elevate  your  minds  to  the  illuminations 
of  Heaven,  consider  yourselves  as  represented  in  this 
fable  :  for  he  that  is  once  so  far  overcome  as  to  turn 
back  his  eyes  totoards  the  infernal  caverns,  loses  at 
the  first  sight  all  that  influence  which  attracted  him 
on  high. 

Vos  htec  fabula  rcspicit. 
Quicunque  in  superum  diem 
Mentem  ducere  quieritis. 
Nam  qui  Tartareum  in  specus 
Victus  lutnina  flexerit, 
Quidquid  prsecipuum  tniliit. 
Perdit,  dinn  vidct  inferos. 

It  may  be  observed,  in  general,  that  the  future 
is  purchased  by  the  present.  It  is  not  possible 
to  secure  distant  or  permanent  happiness  but  by 
the  forbearance  of  some  immediate  gratification. 
This  is  so  evidently  true  with  regard  to  the  whole 


of  our  existence,  that  all  the  precepts  of  theology 
have  no  other  tendency  than  to  enforce  a  life  of 
faith ;  a  life  not  regulated  by  our  senses  but  our 
belief;  a  life  in  which  pleasures  are  to  be  refused 
for  fear  of  invisible  punishments,  and  calamities 
sometimes  to  be  sought,  and  always  endured,  in 
hope  of  rewards  that  shall  be  obtained  in  another 
state. 

Even  if  we  take  into  our  view  only  that  parti- 
cle of  pur  duration  which  is  terminated  by  the 
grave,  it  will  be  found  that  we  cannot  enjoy  one 
part  of  life  beyond  the  common  limitations  of 
pleasure,  but  by  anticipating  some  of  the  satis- 
faction which  should  exhilarate  the  following 
years.  The  heat  of  youth  may  spread  happiness 
into  wild  luxuriance ;  but  the  radical  vigour  re- 
quisite to  make  it  perennial  is  exhausted,  and 
all  that  can  be  hoped  afterwards  is  languor  and 
sterility. 

The  reigning  error  of  mankind  is,  that  we  are 
not  content  with  the  conditions  on  which  .the 
goods  of  life  are  granted.  No  man  is  insensible 
of  the  value  of  knowledge,  the  advantages  of 
health,  or  the  convenience  of  plenty,  but  every 
day  shows  us  those  on  whom  the  conviction  is 
without  effect. 

Knowledge  is  praised  and  desired  by  multi- 
tudes whom  her  charms  could  never  rouse  from 
the  couch  of  sloth  ;  whom  the  faintest  invitation 
of  pleasure  draws  away  from  their  studies ;  to 
whom  any  other  method  of  wearing  out  the  day 
is  more  eligible  than  the  use  of  books,  and  who 
are  more  easily  engaged  by  any  conversation, 
than  such  as  may  rectify  their  notions  or  enlarge 
their  comprehension. 

Every  man  that  has  felt  pain,  knows  how  lit- 
tle all  other  comforts  can  gladden  him  to  whom 
health  is  denied.  Yet  who  isthere  does  not  some- 
times hazard  it  for  the  enjoyment  of  an  hour  ? 
All  assemblies  of  jollity,  all  places  of  public  en- 
tertainment, exhibit  examples  of  strength  wast- 
ing in  riot,  and  beauty  withering  in  irregularity  ; 
nor  is  it  easy  to  enter  a  house  in  which  part  of  the 
family  is  not  groaning  in  repentance  of  past  in- 
temperance, and  part  admitting  disease  by  neg- 
ligence, or  soliciting  it  by  luxury. 

There  is  no  pleasure  which  men  of  every  age 
and  sect  have  more  generally  agreed  to  mention 
with  contempt  than  the  gratifications  of  the  pa- 
late ;  an  entertainment  so  far  removed  from  intel- 
lectual happiness,  that  scarcely  the  most  shame- 
less of  the  sensual  herd  have  dared  to  defend  it ; 
yet  even  to  this,  the  lowest  of  our  delights,  to 
this,  though  neither  quick  nor  lasting,  is  health 
with  all  its  activity  and  sprightliness  daily  sacri- 
ficed ;  and  for  this  are  half  the  miseries  endured 
which  urge  impatience  to  call  on  death. 

The  whole  world  is  put  in  motion  by  the  wish 
for  riches  and  the  dread  of  poverty.  Who  then 
would  not  imagine  that  such  conduct  as  will 
inevitably  destroy  what  all  are  thus  labouring 
to  acquire,  must  generally  be  avoided?  That 
he  who  spends  more  than  he  receives,  must  in 
time  become  indigent,  cannot  be  doubted  ;  but 
how  evident  soever  this  consequence  may  ap- 
pear, the  spendthrift  moves  in  the  whirl  of 
pleasure  with  too  much  rapidity  to  keep  it  be- 
fore his  eyes,  and,  in  the  intoxication  of  gayety, 
grows  every  dav  poorer  without  any  such  sense 
of  approaching  ruin  as  is  sufficient  to  awake  him 
into  caution. 

Many  complaints  are  made  of  the  misery  of 


270 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No. 


life  •  and  indeed  it  must  be  confessed  that  we 
are  subject  to  calamities  by  which  the  good  and 
bad,  the  diligent  and  slothful,  the  vigilant  and 
heedless  are  equally  afflicted.  But  surely,  though 
some  indulgence  may  be  allowed  to  groans  ex- 
torted by  inevitable  misery,  no  man  has  a  right 
to  repine  at  evils  which,  against  warning,  against 
experience,  he  deliberately  and  leisurely  brings 
upon  his  own  head  ;  or  to  consider  himself  as 
debarred  from  happiness  by  such  obstacles  as 
resolution  may  break  or  dexterity  may  put  aside. 
Great  numbers  who  quarrel  with  their  con- 
dition, have  wanted  not  the  power  but  the  will 
to  obtain  a  better  state.  They  have  never  con- 
templated the  difference  between  good  and  evil 
sufficiently  to  quicken  aversion,  or  invigorate 
desire ;  they  have  indulged  a.  drowsy  thought- 
lessness, or  giddy  levity ;  have  committed  the 
balance  of  choice  to  the  management  of  caprice ; 
and  w  hen  they  have  long  accustomed  themselves 
to  receive  all  that  chance  offered  them,  without 
examination,  lament  at  last  that  they  find  them- 
selves deceived. 


No.  179.]     TUESDAT,  DEC.  3,  1751. 

Perpetuo  risupulmonem  ogitare  solebat.  Juv. 

Democritus  would  feed  his  spleen,  and  shake 
His  sides  and  shoulders  till  he  felt  them  ache. 

DRYDEN. 

"  EVERY  man,"  says  Tully,  "  has  two  charac- 
ters ;  one  which  he  partakes  with  all  mankind, 
and  by  which  he  is  distinguished  from  brute 
animals  ;  another  which  discriminates  him  from 
the  rest  of  his  own  species,  and  impresses  on  him 
a  manner  and  temper  peculiar  to  himself:  this 
particular  character,  if  it  be  not  repugnant  to 
the  laws  of  general  humanity,  it  is  always  his 
business  to  cultivate  and  preserve." 

Every  hour  furnishes  some  confirmation  of 
Tully's  precept.  It  seldom  happens,  that  an 
assembly  of  pleasure  is  so  happily  selected,  but 
that  some  one  finds  admission  with  whom  the 
rest  are  deservedly  offended ;  and  it  will  appear, 
on  a  close  inspection,  that  scarce  any  man  be- 
comes eminently  disagreeable,  but  by  a  depart- 
ure from  his  real  character,  and  an  attempt  at 
something  for  which  nature  or  education  have 
left  him  unqualified. 

Ignorance  or  dulness  have  indeed  no  power  of 
affording  delight,  but  they  never  give  disgust  ex- 
cept when  they  assume  the  dignity  of  knowledge, 
or  ape  the  sprightliness  of  wit  Awkwardness 
and  inelegance  have  none  of  those  attractions 
by  which  ease  and  politeness  take  possession  of 
the  heart  ;  but  ridicule  and  censure  seldom  rise 
against  them,  unless  they  appear  associated  with 
that  confidence  which  belongs  only  to  long  ac- 
quaintance with  the  modes  of  life,  and  to  con- 
sciousness of  unfailing  propriety  of  behaviour. 
Deformity  itself  is  regarded  with  tenderness 
rather  than  aversion,  when  it  does  not  attempt 
to  deceive  the  sight  by  dress  and  decoration,  and 
to  seize  upon  fictitious  claims  the  prerogatives 
of  beauty. 

He  that  stands  to  contemplate  the  crowds  that 
fill  the  streets  of  a  populous  city,  will  see  many 
passengers  whose  air  and  motion  it  will  be  diffi- 
cult to  behold  without  contempt  and  laughter ; 
but  if  he  examines  what  are  the  appearances 
that  thus  powerfully  excite  his  risibility,  he  will 


find  among  them  neither  poverty  nor  disease, 
nor  any  involuntary  or  painful  defect.  The  dis- 
position to  derision  and  insult  is  awakened  by 
the  softness  of  foppery,  the  swell  of  insolence, 
the  liveliness  of  levity,  or  the  solemnity  of  gran- 
deur ;  by  the  sprightly  trip,  the  stately  stalk,  the 
formal  strut,  and  the  lofty  mien  ;  by  gestures  in- 
tended to  catch  the  eye,  and  by  looks  elaborately 
formed  as  evidences  of  importance. 

It  has,  I  think,  been  sometimes  urged  in  fa- 
vour of  affectation,  that  it  is  only  a  mistake  of 
the  means  to  a  good  end,  and  that  the  intention 
with  which  it  is  practised  is  always  to  please. 
If  all  attempts  to  innovate  the  constitutional  or 
habitual  character  have  really  proceeded  from 
public  spirit  and  love  of  others,  the  world  has 
hitherto  been  sufficiently  ungrateful,  since  no 
return  but  scorn  has  yet  been  made  to  the  most 
difficult  of  all  enterprises,  a  contest  with  nature  ; 
nor  has  any  pity  been  shown  to  the  fatigues  of 
labour  which  never  succeeded,  and  the  uneasi- 
ness of  disguise  by  which  nothing  was  concealed. 

It  seems  therefore  to  be  determined  by  the 
general  suffrage  of  mankind,  that  he  who  decks 
himself  in  adscititious  qualities  rather  purposes 
to  command  applause  than  impart  pleasure;  and 
he  is  therefore  treated  as  a  man,  who,  by  an  un- 
reasonable ambition,  usurps  the  place  in  society 
to  which  he  has  no  right.  Praise  is  seldom  paid 
with  willingness  even  to  inco  ntestablemerit,  and 
it  can  be  no  wonder  that  he  who  calls  for  it 
without  desert  is  repulsed  with  universal  indig- 
nation. 

Affectation  naturally  counterfeits  those  excel- 
lences which  are  placed  at  the  greatest  distance 
from  possibility  of  attainment.  We  are  con- 
scious of  our  own  defects,  and^agerly  endeavour 
to  supply  them  by  artificial  excellence;  nor 
would  such  efforts  be  wholly  without  excuse, 
were  they  not  often  excited  by  ornamental  trifles, 
which  he,  that  thus  anxiously  struggles  for  the 
reputation  of  possessing  them,  would  not  have 
been  known  to  want,  had  not  his  industry 
quickened  observation. 

Gelasimus  passed  the  first  part  of  his  life  in 
academical  privacy  and  rural  retirement,  without 
any  other  conversation  than  that  of  scholars, 
grave,  studious,  and  abstracted  as  himself.  He 
cultivated  the  mathematical  sciences  with  inde- 
fatigable diligence,  discovered  many  useful  theo- 
rems, discussed  with  great  accuracy  the  resist- 
ance of  fluids,  and,  though  his  priority  was  not 
generally  acknowledged,  was  the  first  who  fully 
explained  all  the  properties  of  the  catenarian 
curve. 

Learning,  when  it  rises  to  eminence,  will  be 
observed  in  time,  whatever  mists  may  happen  to 
surround  it.  Gelasimus,  in  his  forty-ninth  year, 
was  distinguished  by  those  who  have  the  re- 
wards of  knowledge  in  their  hands,  and  called 
out  to  display  his  acquisitions  for  the  honour  of 
his  country,  and  add  dignity  by  his  presence  to 
philosophical  assemblies.  As  he  did  not  suspect 
his  unfitness  for  common  affairs,  he  felt  no  re- 
luctance to  obey  the  invitation,  and  what  he  did 
not  feel  he  had  yet  too  much  honesty  to  feign. 
He  entered  into  the  world  at  a  larger  and  more 
populous  college,  where  his  performance  would 
be  more  public,  and  his  renown  further  extend- 
ed ;  and  imagined  that  he  should  find  his  repu- 
tation universally  prevalent,  and  the  influence  at 
learning  every  where  the  same. 


No.  180.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


271 


His  merit  introduced  him  to  splendid  tables 
and  elegant  acquaintance ;  but  he  did  not  find 
himself  always  qualified  to  join  in  the  conversa- 
tion. He  was  distressed  by  civilities  which  he 
knew  not  how  to  repay,  and  entangled  in  many 
ceremonial  perplexities  from  which  his  books 
and  diagrams  could  not  extricate  him.  He  was 
sometimes  unluckily  engaged  in  disputes  with 
ladies  with  whom  algebraic  axioms  had  no  great 
weight ;  and  saw  many  whose  favour  and  esteem 
he  could  not  but  desire,  to  whom  he  was  very 
little  recommended  by  his  theories  of  the  tides, 
or  his  approximations  to  the  quadrature  of  the 
circle.  Gelasimus  did  not  want  penetration  to 
discover,  that  no  charm  was  more  generally  ir- 
resistible than  that  of  easy  facetiousness  and 
flowing  hilarity.  He  saw  that  diversion  was 
more  frequently  welcome  than  improvement  ; 
that  authority  and  seriousness  were  rather  feared 
than  loved ;  and  that  the  grave  scholar  was  a 
kind  of  imperious  ally,  hastily  dismissed  when 
his  assistance  was  no  longer  necessary.  He 
came  to  a  sudden  resolution  of  throwing  ofT 
those  cumbrous  ornaments  of  learning  which 
hindered  his  reception,  and  commenced  a  man 
of  wit  and  jocularity.  Utterly  unacquainted 
with  every  topic  of  merriment,  ignorant  of  the 
modes  and  follies,  the  vices  and  virtues  of  man- 
kind, and  unfurnished  with  any  ideas  but  such 
as  Pappus  and  Archimedes  had  given  him,  he 
began  to  silence  all  inquiries  with  a  jest  instead 
of  a  solution ;  extended  his  face  with  a  grin, 
which  he  mistook  for  a  smile  ;  and,  in  the  place 
of  a  scientific  discourse,  retailed  in  a  new  lan- 
guage, formed  between  the  college  and  the 
tavern,  the  intelligence  of  the  newspaper. 

Laughter  he  knew,  was  a  token  of  alacrity  ; 
and  therefore,  whatever  he  said  or  heard, .he  was 
careful  not  to  fail  in  that  great  duty  of  a  wit 
If  he  asked  or  told  the  hour  of  the  day,  if  he 
complained  of  heat  or  cold,  stirred  the  fire,  or 
filled  a  glass,  removed  his  chair,  or  snuffed  a 
candle,  he  always  found  some  occasion  to  laugh. 
The  jest  was  indeed  a  secret  to  all  but  himself; 
but  habitual  confidence  in  his  own  discernment 
hindered  him  from  suspecting  any  weakness  or 
mistake.  He  wondered  that  his  wit  was  so 
little  understood,  but  expected  that  his  audience 
would  comprehend  it  by  degrees,  and  persisted 
all  his  life  to  show  by  gross  buffoonery,  how 
little  the  strongest  faculties  can  perform  beyond 
the  limits  of  their  own  province. 


No.  JSO.j     SATURDAY,  DEC.  7,  1751. 

TaEr'  £<<?<ij  tro^of  laOt  pdrqv  $'  'Eirfjeovpov  eatrov 
Hov  TO  Kft&v  fyjTtiv,  Kal  rives  al  /jiovdScs- 

AVTCMEDON. 

On  life,  on  morals,  be  thy  thoughts  employ'd  ; 
Leave  to  the  schools  their  atoms  and  their  void. 

IT  is  somewhere  related  by  Le  Clerc,  that  a 
wealthy  trader  of  good  understanding,  having 
the  common  ambition  to  breed  his  son  a  scholar, 
carried  him  to  a  university,  resolving  to  use  his 
own  judgment  in  the  choice  of  a  tutor.  He  had 
been  taught,  by  whatever  intelligence,  the  near- 
est way  to  the  heart  of  an  academic,  and  at  his 
arrival  entertained  all  who  came  about  him  with 
such  profusion,  that  the  professors  were  lured  by 
the  smell  of  his  table  from  their  books,  and 
flocked  round  him  with  all  the  cringes  of  awk 


ward  complaisance.  This  eagerness  answered 
the  merchant's  purpose ;  he  glutted  them  with 
delicacies,  and  softened  them  with  caresses,  till 
he  prevailed  upon  one  after  another  to  open 
his  bosom,  and  make  a  discovery  of  his  com- 
petitions, jealousies,  and  resentments.  Having 
thus  learned  each  man's  character,  partly  from 
himself,  and  partly  from  his  acquaintances,  he 
resolved  to  find  some  other  education  for  his 
son,  and  went  away  convinced  that  a  scholastic 
life  has  no  other  tendency  than  to  vitiate  the 
morals  and  contract  the  understanding,  nor 
would  he  afterwards  hear  with  patience  the 
praises  of  the  ancient  authors,  being  persuaded 
that  scholars  of  all  ages  must  have  been  the 
same,  and  that  Xenophon  and  Cicero  were  pro- 
fessors of  some  former  university,  and  therefore 
mean  and  selfish,  ignorant  and  servile,  like  those 
whom  he  had  lately  visited  and  forsaken. 

Envy,  curiosity,  and  a  sense  of  the  imperfec- 
tion of  our  present  state,  incline  us  to  estimate 
the  advantages  which  are  in  the  possession  of 
others  above  their  real  value.  Every  one  must 
have  remarked,  what  powers  and  prerogatives 
the  vulgar  imagine  to  be  conferred  by  learning. 
A  man  of  science  is  expected  to  excel  the  un- 
lettered and  unenlightened  even  on  occasions 
where  literature  is  of  no  use,  and,  among  weak 
minds,  loses  part  of  his  reverence,  by  discovering 
no  superiority  in  those  parts  of  life  in  which  all 
are  unavoidably  equal;  as,  when  a  monarch 
makes  a  progress  to  the  remoter  provinces,  the 
rustics  are  said  sometimes  to  wonder  that  the} 
find  him  of  the  same  size  with  themselves. 

These  demands  of  prejudice  and  folly  can  ne- 
ver be  satisfied  ;  and  therefore  many  of  the  im- 
putations which  learning  suffers  from  disap- 
pointed ignorance  are  without  reproach.  But 
there  are  some  failures  to  which  men  of  study 
are  peculiarly  exposed.  Every  condition  has  its 
disadvantages.  The  circle  of  knowledge  is  too 
wide  for  the  most  active  and  diligent  intellect,  and 
while  science  is  pursued,  other  accomplishments 
are  neglected ;  as  a  small  garrison  must  leave 
one  part  of  an  extensive  fortress  naked  when  an 
alarm  calls  them  to  another. 

The  learned,  however,  might  generally  sup- 
port their  dignity  with  more  success,  if  they  suf- 
fered not  themselves  to  be  misled  by  the  desire 
of  superfluous  attainments.  Raphael,  in  return 
to  Adam's  inquiries  into  the  courses  of  the  stars 
and  the  revolutions  of  heaven,  counsels  him  to 
withdraw  his  mind  from  idle  speculations,  and 
employ  his  faculties  upon  nearer  and  more  in- 
teresting objects,  the  survey  of  his  own  life,  the 
subjection  of  his  passions,  the  knowledge  of  du- 
ties which  must  daily  be  performed,  and  the  de- 
tection of  dangers  which  must  daily  be  incurred. 

This  angelic  counsel  every  man  of  letters 
should  always  have  before  him.  He  that  de- 
votes himself  to  retired  study  naturally  sinks 
from  omission  to  forgetfulness  of  social  duties ; 
he  must  be  therefore  sometimes  awakened  and 
recalled  to  the  general  condition  of  mankind. 

I  am  far  from  any  intention  to  limit  curiosity, 
or  confine  the  labours  of  learning  to  arts  of  im- 
mediate and  necessary  use.  It  is  only  from  the 
various  essays  of  experimental  industry,  and  the 
vague  excursions  of  minds  sent  out  upon  disco, 
very,  that  any  advancement  of  knowledge  can 
be  expected  ;  and  though  many  must  be  disap- 
pointed in  their  labours,  yet  they  are  not  to  be 


'272 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  181. 


charged  with  having  spent  their  time  in  vain ; 
their  example  contributed  to  inspire  emulation, 
and  their  miscarriages  taught  others  the  way  to 
success.  , 

But  the  distant  hope  of  being  one  day  uselul 
or  eminent,  ought  not  to  mislead  us  too  far  from 
that  study  which  is  equally  requisite  to  the  great 
and  mean,  to  the  celebrated  and  obscure ;  the 
art  of  moderating  the  desires,  of  repressing  the 
appetites,  and  of  conciliating  or  retaining  the  fa- 
vour of  mankind. 

No  man  can  imagine  the  course  of  his  own 
life,  or  the  conduct  of  the  world  around  him,  un- 
worthy his  attention  ;  yet,  among  the  sons  of 
learning,  many  seem  to  have  thought  of  every 
thing  rather  than  of  themselves,  and  to  have  ob- 
served every  thing  but  what  passes  before  their 
eyes :  many  who  toil  through  the  intricacy  of 
complicated  systems  are  insuperably  embarrass- 
ed with  the  least  perplexity  in  common  affairs  ; 
many  who  compare  the  actions  and  ascertain  the 
characters  of  ancient  heroes,  let  their  own  days 
glide  away  without  examination,  and  suffer  vi- 
cious habits  to  encroach  upon  their  minds  with- 
out resistance  or  detection. 

The  most  frequent  reproach  of  the  scholastic 
race  is  the  want  of  fortitude,  i^>t  martial  but  phi- 
losophic. Men  bred  in  shades  and  silence, 
taught  to  immure  themselves  at  sunset,  and  ac- 
customed to  no  other  weapon  than  syllogism, 
may  be  allowed  to  feel  terror  at  personal  dan- 
ger, and  to  be  disconcerted  by  tumult  and  alarm. 
But  why  should  he  whose  life  is  spent  in  con- 
templation, and  whose  business  is  only  to  dis- 
cover truth,  be  unable  to  rectify  the  fallacies  of 
imagination,  or  contend  successfully  against 
prejudice  and  passion  ?  To  what  end  has  he 
read  and  meditated,  if  he  gives  up  his  under- 
standing to  false  appearances,  and  suffers  him- 
self to  be  enslaved  by  fear  of  evils  to  which  only 
folly  or  vanity  can  expose  him,  or  elated  by  ad- 
vantages to  which,  as  they  are  equally  conferred 
upon  the  good  and  bad,  no  real  dignity  is  an- 
nexed ? 

Such,  however,  is  the  state  of  the  world,  that 
the  most  obsequious  of  the  slaves  of  pride,  the 
most  rapturous  of  the  gazers  upon  wealth,  the 
most  officious  of  the  whisperers  of  greatness,  are 
collected  from  seminaries  appropriated  to  the 
study  of  wisdom  and  of  virtue,  where  it  was  in- 
tended that  appetite  should  learn  to  be  content 
with  little,  and  that  hope  should  aspire  only  to 
honours  which  no  human  power  can  give  or 
take  away. 

The  student,  when  he  comes  forth  into  the 
world,  instead  of  congratulating  himself  upon 
his  exemption  from  the  errors  of  those  whose 
opinions  have  been  formed  by  accident  or  cus- 
tom, and  who  live  without  any  certain  princi- 
ples of  conduct,  is  commonly  in  haste  to  mingle 
with  the  multitude,  and  show  his  sprightliness 
and  ductility,  by  an  expeditious  compliance  with 
fashions  or  vices.  The  first  smile  of  a  man, 
whose  fortune  gives  him  power  to  reward  his 
dependents,  commonly  enchants  him  beyond 
resistance;  the  glare  of  equipage,  the  sweets  of 
luxury,  the  liberality  of  general  promises,  the 
softness  of  habitual  affability,  fill  his  imagina- 
tion ;  and  he  soon  ceases  to  have  any  other  wish 
than  to  be  well  received,  or  any  measure  of  right 
nn'l  wrong  but  the  opinion  of  his  patron. 

A  man  flattered  and  obeyed  learns  to  exact 


grosser  adulation  and  enjoin  lower  submission. 
Neither  our  virtues  nor  vices  are  all  our  own. 
If  there  were  no  cowardice,  there  would  be  little 
insolence;  pride  cannot  rise  to  any  great  degree, 
but  by  the  concurrence  of  blandishment  or  the 
sufferance  of  lameness.  The  wretch  who  would 
shrink  and  crouch  before  one  that  should  dart  his 
eyes  upon  him  with  the  spirit  of  natural  equality, 
becomes  capricious  and  tyrannical  when  he  ^ces 
himself  approached  with  a  downcast  look,  and 
hears  the  soft  address  of  awe  and  servility.  To 
those  who  are  willing  to  purchase  favour  by 
cringes  and  compliance,  is  to  be  imputed  the 
haughtiness  that  leaves  nothing  to  be  hoped  by 
firmness  and  integrity. 

If,  instead  of  wandering  after  the  meteors  of 
philosophy,  which  fill  the  world  with  splendour 
for  a  while,  and  then  sink  and  are  forgotten,  the 
candidates  of  learning  fixed  their  eyes  upon  the 
permanent  lustre  of  moral  and  religious  truth, 
they  would  find  a  more  certain  direction  to  hap- 
piness. A  little  plausibility  of  discourse,  and 
acquaintance  with  unnecessary  speculations,  is 
dearly  purchased  when  it  excludes  those  instruc- 
tions which  fortify  the  heart  with  resolution,  and 
exalt  the  spirit  to  independence. 


No.  181.]       TUESDAY,  DEC.  10,  1751. 

— Neu  fiuitem  ditbiiE  spe  pendulus  hora. — HOR  < 

Nor  let  me  float  in  fortune's  power, 

Dependant  on  the  future  hour.  FRANCIS. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

As  I  have  passed  much  of  my  life  in  disquiet  and 
suspense,  and  lost  many  opportunities  of  advan- 
tage by  a  passion  which  I  have  reason  to  believe 
prevalent  in  different  degrees  over  a  great  part 
of  mankind,  I  cannot  but  think  myself  well  qua- 
lified to  warn  those  who  are  yet  uncaptivated, 
of  the  danger  which  they  incur  by  placing  them- 
selves within  its  influence. 

I  served  an  apprenticeship  to  a  linen-drapei, 
with  uncommon  reputation  for  diligence  and 
fidelity ;  and  at  the  age  of  three-and- twenty 
opened  a  shop  for  myself  with  a  large  stock,  and 
such  credit  among  all  the  merchants  who  were 
acquainted  with  my  master,  that  I  could  com- 
mand whatever  was  imported  curious  and  va- 
luable. For  five  years  I  proceeded  with  success 
proportioned  to  close  application  and  untainted 
integrity;  was  a  daring  bidder  at  every  sale;  al- 
ways paid  ray  notes  before  they  were  due;  and 
advanced  so  fast  in  commercial  reputation,  that 
I  was  proverbially  marked  out  as  the  model  of 
young  traders,  and  every  one  expected  that  a 
few  years  would  make  me  an  alderman. 

In  this  course  of  even  prosperity,  I  was  one 
day  persuaded  to  buy  a  ticket  in  the  lottery. 
The  sum  was  inconsiderable,  part  was  to  be  re- 
paid though  fortune  might  fail  to  favour  me,  and 
therefore  my  established  maxims  of  frugality  did 
not  restrain  me  from  so  trifling  an  experiment. 
The  ticket  lay  almost  forgotten  till  tVie  time  at 
which  every  man's  fate  was  to  be  determined  ; 
nor  did  the  affair  even  then  seem  of  any  import- 
ance, till  I  discovered  by  the  public  papers  that 
the  number  next  to  mine  had  conferred  the  great 
prize. 


.No.  181.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


273 


My  heart  leaped  at  the  thought  of  such  an 
approach  to  sudden  riches,  which  I  considered 
myself,  however  contrarily  to  the  laws  of  com- 
putation, as  having  missed  by  a  single  chance  ; 
and  I  could  not  forbear  to  revolve  the  conse- 
quences which  such  a  bounteous  allotment  would 
have  produced,  if  it  had  happened  to  me.  This 
dream  of  felicity,  by  degrees,  took  possession  of 
my  imagination.  The  great  delight  of  my  soli- 
tary hours  was  to  purchase  an  estate,  and  form 
plantations  with  money  which  once  might  have 
been  mine,  and  I  never  met  my  friends  but  I 
spoiled  all  their  merriment  by  perpetual  com- 
plaints of  my  ill  luck. 

At  length  another  lottery  was  opened,  and  I 
had  now  so  heated  my  imagination  with  the 
prospect  of  a  prize,  that  I  should  have  pressed 
among  the  first  purchasers,  had  not  my  ardour 
been  withheld  by  deliberation  upon  the  proba- 
bility of  success  from  one  ticket  rather  than  an- 
other. I  hesitated  long  between  even  and  odd ; 
considered  the  square  and  cubic  numbers  through 
the  lottery ;  examined  all  those  to  which  good 
luck  had  been  hitherto  annexed;  and  at  last 
fixed  upon  one,  which,  by  some  secret  relation 
to  the  events  of  my  life,  I  thought  predestined  to 
make  me  happy.  Delay  in  great  affairs  is  often 
mischievous  ;  the  ticket  was  sold,  and  its  pos- 
sessor could  not  be  found. 

I  returned  to  my  conjectures,  and,  after  many 
arts  of  prognostication,  fixed  upon  another 
chance,  but  with  less  confidence.  Never  did 
captive,  heir,  or  lover,  feel  so  much  vexation 
from  the  slow  pace  of  time,  as  I  suffered  be- 
tween the  purchase  of  my  ticket  and  the  distri- 
bution of  the  prizes.  I  solaced  my  uneasiness  as 
well  as  I  could,  by  frequent  contemplations  of  ap- 
proaching happiness  ;  when  the  sun  rose  I  knew 
it  would  set,  and  congratulated  myself  at  night 
that  I  was  so  much  nearer  to  my  wishes.  At 
last  the  day  came,  my  ticket  appeared,  and  re- 
warded all  my  care  and  sagacity  with  a  despica- 
ble prize  of  fifty  pounds. 

My  frienda,  who  honestly  rejoiced  upon  my 
success,  were  very  coldly  received  ;  I  hid  myself 
a  fortnight  in  the  country,  that  my  chagrin  might 
fume  away  without  observation,  and  then  re- 
turning to  my  shop  began  to  listen  after  another 
lottery. 

With  the  news  of  a  lottery  I  was  soon  grati- 
fied ;  and  having  now  found  the  vanity  of  conjec- 
ture and  inefficacy  of  computation,  I  resolved  to 
take  the  prize  by  violence,  and  therefore  bought 
forty  tickets — not  omitting,  however,  to  divide 
them  between  the  even  and  odd  numbers,  that  I 
might  not  miss  the  lucky  class.  Many  conclu- 
sions did  I  form,  and  many  experiments  did  I 
try,  to  determine  from  which  of  those  tickets  I 
might  most  reasonably  expect  riches.  At  last,  be- 
ing unable  to  satisfy  myself  by  any  modes  of  rea- 
soning, I  wrote  the  numbers  upon  dice,  and  allot- 
ted five  hours  every  day  to  the  amusement  of 
throwing  them  in  a  garret ;  and,  examining  the 
event  by  an  exact  register,  found,  on  the  even- 
ing before  the  lottery  was  drawn,  that  one  of  my 
numbers  had  been  turned  up  five  times  more  than 
any  of  the  rest  in  three  hundred  and  thirty  thou- 
sand throws. 

This  experiment  was  fallacious  ;  the  first  day 
presented  the  hopeful  ticket,  a  detestable  blank. 
The  rest  came  out  with  different  fortune,  and  in 
2K 


conclusion  I  lost  thirty  pounds  by  this  great  ad 
venture. 

J  had  now  wholly  changed  the  cast  of  my  be 
haviour  and  the  conduct  of  my  life.  The  shop 
was  for  the  most  part  abandoned  to  my  servants  : 
and  if  I  entered  it,  my  thoughts  were  so  engrossed 
by  my  tickets  that  I  scarcely  heard  or  answered 
a  question,  but  considered  every  customer  as  an 
intruder  upon  my  meditations,  whom  I  was  in 
haste  to  despatch.  I  mistook  the  price  of  my 
goods,  committed  blunders  in  my  bills,  forgot  to 
file  my  receipts,  and  neglected  to  regulate  my 
books.  My  acquaintances  by  degrees  began  to 
fall  away  ;  but  I  perceived  the  decline  of  my  bu- 
siness with  little  emotion,  because  whatever  de- 
ficiency there  might  be  in  my  gains  I  expected 
the  next  lottery  to  supply. 

Miscarriage  naturally  produces  diffidence  ;  I 
began  now  to  seek  assistance  against  ill  luck,  by 
an  alliance  with  those  that  had  been  more  suc- 
cessful. I  inquired  diligently  at  what  office  any 
prize  had  been  sold,  that  I  might  purchase  of  a 
more  propitious  vender ;  solicited  those  who  had 
been  fortunate  in  former  lotteries,  to  partake  with 
me  in  my  new  tickets ;  and  whenever  I  met  with 
one  that  had  in  any  event  of  his  life  been  emi- 
nently prosperous,  I  invited  him  to  take  a  larger 
share.  I  had,  by  this  rule  of  conduct,  so  diffused 
my  interest,  that  I  had  a  fourth  of  fifteen  tickets, 
an  eighth  of  forty,  and  a  sixteenth  of  ninety. 

I  waited  for  the  decision  of  my  fate  with  my 
former  palpitations,  and  looked  upon  the  busi- 
ness of  my  trade  with  the  usual  neglect.  The 
wheel  at  last  was  turned,  and  its  revolutions 
brought  me  a  long  succession  of  sorrows  and  dis 
appointments.  I  indeed  often  partook  of  a  small 
prize,  and  the  loss  of  one  day  was  generally  ba- 
lanced by  the  gain  of  the  next ;  but  my  desires 
yet  remained  unsatisfied,  and  when  one  of  my 
chances  had  failed,  all  my  expectation  was  sus- 
pended on  those  which  remained  yet  undeter- 
mined. At  last  a  prize  of  five  thousand  pounda 
was  proclaimed  ;  I  caught  fire  at  the  cry,  and, 
inquiring  the  number,  found  it  to  be  one  of  my 
own  tickets,  which  I  had  divided  among  those  on 
whose  luck  I  depended,  and  of  which  I  had  re- 
tained only  a  sixteenth  part. 

You  will  easily  judge  with  what  detestation 
of  himself,  a  man  thus  intent  upon  gain  reflected 
that  he  had  sold  a  prize  which  was  once  in  his 
possession.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that  I  repre- 
sented to  my  mind  the  impossibility  of  recalling 
the  past,  or  the  folly  of  condemning  an  act,  which 
only  its  event,  an  event  which  no  human  intelli- 
gence could  foresee,  proved  to  be  wrong.  The 
prize  which,  though  put  in  my  hands  had  been 
suffered  to  slip  from  me,  filled  me  with  anguish ; 
and,  knowing  that  complaint  would  only  expose 
me  to  ridicule,  I  gave  myself  up  silently  to  grief, 
and  lost  by  degrees  my  appetite  and  my  rest 

My  indisposition  soon  became  visible  ;  I  was 
visited  by  my  friends,  and  among  them  by 
Eumathes,  a  clergyman,  whose  piety  and  learn- 
ing gave  him  such  an  ascendant  over  me,  that  I 
could  not  refuse  to  open  my  heart.  "  There  are," 
said  he,  "  few  minds  sufficiently  firm  to  be  trusted 
in  the  hands  of  chance.  Whoever  finds  himself 
inclined  to  anticipate  futurity,  and  exalt  possibi- 
lity to  certainty ,  should  avoid  every  kind  of  casual 
adventure,  since  his  grief  must  be  always  pro- 
portionate to  his  hope.  You  have  long  wasted 


274 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[i\o.  Is2. 


that  time,  which,  by  a  proper  application,  would 
have  certainly,  though  moderately,  increased  your 
fortune,  in  a  laborious  and  anxious  pursuit  of  a 
species  of  gain,  which  no  labour  or  anxiety,  no 
art  or  expedient,  can  secure  or  promote.  You 
are  now  fretting  away  your  life  in  repentance  of 
an  act,  against  which  repentance  can  give  no 
caution,  but  to  avoid  the  occasion  of  committing 
it.  Rouse  from  this  lazy  dream  of  fortuitous 
riches,  which,  if  obtained,  you  could  scarcely  have 
enjoyed,  because  they  could  confer  no  conscious- 
ness of  desert ;  return  to  rational  and  manly  in- 
dustry, and  consider  the  mere  gift  of  luck  as  be- 
low the  care  of  a  wise  man." 


JSo.  182.]      SATURDAY,  DEC.  14,  1751. 

Dives  qui  fieri  vult 

Et  cito  vult  fieri.  JUVENAL. 

The  lust  of  wealth  can  never  bear  delay. 

IT  has  been  observed  in  a  late  paper,  that  we  are 
unreasonably  desirous  to  separate  the  goods  of 
life  from  those  evils  which  Providence  has  con- 
nected with  them,  and  to  catch  advantages  with- 
out paying  the  price  at  which  they  are  offered  us. 
Every  man  wishes  to  be  rich,  but  very  few  have 
the  powers  necessary  to  raise  a  sudden  fortune, 
either  by  new  discoveries,  or  by  superiority  of 
skill,  in  any  necessary  employment ;  and,  among 
lower  understandings,  many  want  the  firmness 
and  industry  requisite  to  regular  gain  and  gra- 
dual acquisitions. 

From  the  hope  of  enjoying  affluence  by  me- 
thods more  compendious  than  those  of  labour, 
and  more  generally  practicable  than  those  of 
genius,  proceeds  the  common  inclination  to  ex- 
periment and  hazard,  and  that  willingness  to 
snatch  all  opportunities  of  growing  rich  by 
chance,  which,  when  it  has  once  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  mind,  is  seldom  driven  out  either  by 
time  or  argument,  but  continues  to  waste  life  in 
perpetual  delusion,  and  generally  ends  in  wretch- 
edness and  want. 

The  folly  of  untimely  exultation  and  visionary 
prosperity  is  by  no  means  peculiar  to  the  pur- 
chasers of  tickets  ;  there  are  multitudes  whose 
life  is  nothing  but  a  continual  lottery ;  who  are 
always  within  a  few  months  of  plenty  and  hap- 
piness, and,  how  often  soever  they  are  mocked 
with  blanks,  expect  a  prize  from  the  next  ad- 
venture. 

Among  the  most  resolute  and  ardent  of  the 
votaries  of  chance,  may  be  numbered  the  mor- 
tals whose  hope  is  to  raise  themselves  by  a 
wealthy  match  ;  who  lay  out  all  their  industry 
on  the  assiduities  of  courtship,  and  sleep  and 
wake  with  no  other  ideas  than  of  treats,  compli- 
ments, guardians  and  rivals. 

One  of  the  most  indefatigable  of  this  class  is 
my  old  friend  Leviculus,  whom  I  have  never 
known  for  thirty  years  without  some  matrimo- 
nial project  of  advantage.  Leviculus  was  bred 
under  a  merchant,  and  by  the  graces  of  his  per- 
son, the  sprightliness  of  his  prattle,  and  the  neat- 
ness of  his  dress,  so  much  enamoured  his  mas- 
ter's second  daughter,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  that  she 
declared  her  resolution  to  have  no  other  husband. 
Her  father,  after  having  chidden  her  for  unduti- 


fulness,  consented  to  the  match,  not  much  to  the 
satisfaction  of  Leviculus,  who  was  sufficiently 
elated  with  his  conquest  to  think  himself  entitled 
to  a  larger  fortune.  He  was,  however,  soon  rid 
of  his  perplexity,  for  his  mistress  died  before 
their  marriage. 

He  was  now  so  well  satisfied  with  his  own  ac- 
complishments, that  he  determined  to  commence 
fortune-hunter ;  and  when  his  apprenticeship 
expired,  instead  of  beginning,  as  was  expected, 
to  walk  the  exchange  with  a  face  of  importance, 
or  associating  himself  with  those  who  were  most 
eminent  for  their  knowledge  of  the  stocks,  he 
at  once  threw  off  the  solemnity  of  the  count- 
ing-house, equipped  himself  with  a  modish  wig, 
listened  to  wits  in  coffee-houses,  passed  his 
evenings  behind  the  scenes  in  the  theatres, 
learned  the  names  of  the  beauties  of  quality, 
hummed  the  last  stanzas  of  fashionable  songs, 
talked  with  familiarity  of  high  play,  boasted  of 
his  achievements  upon  drawers  and  coachmen, 
was  often  brought  to  his  lodgings  at  midnight  in 
a  chair,  told  with  negligence  and  jocularity  of 
bilking  a  tailor,  and  now  and  then  let  fly  a  shrewd 
jest  at  a  sober  citizen. 

Thus  furnished  with  irresistible  artillery,  he 
turned  his  batteries  upon  the  female  world,  and 
in  the  first  warmth  of  self-approbation,  proposed 
no  less  than  the  possession  of  riches  and  beauty 
united.  He  therefore  paid  his  civilities  to  Fla- 
villa,  the  only  daughter  of  a  wealthy  shopkeeper, 
who  not  being  accustomed  to  amorous  blandish- 
ments, or  respectful  addresses,  was  delighted 
with  the  novelty  of  love,  and  easily  suffered  him 
to  conduct  her  to  the  play,  and  to  meet  her  where 
she  visited.  Leviculus  did  not  doubt  but  her 
father,  however  offended  by  a  clandestine  mar- 
riage, would  soon  be  reconciled  by  the  tears  of 
his  daughter,  and  the  merit  of  his  son-in-law,  and 
was  in  haste  to  conclude  the  affair.  But  the  lady 
liked  better  to  be  courted  than  married,  and  kept 
him  three  years  in  uncertainty  and  attendance. 
At  last  she  fell  in  love  with  a  young  ensign  at  a 
ball,  and,  having  danced  with  him  all  night,  mar- 
ried him  in  the  morning. 

Leviculus,  to  avoid  the  ridicule  of  his  com 
panions,  took  a  journey  to  a  small  estate  in  the 
country,  where,  after  his  usual  inquiries  concern- 
ing the  nymphs  in  the  neighbourhood,  he  found 
it  proper  to  fall  in  love  with  Altilla,  a  maiden  lady, 
twenty  years  older  than  himself,  for  whose  fa- 
vour fifteen  nephews  and  nieces  were  in  perpetual 
contention.  They  hovered  round  her  with  such 
jealous  officiousness,  as  scarcely  left  a  moment 
vacant  for  a  lover.  Leviculus,  nevertheless,  dis- 
covered his  passion  in  a  letter,  and  Altilla  could 
not  withstand  the  pleasure  of  hearing  vows  and 
sighs,  and  flatteries  and  protestations.  She  ad- 
mitted his  visits,  enjoyed,  for  five  years,  the  hap- 
piness of  keeping  all  her  expectants  in  perpetual 
alarms,  and  amused  herself  with  the  various  stra- 
tagems which  were  practised  to  disengage  bjer 
affections.  Sometimes  she  was  advised  with 
great  earnestness  to  travel  for  her  health,  and 
sometimes  entreated  to  keep  her  brother's  house. 
Many  stories  were  spread  to  the  disadvantage  of 
Leviculus,  by  which  she  commonly  seemed  af- 
fected for  a  time,  but  took  care  soon  afterwards 
to  express  her  conviction  of  their  falsehood.  But 
being  at  last  satiated  with  this  ludicrous  tyranny, 
she  told  her  lover,  when  he  pressed  for  the  re- 


No.  183.  j 


THE  RAMBLER. 


275 


\vard  of  his  services,  that  she  was  very  sensible 
of  his  merit,  but  was  resolved  not  to  impoverish 
an  ancient  family. 

He  then  returned  to  the  town,  and  soon  after 
his  arrival  became  acquainted  with  Latronia,  a 
lady  distinguished  by  the  elegance  of  her  equip- 
age and  the  regularity  of  her  conduct.  Her 
wealth  was  evident  in  her  magnificence,  and  her 
prudence  in  her  economy ;  and  therefore  Levi- 
culus,  who  had  scarcely  confidence  to  solicit  her 
favour,  readily  acquitted  fortune  of  her  former 
debts,  when  he  found  himself  distinguished  by 
her  with  such  marks  of  preference  as  a  woman 
of  modesty  is  allowed  to  give.  He  now  grew 
bolder,  and  ventured  to  breathe  out  his  impatience 
before  her.  She  heard  him  without  resentment, 
in  time  permitted  him  to  hope  for  happiness,  and 
at  last  fixed  the  nuptial  day,  without  any  distrust- 
ful reserve  of  pin-money,  or  sordid  stipulations 
for  jointure  and  settlements. 

Leviculus  was  triumphing  on  the  eve  of  mar- 
riage, when  he  heard  on  the  stairs  the  voice  of 
Latronia's  maid,  whom  frequent  bribes  had  se- 
cured in  his  service.  She  soon  burst  into  his 
room,  and  told  him  that  she  could  not  suffer  him 
to  be  longer  deceived  ;  that  her  mistress  was  now 
spending  the  last  payment  of  her  fortune,  and 
was  only  supported  in  her  expense  by  the  credit 
of  his  estate.  Leviculus  shuddered  to  see  him- 
self so  near  a  precipice,  and  found  that  he  was 
indebted  for  his  escape  to  the  resentment  of  the 
maid,  who,  having  assisted  Latronia  to  gain  the 
conquest,  quarrelled  with  her  at  last  about  the 
plunder. 

Leviculus  was  now  hopeless  and  disconsolate, 
till  one  Sunday  he  saw  a  lady  in  the  Mall,  whom 
her  dress  declared  a  widow,  and  whom,  by  the 
jolting  prance  of  her  gait,  and  the  broad  resplen- 
dance  of  her  countenance,  he  guessed  to  have 
lately  buried  some  prosperous  citizen.  He  fol- 
lowed her  home,  and  found  her  to  be  no  less 
than  the  relic  of  Prune  the  grocer,  who,  having 
no  children,  had  bequeathed  to  her  all  his  debts 
and  dues,  and  his  estates  real  and  personal.  No 
formality  was  necessary  in  addressing  madame 
Prune,  and  therefore  Leviculus  went  next  morn- 
ing without  an  introductor.  His  declaration 
was  received  with  a  loud  laugh ;  she  then  col- 
lected her  countenance,  wondered  at  his  impu- 
dence, asked  him  if  he  knew  to  whom  he  was 
talking,  then  showed  him  the  door,  and  again 
laughed  to  find  him  confused.  Leviculus  disco- 
vered that  this  coarseness  was  nothing  more  than 
the  coquetry  of  Cornhill,  and  next  day  returned 
to  the  attack.  He  soon  grew  familiar  to  her  dia- 
lect, and  in  a  few  weeks  heard,  without  any 
emotion,  hints  of  gay  clothes  with  empty  pockets ; 
concurred  in  many  sage  remarks  on  the  regard 
due  to  people  of  property;  and  agreed  with  her 
in  detestation  of  the  ladies  at  the  other  end  of 
the  town,  who  pinched  their  bellies  to  buy  fine 
laces,  and  then  pretended  to  laugh  at  the  city. 

He  sometimes  presumed  to  mention  marriage ; 
but  was  always  answered  with  a  slap,  a  hoot, 
and  a  flounce.  At  last  he  began  to  press  her 
closer,  and  thought  himself  more  favourably  re- 
ceived ;  but  going  one  morning,  with  a  resolu- 
tion to  trifle  no  longer,  he  found  her  gone  to 
church  with  a  young  journeyman  from  the  neigh- 
bouring shop,  of  whom  she  had  become  ena- 
moured at  her  window. 

In  these,  and  a  thousand  intermediate  adven- 


tures, has  Leviculus  spent  his  time,  till  he  is  now 
grown  gray  with  age,  fatigue,  and  disappoint- 
ment. He  begins  at  last  to  find  that  success  is 
not  to  be  expected ;  and  being  unfit  for  any  em- 
ployment that  might  improve  his  fortune,  and 
unfurnished  with  any  arts  that  might  amuse  his 
leisure,  is  condemned  to  wear  out  a  tasteless  life 
in  narratives  which  few  will  hear,  and  complaints 
which  none  will  pity. 


No.  183.]     TUESDAY,  DEC.  17, 1751. 

Ifullo fides  regni  tociii,  omnitque  potettat 
Impatiens  consortit  erat.  LCCAN 

No  faith  of  partnership  dominion  owns  ; 
Still  discord  hovers  o'er  divided  thrones. 

THE  hostility  perpetually  exercised  between  one 
man  and  another,  is  caused  by  the  desire  of  many 
for  that  which  only  few  can  possess.  Every 
man  would  be  rich,  powerful,  and  famous :  yet 
fame,  power,  and  riches,  are  only  the  names  of 
relative  conditions,  which  imply  the  obscurity  of 
dependance,  and  poverty  of  greater  numbers. 

This  universal  and  incessant  competition  pro- 
duces injury  and  malice  by  two  motives,  interest 
and  envy  ;  the  prospect  of  adding  to  our  posses- 
sions what  we  can  take  from  others,  and  the 
hope  of  alleviating  the  sense  of  our  disparity  by 
lessening  others,  though  we  gain  nothing  to 
ourselves. 

Of  these  two  malignant  and  destructive  pow- 
ers, it  seems  probable,  at  the  first  view,  that  inte- 
rest has  the  strongest  and  most  extensive  influ- 
ence. It  is  easy  to  conceive  that  opportunities 
to  seize  what  has  been  long  wanted,  may  excite 
desires  almost  irresistible ;  but  surely  the  same 
eagerness  cannot  be  kindled  by  an  accidental 
power  of  destroying  that  which  gives  happiness 
to  another.  It  must  be  more  natural  to  rob  for 
gain,  than  to  ravage  only  for  mischief. 

Yet  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  that  the  great  law 
of  mutual  benevolence  is  oftener  violated  by  envy 
than  by  interest ;  and  that  most  of  the  misery 
which  the  defamation  of  blameless  actions,  or 
the  obstruction  of  honest  endeavours,  brings 
upon  the  world,  is  inflicted  by  men  that  propose 
no  advantage  to  themselves  but  the  satisfaction 
of  poisoning  the  banquet  which  they  cannot 
taste,  and  blasting  the  harvest  which  they  have 
no  right  to  reap. 

Interest  can  diffuse  itself  but  to  a  narrow  com- 
pass. The  number  is  never  large  of  those  who 
can  hope  to  fill  the  posts  of  degraded  power,  catch 
the  fragments  of  shattered  fortune,  or  succeed  to 
the  honours  of  depreciated  beauty.  But  the  em 
pire  of  envy  has  no  limits,  as  it  requires  to  its 
influence  very  little  help  from  external  circum- 
stances. Envy  may  always  be  produced  by 
idleness  and  pride,  and  in  what  place  will  they 
not  be  found. 

Interest  requires  some  qualities  not  universally 
bestowed.  The  ruin  of  another  will  produce  no 
profit  to  him  who  has  not  discernment  to  mark 
his  advantage,  courage  to  seize,  and  activity  to 
pursue  it;  but  the  cold  malignity  of  envy  may 
be  exerted  in  a  torpid  and  quiescent  state,  amidst 
the  gloom  of  stupidity,  in  the  coverts  of  coward- 
ice. He  that  falls  by  the  attacks  of  interest,  is 
torn  by  hungry  tigers ;  he  may  discover  and  re- 
sist his  enemfes.  He  that  perishes  in  the  am- 


276 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[JNo.  184. 


bushes  of  envy,  is  destroyed  by  unknown  and 
invisible  assailants,  and  dies  like  a  man  suffocated 
by  a  poisonous  vapour,  without  knowledge  of  his 
danger,  or  possibility  of  contest. 

Interest  is  seldom  pursued  but  at  some  hazard. 
He  that  hopes  to  gain  much,  has  commonly 
something  to  lose,  and,  when  he  ventures  to  at- 
tack superiority,  if  he  fails  to  conquer,  is  irrevoc- 
ably crushed.  But  envy  may  act  without  ex- 
pense or  danger.  To  spread  suspicion,  to  invent 
calumnies,  to  propagate  scandal,  requires  neither 
labour  nor  courage.  It  is  easy  for  the  author  of 
a  lie,  however  malignant,  to  escape  detection, 
and  infamy  needs  very  little  industry  to  assist  its 
circulation. 

Envy  is  almost  the  only  vice  which  is  practica- 
ble at  all  times  and  in  every  place :  the  only  pas- 
sion which  can  never  lie  quiet  for  want  of  irrita- 
tion ;  its  effects  therefore  are  every  where  disco- 
verable, and  its  attempts  always  to  be  dreaded. 

It  is  impossible  to  mention  a  name  which  any 
advantageous  distinction  has  made  eminent,  but 
some  latent  animosity  will  burst  out,  The 
wealthy  trader,  however  he  may  abstract  him- 
self from  public  affairs,  will  never  want  those 
who  hint,  with  Shylock,  that  ships  are  but  boards. 
The  beauty  adorned  only  with  the  unambitious 
graces  of  innocence  and  modesty,  provokes, 
whenever  she  appears,  a  thousand  murmurs  of 
detraction.  The  genius,  even  when  he  endea- 
vours only  to  entertain  or  instruct,  yet  suffers 
persecution  from  innumerable  critics,  whose  acri- 
mony is  excited  merely  by  the  pain  of  seeing 
others  pleased,  and  of  hearing  applauses  which 
another  enjoys. 

The  frequency  of  envy  makes  it  so  familiar, 
that  it  escapes  our  notice  ;  nor  dp  we  often  re- 
flect upon  its  turpitude  or  malignity  till  we  hap- 
pen to  feel  its  influence.  When  he  that  has  given 
no  provocation  to  malice  but  by  attempting  to 
excel,  finds  himself  pursued  by  multitudes  whom 
he  never  saw,  with  all  the  implacability  of  per- 
sonal resentment ;  when  he  perceives  clamour 
and  malice  let  loose  upon  him  as  a  public  enemy, 
and  incited  by  every  stratagem  of  defamation ; 
when  he  hears  the  misfortunes  of  his  family,  or 
the  follies  of  his  youth,  exposed  to  the  world  ;  and 
every  failure  of  conduct,  or  defect  of  nature,  ag- 
gravated and  ridiculed ;  he  then  learns  to  abhor 
those  artifices  at  which  he  only  laughed  before, 
and  discovers  how  much  the  happiness  of  life 
would  be  advanced  by  the  eradication  of  envy 
from  the  human  heart. 

Envy  is,  indeed,  a  stubborn  weed  of  the  mind, 
and  seldom  yields  to  the  culture  of  philosophy. 
There  are,  however,  considerations,  which,  if 
carefully  implanted,  and  diligently  propagated, 
might  in  time  overpower  and  repress  it,  since  no 
one  can  nurse  it  for  the  sake  of  pleasure,  as  its 
effects  are  only  shame,  anguish,  and  pertur 
bation. 

It  is  above  all  other  vices  inconsistent  with  the 
character  of  a  social  being,  because  it  sacrifices 
truth  and  kindness  to  very  weak  temptations. 
He  that  plunders  a  wealthy  neighbour  gains  as 
much  as  he  takes  away,  and  may  improve  his 
own  condition  in  the  same  proportion  as  he  im- 
pairs another's  ;  but  he  that  blasts  a  flourishing 
reputation  must  be  content  with  a  small  dividend 
of  additional  fame,  so  small  as  can  afford  very 
little  consolation  to  balance  the  guilt  by  which  it 
is  obtained. 


I  have  hitherto  avoided  that  dangerous  and 
empirical  morality,  which  cures  one  vice  by 
means  of  another.  But  envy  is  so  base  and  de- 
testable, so  vile  in  its  original,  and  so  pernicious 
in  its  effects,  that  the  predominance  of  almost 
any  other  quality  is  to  be  preferred.  It  is  one  of 
those  lawless  enemies  of  society,  against  whicn 
poisoned  arrows  may  honestly  be  used.  Let  it 
therefore  be  constantly  remembered,  that  who- 
ever envies  another  confesses  his  superiority,  anu 
let  those  be  reformed  by  their  pride  who  have 
lost  their  virtue. 

It  is  no  slight  aggravation  of  the  injuries  which 
envy  incites,  that  they  are  committed  against 
those  who  have  given  no  intentional  provoca 
tion  ;  and  that  the  sufferer  is  often  marked  out 
for  ruin,  not  because  he  has  failed  in  any  duty, 
but  because  he  has  dared  to  do  more  than  was 
required. 

Almost  every  other  crime  is  practised  by  the 
help  of  some  quality  which  might  have  produced 
esteem  or  love,  if  it  had  been  well  employed  ;  but 
envy  is  mere  unmixed  and  genuine  evil ;  it  pur- 
sues a  hateful  end  by  despicable  means,  and  de- 
sires not  so  much  its  own  happiness  as  another's 
misery.  To  avoid  depravity  like  this,  it  is  not 
necessary  that  any  one  should  aspire  to  heroism 
or  sanctity,  but  only  that  he  should  resolve  not 
to  quit  the  rank  which  nature  assigns  him,  and 
wish  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  a  human  being. 


No.  184.]      SATURDAY,  DEC.  21,  1751. 

Permittes  ipsil  txpendcre  numinibus,  quid 
Conveniat  nobis,  rebusgue  sit  utile  nostris       «»» 

Intrust  thy  fortune  to  the  powers  above ; 
Leave  them  to  manage  for  thec,  and  to  grant 
What  their. unerring  wisdom  sees  thee  want. 

DRYDEft 

As  every  scheme  of  life,  so  every  form  of  writing, 
has  its  advantages  and  inconveniences,  though 
not  mingled  in  the  same  proportions.  The 
writer  of  essays  escapes  many  embarrassments 
to  which  a  large  work  would  have  exposed  him ; 
he  seldom  harasses  his  reason  with  long  trains 
of  consequences,  dims  his  eyes  with  the  perusal 
of  antiquated  volumes,  or  burdens  his  memory 
with  great  accumulations  of  preparatory  know 
ledge.  A  careless  glance  upon  a  favourite  au- 
thor, or  transient  survey  of  the  varieties  of  life, 
is  sufficient  to  supply  the  first  hint  or  seminal 
idea,  which,  enlarged  by  the  gradual  accretion 
of  matter  stored  in  the  mind,  is,  by  the  warmth 
of  fancy,  easily  expanded  into  flowers,  and  some 
times  ripened  into  fruit. 

The  most  frequent  difficulty  by  which  the  au 
thors  of  these  petty  compositions  are  distressed, 
arises  from  the  perpetual  demand  of  novelty  and 
change.  The  compiler  of  a  system  of  science 
lays  his  invention  at  rest,  and  employs  only  his 
judgment,  the  faculty  exerted  with  less  fatigue. 
Even  the  reJater  of  feigned  adventures,  when 
once  the  principal  characters  are  established, 
and  the  great  events  regularly  connected,  finds 
incidents  and  episodes  crowding  upon  his  mind ; 
every  change  opens  new  views,  and  the  latter 
part  of  the  story  grows  without  labour  out  of  the 
former.  But  he  that  attempts  to  entertain  his 
reader  with  unconnected  pieces,  finds  the  irk- 
someness  of  his  task  rather  increased  than  less- 
ened by  every  production.  The  day  calls  afresh 


No.  ISi]  THE  RAMBLER. 

upon  him  for  a  new  topic,  and  he  is  again  obliged 
to  choose,  without  any  principle  to  regulate  his 
choice. 

It  is  indeed  true,  that  there  is  seldom  any  ne- 
cessity of  looking  far,  or  inquiring  long,  for  a 
proper  subject.  Every  diversity  of  art  or  nature, 
every  public  blessing  or  calamity,  every  domestic 
pain  or  gratification,  every  sally  of  caprice,  blun- 
der of  absurdity,  or  stratagem  of  affection,  may 
supply  matter  to  him  whose  only  rule  is  to  avoid 
uniformity.  But  it  often  happens,  that  the  judg- 
ment is  distracted  with  boundless  multiplicity, 
the  imagination  ranges  from  one  design  to  an- 
other, and  the  hours  pass  imperceptibly  away, 
till  the  composition  can  be  no  longer  delayed, 
and  necessity  enforces  the  use  of  those  thoughts 
which  then  happen  to  be  at  hand.  The  mind, 
rejoicing  at  deliverance  on  any  terms  from  per- 
plexity and  suspense,  applies  herself  vigorously 
to  the  work  before  her,  collects  embellishments 
and  illustrations,  and  sometimes  finishes,  with 
great  elegance  and  happiness,  what  in  a  state 
of  ease  and  leisure  she  never  had  begun. 

It  is  not  commonly  observed,  how  much,  even 
of  actions  considered  as  particularly  subject  to 
choice,  is  to  be  attributed  to  accident,  or  some 
cause  out  of  our  own  power,  by  whatever  name 
it  be  distinguished.  To  close  tedious  delibera- 
tions with  hasty  resolves,  and  after  long  consulta- 
tions with  reason  to  refer  the  question  to  caprice, 
is  by  no  means  peculiar  to  the  essayist.  Let 
him  that  peruses  this  paper  review  the  series  of 
his  life,  and  inquire  how  he  was  placed  in  his 
present  condition.  He  will  find  that,  of  the  good 
or  ill  which  he  has  experienced,  a  great  part 
came  unexpected,  without  any  visible  gradations 
of  approach;  that  every  event  has  been  in- 
fluenced by  causes  acting  without  his  interven- 
tion ;  and  that,  whenever  he  pretended  to  the 
prerogative  of  foresight,  he  was  mortified  with 
new  conviction  of  the  shortness  of  his  views. 

The  busy,  the  ambitious,  the  inconstant,  and  the 
adventurous,  may  be  said  to  throw  themselves 
by  design  into  the  arms  of  fortune,  and  volunta- 
rily to  quit  the  power  of  governing  themselves ; 
they  engage  in  a  course  of  life  in  which  little  can 
be  ascertained  by  previous  measures ;  nor  is  it 
any  wonder  that  their  time  is  passed  between  ela- 
tion and  despondency,  hope  and  disappointment. 

Some  there  are  who  appear  to  walk  the  road 
of  life  with  more  circumspection,  and  make  no 
step  till  they  think  themselves  secure  from  the 
hazard  of  a  precipice  ;  when,  neither  pleasure 
nor  profit  can  tempt  them  from  the  beaten  path ; 
who  refuse  to  climb  lest  they  should  fall,  or  to 
i  un  lest  they  should  stumble  ;  and  move  slowly 
forward,  without  any  compliance  with  those 
passions  by  which  the  heady  and  vehement  are 
seduced  and  betrayed. 

Yet  even  the  timorous  prudence  of  this  judi- 
cious class  is  far  from  exempting  them  from  the 
dominion  of  chance,  a  subtle  and  insidious  power, 
who  will  intrude  upon  privacy  and  embarrass 
caution.  No  course  of  life  is  so  prescribed  and 
limited,  but  that  many  actions  must  result  from 
arbitrary  election.  Every  one  must  form  the 
general  plan  of  his  conduct  by  his  own  reflec- 
tions ;  he  must  resolve  whether  he  will  endeavour 
at  riches  or  at  content ;  whether  he  will  exercise 
private  or  public  virtues,  whether  he  will  labour 
for  the  general  benefit  of  mankind,  or  contract 
hi?  beneficence  to  his  family  and  dependants. 


277 


This  question  has  long  exercised  the  schools  of 
philosophy,  but  remains  yet  undecided ;  and  what 
hope  is  there  that  a  young  man,  unacquainted 
with  the  arguments  on  either  side,  should  deter- 
mine his  own  destiny  otherwise  than  by  chance  1 

When  chance  has  given  him  a  partner  of  his 
bed,  whom  he  prefers  to  all  other  women,  with- 
out any  proof  of  superior  desert,  chance  must 
again  direct  him  in  the  education  of  his  children ; 
for,  who  was  ever  able  to  convince  himself  by 
arguments,  that  he  had  chosen  for  his  son  that 
mode  of  instruction  to  which  his  understanding 
was  best  adapted,  or  by  which  he  would  most 
easily  be  made  wise  or  virtuous  1 

Whoever  shall  inquire  by  what  motives  he 
was  determined  on  these  important  occasions, 
will  find  them  such  as  his  pride  will  scarcely 
suffer  him  to  confess  ;  some  sudden  ardour  of 
desire,  some  uncertain  glimpse  of  advantage, 
some  petty  competition,  some  inaccurate  con- 
clusion, or  some  example  implicitly  reverenced. 
Such  are  often  the  first  causes  of  our  resolves; 
for  it  is  necessary  to  act,  but  impossible  to  know 
the  consequences  of  action,  or  to  discuss  all  the 
reasons  which  offer  themselves  on  every  part  to 
inquisitiveness  and  solicitude. 

Since  life  itself  is  uncertain,  nothing  which 
has  life  for  its  basis  can  boast  much  stability. 
Yet  this  is  but  a  small  part  of  our  perplexity. 
We  set  out  on  a  tempestuous  sea  in  quest  of 
some  port,  where  we  expect  to  find  rest,  but 
where  we  are  not  sure  of  admission ;  we  are  not 
only  in  danger  of  sinking  in  the  way,  but  of  be- 
ing misled  by  meteors  mistaken  for  stars,  of 
being  driven  from  our  course  by  the  changes  of 
the  wind,  and  of  losing  it  by  unskilful  steerage  ; 
yet  it  sometimes  happens,  that  cross  winds  blow 
us  to  a  safer  coast,  that  meteors  draw  us  aside 
from  whirlpools,  and  that  negligence  or  error 
contributes  to  our  escape  from  mischiefs  to  which 
a  direct  course  would  have  exposed  us.  Of  those 
that,  by  precipitate  conclusions,  involve  them- 
selves in  calamities  without  guilt,  very  few,  how- 
ever they  may  reproach  themselves,  can  be  cer- 
tain that  other  measures  would  have  been  more 
successful. 

In  this  state  of  universal  uncertainty,  where 
a  thousand  dangers  hover  about  us,  and  none 
can  tell  whether  the  good  that  he  pursues  is  not 
evil  in  disguise,  or  whether  the  next  step  will 
lead  him  to  safety  or  destruction,  nothing  can 
afford  any  rational  tranquillity,  but  the  conviction 
that  however  we  amuse  ourselves  with  unideal 
sounds,  nothing  in  reality  is  governed  by  chance, 
but  that  the  universe  is  under  the  perpetual  su- 
perintendence of  him  who  created  it ;  that  oui 
being  is  in  the  hands  of  omnipotent  goodness,  by 
whom  what  appears  casual  to  us,  is  directed  for 
ends  ultimately  kind  and  merciful ;  and  thai 
nothing  can  finally  hurt  him  who  debars  nol 
himself  from  the  Divine  favour. 


No.  185.]     TUESDAY,  DEC.  24,  1751. 

Ai  vindicta  bonum  vita  jucundias  ipsa, 

Nempe  hoc  indocli. 

Chrysippus  non  dicit  idem,  ne.c  mite  Thaletit 
Ingenium,  dulcique  senex  ticinvs  Hymetto, 
Qat  partem  accepta  lecta  inter  mncla  cicuta 

Accusatori  nollet  dare. Quippe  minuti 

Semper  el  infirmi  est  animi,  eiiguique  volvptat 
Vltio. 


278 


THE  RAMBLER. 


jffo.   IS5. 


But  O !  revenge  i»  niecvt. 

Thus  think  the  crowd ;  who,  eager  to  engage, 

Take  quickly  fire,  and  kindle  into  rage. 

Not  so  mild  Thales,  nor  Chrysippus  thought, 

Nor  that  good  man,  who  drank  the  poisonous  draught 

\Vuli  mind  serene,  and  could  not  wish  to  see 

His  vile  accuser  drink  as  deep  as  he : 

Exalted  Socrates '  divinely  brave! 

Injured  he  fell,  and  dying  he  forgave ; 

Too  noble  for  revenge ;  which  still  we  find 

The  weakest  frailty  of  a  feeble  mind.  DRVDEN. 

No  vicious  dispositions  of  the  mind  more  obsti- 
nately resist  both  the  counsels  of  philosophy  and 
the  injunctions  of  religion,  than  those  which  are 
complicated  with  an  opinion  of  dignity;  and 
which  we  cannot  dismiss  without  leaving  in  the 
hands  of  opposition  some  advantage  iniquitously 
obtained,  or  suffering  from  our  own  prejudices 
some  imputation  of  pusillanimity. 

For  this  reason,  scarcely  any  law  of  our  Re- 
deemer is  more  openly  transgressed,  or  more 
industriously  evaded,  than  that  by  which  he 
commands  his  followers  to  forgive  injuries,  and 
prohibits,  under  the  sanction  of  eternal  misery, 
the  gratification  of  the  desire  which  every  man 
feels  to  return  pain  upon  him  that  inflicts  it. 
Many  who  could  have  conquered  their  anger, 
are  unable  to  combat  pride,  and  pursue  offences 
to  extremity  of  vengeance,  lest  they  should  be 
insulted  by  the  triumph  of  an  enemy. 

But  certainly  no  precept  could  better  become 
him,  at  whose  birth  peace  was  proclaimed  to  the 
earth.  For,  what  would  so  soon  destroy  all  the 
order  of  society,  and  deform  life  with  violence 
and  ravage,  as  a  permission  to  every  one  to  judge 
his  own  cause,  and  to  apportion  his  own  recom- 
pense for  imagined  injuries. 

It  is  difficult  for  a  man  of  the  strictest  justice 
not  to  favour  himself  too  much,  in  the  calmest 
moments  of  solitary  meditation.  Every  one 
wishes  for  the  distinctions  for  which  thousands 
are  wishing  at  the  same  time,  in  their  own 
opinion,  with  better  claims.  He  that,  when 
his  reason  operates  in  its  full  force,  can  thus, 
by  the  mere  prevalence  of  self-love,  prefer  him- 
self to  his  fellow-beings,  is  very  unlikely  to 
judge  equitably  when  his  passions  are  agitated 
by  a  sense  of  wrong,  and  his  attention  wholly 
engrossed  by  pain,  interest,  or  danger.  Whoever 
arrogates  to  himself  the  right  of  vengeance, 
shows  how  little  he  is  qualified  to  decide  his 
own  claims,  since  he  certainly  demands  what  he 
would  think  unfit  to  be  granted  to  another. 

Nothing  is  more  apparent,  than  that,  however 
injured  or  however  provoked,  some  must  at  last 
be  contented  to  forgive.  For,  it  can  never  be 
hoped  that  he  who  first  commits  an  injury  will 
contentedly  acquiesce  in  the  penalty  required-; 
the  same  haughtiness  of  contempt  and  vehe- 
mence of  desire,  that  prompt  the  act  of  injustice, 
will  more  strongly  incite  its  justification  ;  and 
resentment  can  never  so  exactly  balance  the 
punishment  with  the  fault,  but  there  will  remain 
an  overplus  of  vengeance,  which  even  he  who 
condemns  his  first  action  will  think  himself 
entitled  to  retaliate.  What  then  can  ensue 
but  a  continual  exacerbation  of  hatred,  an  un- 
extinguishable  feud,  an  incessant  reciprocation 
of  mischief,  a  mutual  vigilance  to  entrap,  and 
eagerness  to  destroy  ? 

Since  then  the  imaginary  right  of  vengeance 
must  be  at  last  remitted,  because  it  is  impossible 
to  live  in  perpetual  hostility  and  equally  im- 


possible that  of  two  enemies,  either  should  first 
think  himself  obliged  by  justice  to  submission,  it 
is  surely  eligible  to  forgive  early.  Every  passion 
is  more  easily  subdued  before  it  has  been  long 
accustomed  to  possession  of  the  heart ;  every 
idea  is  obliterated  with  less  difficulty,  as  it  has; 
been  more  slightly  impressed,  and  less  frequent 
ly  renewed.  He  who  has  often  brooded  ovei 
his  wrongs,  pleased  himself  with  schemes  of 
malignity,  and  glutted  his  pride  with  the  fancied 
supplications  of  humbled  enmity,  will  not  easily 
open  his  bosom  to  amity  and  reconciliation,  or 
indulge  the  gentle  sentiments  of  benevolence 
and  peace. 

It  is  easiest  to  forgive  while  there  is  yet  little 
to  be  forgiven.  A  single  injury  may  be  soon 
dismissed  from  the  memory ;  but  a  long  succes- 
sion of  ill  offices  by  degrees  associates  itself 
with  every  idea;  a  long  contest  involves  so 
many  circumstances,  that  every  place  and  action 
will  recall  it  to  the  mind ;  and  fresh  remem- 
brance of  vexation  must  still  enkindle  rage,  and 
irritate  revenge. 

A  wise  man  will  make  haste  to  forgive,  be- 
cause he  knows  the  true  value  of  time,  and  will 
not  suffer  it  to  pass  away  in  unnecessary  pain. 
He  that  willingly  suffers  the  corrosions  of  in- 
veterate hatred,  and  gives  up  his  days  and  nights 
to  the  gloom  of  malice  and  perturbations  of  stra- 
tagem, cannot  surely  be  said  to  consult  his  ease. 
Resentment  is  a  union  of  sorrow  with  malignity, 
a  combination  of  a  passion  which  all  endeavour 
to  avoid,  with  a  passion  which  all  concur  to 
detest.  The  man  who  retires  to  meditate  mis- 
chief, and  to  exasperate  his  own  rage ;  whose 
thoughts  are  employed  only  on  means  of  dis- 
tress and  contrivances  of  ruin  ;  whose  mind 
never  pauses  from  the  remembrance  of  his  own 
sufferings,  but  to  indulge  some  hope  of  enjoying 
the  calamities  of  another,  may  justly  be  num- 
bered among  the  most  miserable  of  human 
beings,  among  those  who  are  guilty  without 
reward,  who  have  neither  the  gladness  of  pros- 
perity, nor  the  calm  of  innocence. 

Whoever  considers  the  weakness  both  of  him- 
self and  others,  will  not  long  want  persuasives 
to  forgiveness.  We  know  not  to  what  degree 
of  malignity  any  injury  is  to  be  imputed;  or 
how  much  its  guilt,  if  we  were  to  inspect  the 
mind  of  him  that  committed  it,  would  be  ex- 
tenuated by  mistake,  precipitance,  or  negli- 
gence :  we  cannot  be  certain  how  much  more 
we  feel  than  was  intended  to  be  inflicted,  or 
how  much  we  increase  the  mischief  to  ourselves 
by  voluntary  aggravations.  We  may  charge  to 
design  the  effects  of  accident;  we  may  think 
the  blow  violent,  only  because  we  have  made 
ourselves  delicate  and  tender ;  we  are  on  every 
side  in  danger  of  error  and  of  guilt ;  which  we 
are  certain  to  avoid  only  by  speedy  forgiveness. 

From  this  pacific  and  harmless  temper,  thus 
propitious  to  others  and  ourselves,  to  domestic 
tranquillity  and  to  social  happiness,  no  man  is 
withheld  but  by  pride,  by  the  fear  of  being  insult- 
ed by  his  adversary,  or  despised  by  the  world. 

It  may  be  laid  down  as  an  unfailing  and 
universal  axiom,  that  "all  pride  is  abject  and 
mean."  It  is  always  an  ignorant,  lazy,  or  cow 
ardly  acquiescence  in  a  false  appearance  of 
excellence,  and  proceeds  not  from  conscious 
ness  of  our  attainments,  but  insensibility  of  our 
wants. 


No.  136.]  THE  RAMBLER. 

Nothing  can  be  great  which  is  not  right. 
Nothing  which  reason  condemns  can  be  suitable 
to  the  dignity  of  the  human  mind.  To  be 
driven  by  external  motives  from  the  path  which 
our  own  heart  approves ;  to  give  way  to  any 
thing  but  conviction ;  to  suffer  the  opinion  of 
others  to  rule  our  choice,  or  overpower  our  re- 
solves ;  is  to  submit  tamely  to  the  lowest  and 
most  ignominious  slavery,  and  to  resign  the  right 
of  directing  our  own  lives. 

The  utmost  excellence  at  which  humanity  can 
arrive,  is  a  constant  and  determinate  pursuit  of 
virtue,  without  regard  to  present  dangers  or  ad- 
vantage ;  a  continual  reference  of  every  action 
to  the  Divine  will ;  an  habitual  appeal  to  ever- 
lasting justice ;  and  an  unvaried  elevation  of 
the  intellectual  eye  to  the  reward  which  perse- 
verance only  can  obtain.  But  that  pride  which 
many,  who  presume  to  boast  of  generous  senti- 
ments, allow  to  regulate  their  measures,  has 
nothing  nobler  in  view  than  the  approbation  of 
men  ;  of  beings  whose  superiority  we  are  under 
no  obligation  to  acknowledge,  and  who,  when 
we  have  courted  them  with  the  utmost  assi- 
duity, can  confer  no  valuable  or  permanent  re- 
ward ;  of  beings  who  ignorantly  judge  of  what 
they  do  not  understand,  or  partially  determine 
what  they  never  have  examined ;  and  whose 
sentence  is  therefore  of  no  weight  till  it  has  re- 
ceived the  ratification  of  our  own  conscience. 

He  that  can  descend  to  bribe  suffrages  like 
these,  at  the  price  of  his  innocence ;  he  that  can 
suffer  the  delight  of  such  acclamations  to  with- 
hold his  attention  from  the  commands  of  the 
universal  Sovereign,  has  little  reason  to  con- 
gratulate himself  upon  the  greatness  of  his 
mind :  whenever  he  awakes  to  seriousness  and 
reflection,  he  must  become  despicable  in  his  own 
eyes,  and  shrink  with  shame  from  the  remem- 
brance of  his  cowardice  and  folly. 

Of  him  that  hopes  to  be  forgiven,  it  is  indis- 
pensably required  that  he  forgive.  It  is  there- 
fore superfluous  to  urge  any  other  motive.  On 
this  great  duty  eternity  is  suspended:  and  to 
him  that  refuses  to  practise  it,  the  throne  of 
mercy  is  inaccessible,  and  the  Saviour  of  the 
world  has  been  born  in  vain. 


279 


No.  186.]     SATURDAY,  DEC.  28,  1751. 

Pone  me,  pigris  ubi  nulla  campia 
Arbor  (estiva  recreatur  aura- 


HOR. 


JDulce  ridcntem  Lalagen  amabo, 
Dulce  loquentem. 

Place  me  where  never  summer  breeze 

Unbinds  the  glebe,  or  warms  the  trees ; 

Where  ever-lowering  clouds  appear, 

And  angry  Jove  deforms  th'  inclement  year) 

Love  and  the  nymph  shall  charm  my  toils, 

The  nymph,  who  sweetly  speaks  and  sweetly  smiles. 

FRANCIS. 

OF  %  the  happiness  and  misery  of  our  present 
state,  part  arises  from  our  sensations,  and  part 
from  our  opinions ;  part  is  distributed  by  nature, 
and.  part  is  in  a  great  measure  apportioned  by 
ourselves.  Positive  pleasure  we  cannot  always 
obtain,  and  positive  pain  we  often  cannot  re- 
move. No  man  can  give  to  his  own  plantations 
the  fragrance  of  the  Indian  groves ;  nor  will  any 
precepts  of  philosophy  enable  him  to  withdraw 
his  attention  from  wounds  or  diseases.  But  the 
negative  infelicity  which  proceeds,  not  from  the 


pressure  of  sufferings,  but  the  absence  of  enjoy- 
ments,  will  always  yield  to  the  remedies  of 
reason. 

One  of  the  great  arts  of  escaping  superfluous 
uneasiness,  is  to  free  our  minds  from  the  habit 
of  comparing  our  condition  with  that  of  others 
on  who'm  the  blessings  of  life  are  more  bounti- 
fully bestowed,  or  with  imaginary  states  of  de- 
light and  security,  perhaps  unattainable  by  mor- 
tals. Few  are  placed  in  a  situation  so  gloomy 
and  distressful,  as  not  to  see  every  day  beings 
yet  more  forlorn  and  miserable,  from  whom  they 
may  learn  to  rejoice  in  their  own  lot. 

No  inconvenience  is  less  superable  by  art  or 
diligence  than  the  inclemency  of  climates,  and 
therefore  none  affords  more  proper  exercise  for 
this  philosophical  abstraction.  A  native  of  En- 
gland, pinched  with  the  frosts  of  December,  may 
lessen  his  affection  for  his  own  country  by  suf- 
fering his  imagination  to  wander  in  the  vales  of 
Asia,  and  sport  among  woods  that  are  always 
green,  and  streams  that  always  murmur;  but 
if  he  turns  his  thoughts  towards  the  polar  re- 
gions, and  considers  the  nations  to  whom  a  great 
portion  of  the  year  is  darkness,  and  who  are 
condemned  to  pass  weeks  and  months  amidst 
mountains  of  snow,  he  will  soon  recover  his 
tranquillity,  and,  while  he  stirs  his  fire,  or  throws 
his  cloak  about  him,  reflect  how  much  he  owes 
to  Providence,  that  he  is  not  placed  in  Green- 
land or  Siberia. 

The  barrenness  of  the  earth  and  the  severity 
of  the  skies,  in  these  dreary  countries,  are  such 
as  might  be  expected  to  confine  the  mind  wholly 
to  the  contemplation  of  necessity  and  distress,  so 
that  the  care  of  escaping  death  from  cold  and 
hunger  should  leave  no  room  for  those  passions 
which,  in  lands  of  plenty,  influence  conduct  or 
diversify  characters ;  the  summer  should  be 
spent  only  in  providing  for  the  winter,  and  the 
winter  in  longing  for  the  summer. 

Yet  learned  curiosity  is  known  to  have  found 
its  way  into  these  abodes  of  poverty  and  gloom : 
Lapland  and  Iceland  have  their  historians,  their 
critics,  and  their  poets  ;  and  love,  that  extends 
his  dominion  wherever  humanity  can  be  found, 
perhaps  exerts  the  same  power  in  the  Green- 
lander's  hut  as  in  the  palaces  of  eastern  mo- 
narchs. 

In  one  of  the  large  caves  to  which  the  families 
of  Greenland  retire  together,  to  pass  the  cold 
months,  and  which  may  be  termed  their  villages 
or  cities,  a  youth  and  maid,  who  came  from 
different  parts  of  the  country,  were  so  much 
distinguished  for  their  beauty,  that  they  were 
called  by  the  rest  of  the  inhabitants  Anningait 
and  Ajut,  from  a  supposed  resemblance  to  their 
ancestors  of  the  same  names,  who  had  been 
transformed  of  old  into  the  sun  ar.d  moon. 

Anningait  for  some  time  heard  the  praises  of 
Ajut  with  little  emotion,  but  at  last,  by  fre- 
quent interviews,  became  sensible  of  her  charms, 
and  first  made  a  discovery  of  his  affection,  by 
inviting  her  with  her  parents  to  a  feast,  where 
he  placed  before  Ajut  the  tail  of  a  whale.  Ajut 
seemed  not  much  delighted  by  this  gallantry; 
yet,  however,  from  that  time,  was  observed 
rarely  to  appear  but  in  a  vest  made  of  the  skin 
of  a  white  deer ;  she  used  frequently  to  renew 
the  black  dye  upon  her  hands  and  forehead,  to 
adorn  her  sleeves  with  coral  and  shells,  and  to 
braid  her  hair  with  great  exactness. 


280 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  1S7. 


The  elegance  of  her  dress,  and  the  judicious 
disposition  of  her  ornaments,  had  such  an  effect 
upon  Anningait,  that  he  could  no  longer  be  re- 
strained from  a  declaration  of  his  love.  He  there- 
fore composed  a  poem  in  her  praise,  in  which, 
among  other  heroic  and  tender  sentiments,  he 
protested  that  "  she  was  beautiful  as  the  vernal 
willow,  and  fragrant  as  thyme  upon  the  moun- 
tains ;  that  her  fingers  were  white  as  the  teeth  of 
the  morse,  and  her  smile  grateful  as  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  ice ;  that  he  would  pursue  her,  though 
she  should  pass  the  snows  of  the  midland  cliffs, 
or  seek  shelter  in  the  caves  of  the  eastern  canni- 
bals ;  that  he  would  tear  her  from  the  embraces 
of  the  genius  of  the  rocks,  snatch  her  from  the 
paws  of  Amarock,  and  rescue  her  from  the  ravine 
of  Hafgufa."  He  concluded  with  a  wish,  that 
"  whoever  shall  attempt  to  hinder  his  union  with 
Ajut  might  be  buried  without  his  bow,  and  that, 
in  the  land  of  souls,  his  skull  might  serve  for  no 
other  use  than  to  catch  the  droppings  of  the  starry 
lamps." 

This  ode  being  universally  applauded,  it  was 
expected  that  Ajut  would  soon  yield  to  such  fer- 
vour and  accomplishments  :  but  Ajut,  with  the 
natural  haughtiness  of  beauty,  expected  all  the 
forms  of  courtship  :  and  before  she  would  con- 
fess herself  conquered,  the  sun  returned,  the  ice 
broke,  and  the  season  of  labour  called  all  to  their 
employments. 

Anningait  and  Ajut  for  a  time  always  went 
out  in  the  same  boat,  and  divided  whatever  was 
caught  Anningait,  in  the  sight  of  his  mistress, 
lost  no  opportunity  of  signalizing  his  courage ; 
he  attacked  the  sea-horses  on  the  ice,  pursued 
the  seals  into  the  water,  and  leaped  upon  the 
back  of  the  whale  while  he  was  yet  struggling 
with  the  remains  of  life.  Nor  was  his  diligence 
less  to  accumulate  all  that  could  be  necessary  to 
make  winter  comfortable ;  he  dried  the  roe  of 
fishes  and  the  flesh  of  seals  ;  he  entrapped  deer 
and  foxes,  and  dressed  their  skins  to  adorn  his 
bride  ;  he  feasted  her  with  eggs  from  the  rocks, 
and  strewed  her  tent  with  flowers. 

It  happened  that  a  tempest  drove  the  fish  to  a 
distant  part  of  the  coast  before  Anningait  had 
completed  his  store  ;  he  therefore  entreated  Ajut, 
that  she  would  at  last  grant  him  her  hand,  and 
accompany  him  to  that  part  of  the  country  whi- 
ther he  was  now  summoned  by  necessity.  Ajut 
thought  him  not  yet  entitled  to  such  condescen- 
sion, but  proposed,  as  a  trial  of  his  constancy, 
that  he  should  return  at  the  end  of  summer  to 
the  cavern  where  their  acquaintance  commenced, 
and  there  expect  the  reward  of  his  assiduities. 
"  O  virgin,  beautiful  as  the  sun  shining  on  the 
water,  consider,"  said  Anningait.  "  what  thou 
hast  required.  How  easily  may  my  return  be 
precluded  by  a  sudden  frost  or  unexpected  fogs  ! 
Then  must  the  night  be  passed  without  my  Ajut. 
We  live  not,  my  fair,  in  those  fabled  countries 
which  lying  strangers  so  wantonly  describe ; 
where  the  whole  year  is  divided  into  short  days 
and  nights ;  where  the  same  habitation  serves 
for  summer  and  winter  ;  where  they  raise  houses 
in  rows  above  the  ground,  dwell  together  from 
year  to  year,  with  flocks  of  tame  animals  grazing 
in  the  fields  about  them  ;  can  travel  at  any  time 
from  one  place  to  another,  through  ways  en- 
closed with  trees,  or  over  walls  raised  upon  the 
inland  waters  ;  and  direct  their  course  through 
wide  countries  by  the  sight  of  green  hills  or  scat- 


ter?d  buildings.  Even  in  summer,  we  have  no 
means  of  crossing  the  mountains,  whose  snows 
are  never  dissolved  ;  nor  can  remove  to  any  dis- 
tant residence,  but  in  our  boats  coasting  the 
bays.  Consider,  Ajut,  a  few  summer  days,  and 
a  few  winter  nights,  and  the  life  of  man  is  at  an 
end.  Night  is  the  time  of  ease  and  festivity,  of 
revels  and  gayety ;  but  what  will  be  the  flaming 
lamp,  the  delicious  seal,  or  the  soft  oil,  without 
the  smile  of  Ajut?" 

The  eloquence  of  Anningait  was  vain  ;  the 
maid  continued  inexorable,  and  they  parted  with 
ardent  promises  to  meet  again  before  the  night 
of  winter. 


No.  1S7.]     TUESDAY,  DEC.  31,  1751. 

Ifon  ilium  nottri  possunt  mutare  labores, 
JViec  sifrigoribusmediis  Htbrumque  bibamug, 

Sithoniasque  nires  hiemis  subeamus  agitoste 

Oinitia  vincit  amor.  VIRGIL. 

Love  alters  not  for  us  his  hard  decrees, 

Not  though  beiieath  the  Thracian  clime  we  freeze, 

Or  the  mild  bliss  of  temperate  skies  forego, 

And  in  mid  winter  tread  Sithouian  snow : 

Love  conquers  all. DRYDEN. 

ANNINGAIT,  however  discomposed  by  the  dila- 
tory coyness  of  Ajut,  was  yet  resolved  to  omit  no 
tokens  of  amorous  respect;  and  therefore  pre- 
sented her  at  his  departure  with  the  skins  of 
seven  white  fawns,  of  five  swans,  and  eleven 
seals,  with  three  marble  lamps,  ten  vessels  of 
seal  oil,  and  a  large  kettle  of  brass,  which  he 
had  purchased  from  a  ship,  at  the  price  of  half  a 
whale  and  two  horns  of  sea-unicorns. 

Ajut  was  so  much  affected  by  the  fondness  of 
her  lover,  or  so  much  overpowered  by  his  mag- 
nificence, that  she  followed  him  to  the  sea-side  ; 
and,  when  she  saw  him  enter  the  boat,  wished 
aloud  that  he  might  return  with  plenty  of  skins 
and  oil ;  that  neither  the  mermaids  might  snatch 
him  into  the  deeps,  nor  the  spirits  of  the  rocks 
confine  him  in  their  caverns. 

She  stood  awhile  to  gaze  upon  the  departing 
vessel,  and  then  returning  to  her  hut,  silent  and 
dejected,  laid  aside,  from  that  hour,  her  white 
deer-skin,  suffered  her  hair  to  spread  unbraided 
on  her  shoulders,  and  forebore  to  mix  in  the 
dances  of  the  maidens.  She  endeavoured  to  di 
vert  her  thoughts  by  continual  application  to 
feminine  employments,  gathered  moss  for  the 
winter  lamps,  and  dried  grass  to  line  the  boots  ot 
Anningait.  Of  the  skins  which  he  had  bestowed 
upon  her,  she  made  a  fishing  coat,  a  small  boat, 
and  tent,  all  of  exquisite  manufacture :  and, 
while  she  was  thus  busied,  solaced  her  labours 
with  a  song,  in  which  she  prayed,  "  that  her  lover 
might  have  hands  stronger  than  the  paws  of  the 
bear,  and  feet  swifter  than  the  feet  of  the  rein-deer; 
that  his  dart  might  never  err,  and  that  his  boat 
might  never  leak  ;  that  he  might  never  stumble 
on  the  ice,  nor  faint  in  the  water ;  that  the  seal 
might  rush  on  his  harpoon,  and  the  wounded 
whale  might  dash  the  waves  in  vain." 

The  large  boats  in  which  the  Greenlanders 
transport  their  families,  are  always  rowed  by 
women  ;  for  a  man  will  not  debase  himself  by 
work  which  requires  neither  skill  nor  courage. 
Anningait  was  therefore  exposed  by  idleness  to 
the  ravages  of  passion.  He  went  thrice  to  the 
stern  of  the  boat,  with  an  intent  to  leap  into  the 


No.  183.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


281 


water,  and  swim  back  to  his  mistress ;  but  recol- 
lecting the  misery  which  they  must  endure  in 
the  winter,  without  oil  for  the  lamp  or  skins  for 
the  bed,  he  resolved  to  employ  the  weeks  of  ab- 
sence in  provision  for  a  night  of  plenty  and  feli- 
city. He  then  composed  his  emotions  as  he 
could,  and  expressed  in  wild  numbers  and  un- 
couth images  his  hopes,  his  sorrows,  and  his 
fears.  "  O  life !"  says  he,  "  frail  and  uncertain  ! 
where  shall  wretched  man  find  thy  resemblance 
but  in  ice  floating  on  the  ocean  ?  It  towers  on 
high,  it  sparkles  from  afar,  while  the  storms 
drive  and  the  waters  beat  it,  the  sun  melts  it 
above,  and  the  rocks  shatter  it  below.  What 
art  thou,  deceitful  pleasure,  but  a  sudden  blaze 
streaming  from  the  north,  which  plays  a  moment 
on  the  eye,  mocks  the  traveller  with  the  hopes 
of  light,  and  then  vanishes  for  ever!  What,  love, 
art  thou,  but  a  whirlpool,  which  we  approach 
without  knowledge  of  our  danger,  drawn  on  by 
imperceptible  degrees,  till  we  have  lost  all  power 
of  resistance  and  escape  ?  Till  I  fixed  my  eyes 
on  the  graces  of  Ajut,  while  I  had  not  yet  called 
her  to  the  banquet,  I  was  careless  as  the  sleep- 
ing morse,  I  was  merry  as  the  singers  in  the 
stars.  Why,  Ajut,  did  1  gaze  upon  thy  graces? 
Why,  my  fair,  did  I  call  thee  to  the  banquet  ? 
Yet,  be  faithful,  my  love,  remember  Annin- 
gait,  and  meet  my  return  with  the  smile  of  vir- 
ginity. I  will  chase  the  deer,  I  will  subdue  the 
whale,  resistless  as  the  frost  of  darkness,  and  un- 
wearied as  the  summer  sun.  In  a  few  weeks  I 
shall  return  prosperous  and  wealthy  ;  then  shall 
the  roefish  and  the  porpoise  feast  thy  kindred ;  the 
fox  and  the  hare  shall  cover  thy  couch ;  the  tough 
hide  of  the  seal  shall  shelter  thee  from  cold ;  and 
the  fat  of  the  whale  illuminate  thy  dwelling." 

Anningait  having  with  these  sentiments  con- 
soled his  grief,  and  animated  his  industry,  found 
that  they  had  now  coasted  the  headland,  and 
saw  the  whales  spouting  at  a  distance.  He  there- 
fore placed  himself  in  his  fishing-boat,  called  his 
associates  to  their  several  employments,  plied  his 
oar  and  harpoon  with  incredible  courage  and 
dexterity  ;  and,  by  dividing  his  time  between  the 
chase  and  fisher}',  suspended  the  miseries  of  ab- 
sence and  suspicion. 

Ajut,  in  the  mean  time,  notwithstanding  her  ne- 
glected dress,  happened,  as  she  was  drying  some 
skins  in  the  sun,  to  catch  the  eye  of  Norngsuk, 
on  his  return  from  hunting.  Norngsuk  was  of 
birth  truly  illustrious.  His  mother  had  died  in 
childbirth*  and  his  father,  the  most  expert  fisher 
of  Greenland,  had  perished  by  too  close  pursuit 
of  the  whale.  His  dignity  was  equalled  by  his 
riches  ;  he  was  master  of  four  men's  and  two 
women's  boats,  had  ninety  tubs  of  oil  in  his  win- 
ter habitation,  and  five-and-twenty  seals  buried 
in  the  snow  against  the  season  of  darkness. 
When  he  saw  the  beauty  of  Ajut,  he  immediately 
threw  over  her  the  skin  of  a  deer  that  he  had 
taken,  and  soon  after  presented  her  with  a  branch 
of  coral.  Ajut  refused  his  gifts,  and  determined 
to  admit  no  lover  in  the  place  of  Anningait 

Norngsuk,  thus  rejected,  had  recourse  to  stra- 
tagem. He  knew  that  Ajut  would  consult  an 
angekkok,  or  diviner,  concerning  the  fate  of  her 
lover,  and  the  felicity  of  her  future  life.  He 
therefore  applied  himself  to  the  most  celebrated 
angekkok  of  that  part  of  the  country,  and  by  a 
present  of  two  seals  and  a  marble  kettle,  obtain- 
ed a  promise  that,  when  Ajut  should  consult 
2L 


him,  he  would  declare  that  her  lover  was  in  the 
land  of  souls.  Ajut,  in  a  short  time,  brought 
him  a  coat  made  by  herself,  and  inquired  what 
events  were  to  befall  her ;  with  assurances  of  a 
much  larger  reward  at  the  return  of  Anningait, 
if  the  prediction  should  flatter  her  desires.  The 
angekkok  knew  the  way  to  riches,  and  foretold 
that  Anningait,  having  already  caught  two 
whales,  would  soon  return  home  with  a  large 
boat  laden  with  provisions. 

This  prognostication  she  was  ordered  to  keep 
secret ;  and  Norngsuk,  depending  upon  his  arti- 
fice, renewed  his  addresses  with  greater  confi- 
dence ;  but,  finding  his  suit  still  unsuccessful, 
applied  himself  to  her  parents  with  gifts  and  pro- 
mises. The  wealth  of  Greenland  is  too  powerful 
for  the  virtue  of  a  Greenlander ;  they  forgot  the 
merit  and  the  presents  of  Anningait,  and  decreed 
Ajut  to  the  embraces  of  Norngsuk.  She  en- 
treated ;  she  remonstrated  ;  she  wept,  and  raved ; 
but,  finding  riches  irresistible,  fled  away  into  the 
uplands,  and  lived  in  a  cave  upon  such  berries  as 
she  could  gather,  and  the  birds  or  hares  which 
she  had  the  fortune  to  ensnare,  taking  care  at 
an  hour  when  she  was  not  likely  to  be  found,  to 
view  the  sea  every  day,  that  her  lover  might  not 
miss  her  at  his  return. 

At  last  she  saw  the  great  boat  in  which  An 
ningait  had  departed,  stealing  slow  and  heavy 
laden  along  the  coast.  She  ran  with  all  the  im- 
patience of  affection  to  catch  her  lover  in  her 
arms,  and  relate  her  constancy  and  sufferings. 
When  the  company  reached  the  land,  they  in- 
formed her,  that  Anningait,  after  the  fishery  was 
ended,  being  unable  to  support  the  slow  passage 
of  the  vessel  of  carriage,  had  set  out  before  them 
in  his  fishing-boat,  and  they  expected  at  their  ar- 
rival to  have  found  him  on  shore. 

Ajut  distracted  at  this  intelligence,  was  about 
to  fly  into  the  hills  without  knowing  why,  though 
she  was  now  in  the  hands  of  her  parents,  who 
forced  her  back  to  their  own  hut,  and  endea- 
voured to  comfort  her :  but  when  at  last  they 
retired  to  rest,  Ajut  went  down  to  the  beach  ; 
where,  finding  a  fishing-boat,  she  entered  it 
without  hesitation,  and  telling  those  who  won- 
dered at  her  rashness,  that  she  was  going  in 
search  of  Anningait,  rowed  away  with  great 
swiftness,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

The  fate  of  these  lovers  gave  occasion  to  va- 
rious fictions  and  conjectures.  Some  are  of  opin- 
ion that  they  were  changed  into  stars ;  others 
imagine  that  Anningait  was  seized  in  his  passage 
by  the  genius  of  the  rocks  ;  and  that  Ajut  was 
transformed  into  a  mermaid,  and  still  continues 
to  seek  her  lover  in  the  deserts  of  the  sea.  But 
the  general  persuasion  is,  that  they  are  both  in 
that  part  of  the  land  of  souls  where  the  sun  never 
sets,  where  oil  is  always  freeh,  and  provisions 
always  warm.  The  virgins  sometimes  throw  a 
thimble  and  a  needle  into  the  bay  from  which  the 
hapless  maid  departed  ;  and  when  a  Greenlander 
would  praise  any  couple  for  virtuous  affection,  he 
declares  that  they  love  like  Anningait  and  Ajut 


No.  188.]     SATURDAY,  JAN.  4,  1752. 

Si  te  colo,  Sexte,  nan  amabo.  MART. 

The  more  I  honour  thee,  the  less  I  love. 

NONE  of  the  desires  dictated  by  vanity  is  more 
general,  or  less  blameable,  than  that  of  being 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  188. 


distinguished  for  the  arts  of  conversation.  Other 
accomplishments  may  be  possessed  without  op- 
portunity of  exerting  them,  or  wanted  without 
danger  that  the  defect  can  often  be  remarked  ; 
but  as  no  man  can  live,  otherwise  than  in  a  her- 
mitage, without  hourly  pleasure  or  vexation, 
from  the  fondness  or  neglect  of  those  about  him, 
the  faculty  of  giving  pleasure  is  of  continual  use. 
Few  are  more  frequently  envied  than  those  who 
have  the  power  of  forcing  attention  wherever 
they  come,  whose  entrance  is  considered  as  a 
promise  of  felicity,  and  whose  departure  is  la- 
mented like  the  recess  of  the  sun  from  northern 
climates,  as  a  privation  of  all  that  enlivens  fancy, 
or  inspirits  gayety. 

It  is  apparent,  that  to  excellence  in  this  va- 
luable art,  some  peculiar  qualifications  are  neces- 
sary ;  for  every  one's  experience  will  inform  him, 
that  the  pleasure  which  men  are  able  to  give  in 
conversation,  holds  no  stated  proportion  to  their 
knowledge  or  their  virtue.  Many  find  their  way 
to  the  tables  and  the  parties  of  those  who  never 
consider  them  as  of  the  least  importance  in  any 
other  place ;  we  have  all,  at  one  time  or  other, 
been  content  to  love  those  whom  we  could  not 
esteem,  and  been  persuaded  to  try  the  dangerous 
experiment  of  admitting  him  for  a  companion, 
whom  we  knew  to  be  too  ignorant  for  a  counsel- 
lor and  too  treacherous  for  a  friend. 

I  question  whether  some  abatement  of  charac- 
ter is  not  necessary  to  general  acceptance.  Few 
spend  their  time  with  much  satisfaction  under 
the  eye  of  incontestable  superiority  ;  and,  there- 
fore, among  those  whose  presence  is  courted  at 
assemblies  of  jollity,  there  are  seldom  found  men 
eminently  distinguished  for  powers  or  acquisi- 
tions. The  wit,  whose  vivacity  condemns  slower 
tongues  to  silence ;  the  scholar,  whose  know- 
ledge allows  no  man  to  fancy  that  he  instructs 
him  ;  the  critic,  who  suffers  no  fallacy  to  pass 
undetected ;  and  the  reasoner,  who  condemns 
the  idle  to  thought  and  the  negligent  to  attention, 
are  generally  praised  and  feared,  reverenced  and 
avoided. 

He  that  would  please  must  rarely  aim  at  such 
excellence  as  depresses  his  hearers  in  their  own 
opinion,  or  debars  them  from  the  hope  of  contri- 
buting reciprocally  to  the  entertainment  of  the 
company.  Merriment,  extorted  by  sallies  of 
imagination,  sprightliness  of  remark,  or  quick- 
ness of  reply,  is  too  often  what  the  Latins  call 
the  Sardinian  laughter,  a  distortion  of  the  face 
without  gladness  of  heart. 

For  this  reason,  no  style  of  conversation  is 
more  extensively  acceptable  than  the  narrative. 
He  who  has  stored  his  memory  with  slight  anec- 
dotes, private  incidents,  and  personal  peculiari- 
ties, seldom  fails  to  find  his  audience  favourable. 
Almost  every  man  listens  with  eagerness  to  con- 
temporary history  ;  for  almost  every  man  has 
some  real  or  imaginary  connexion  with  a  cele- 
brated character ;  some  desire  to  advance  or 
oppose  a  rising  name.  Vanity  often  co-operates 
with  curiosity.  He  that  is  a  hearer  in  one  place, 
qualifies  himself  to  become  a  speaker  in  another ; 
for  though  he  cannot  comprehend  a  series  of  ar- 
gument, or  transport  the  volatile  spirit  of  wit 
without  evaporation,  he  yet  thinks  himself  able 
to  treasure  up  the  various  incidents  of  a  story, 
and  pleases  his  hopes  with  the  information  which 
he  shall  give  to  some  inferior  society. 

Narratives  are  for  the  most  part  heard  without 


envy,  because  they  are  not  supposed  to  imply 
any  intellectual  qualities  above  the  common  rate. 
To  be  acquainted  with  facts  not  yet  echoed  by 
plebeian  mouths,  may  happen  to  one  man  as 
well  as  to  another ;  and  to  relate  them  when 
they  are  known,  has  in  appearance  so  little  diffi- 
culty, that  every  one  concludes  himself  equal  to 
the  task. 

But  it  is  not  easy,  and  in  some  situations  of 
life  not  possible,  to  accumulate  such  a  stock  of 
materials  as  may  support  the  expense  of  con- 
tinual narration  ;  and  it  frequently  happens,  that 
they  who  attempt  this  method  of  ingratiating 
themselves,  please  only  at  the  first  interview; 
and,  for  want  of  new  supplies  of  intelligence, 
wear  out  their  stories  by  continual  repetition. 

There  would  be,  therefore,  little  hope  of  ob- 
taining the  praise  of  a  good  companion,  were  it 
not  to  be  gained  by  more  compendious  methods ; 
but  such  is  the  kindness  of  mankind  to  all,  ex- 
cept those  who  aspire  to  real  merit  and  rational 
dignity,  that  every  understanding  may  find  some 
way  to  excite  benevolence  ;  and  whoever  is  not 
envied  may  learn  the  art  of  procuring  love.  W^e 
are  willing  to  be  pleased,  but  arc  not  willing  to 
admire  :  we  favour  the  mirth  or  officiousness 
that  solicits  oar  regard,  but  oppose  the  worth  or 
spirit  that  enforces  it. 

The  first  place  among  those  that  please,  be- 
cause they  desire  only  to  please,  is  due  to  the 
merry  fellow,  whose  laugh  is  loud,  and  whose 
voice  is  strong  ;  who  is  ready  to  echo  every  jest 
with  obstreperous  approbation,  and  countenance 
every  frolic  with  vociferations  of  applause.  It  is 
not  necessary  to  a  merry  fellow  to  have  in  him- 
self any  fund  of  jocularity,  or  force  of  concep 
tion :  it  is  sufficient  that  he  always  appears  in 
the  highest  exaltation  of  gladness  ;  for  the  greater 
part  of  mankind  are  gay  or  serious  by  infection, 
and  follow  without  resistance  the  attraction  of 
example. 

Next  to  the  merry  fellow  is  the  good-natured 
man,  a  being  generally  without  benevolence,  or 
any  other  virtue  than  such  as  indolence  and  in- 
sensibility confer.  The  characteristic  of  a  good- 
natured  man  is  to  bear  a  joke ;  to  sit  unmoved 
and  unaffected  amidst  noise  and  turbulence, 
profaneness  and  obscenity  ;  to  hear  every  tale 
without  contradiction  ;  to  endure  insult  without 
reply ;  and  to  follow  the  s'ream  of  folly,  what- 
ever course  it  shall  happen  to  take.  The  good- 
natured  man  is  commonly  the  darling  of  the 
petty  wits,  with  whom  they  exercise  themselves 
in  the  rudiments  of  raillery  ;  for  he  never  takes 
advantage  of  failings,  nor  disconcerts  a  puny 
satirist  with  unexpected  sarcasms ;  but,  while 
the  glass  continues  to  circulate,  contentedly  bears 
the  expense  of  uninterrupted  laughter,  and  re- 
tires rejoicing  at  his  own  importance. 

The  modest  man  is  a  companion  of  a  yet  lower 
rank,  whose  only  power  of  giving  pleasure  is 
not  to  interrupt  it.  The  modest  man  satisfies 
himself  with  peaceful  silence,  which  all  his  com- 
panions are  candid  enough  to  consider  as  pro 
ceeding  not  from  inability  to  speak,  but  willing- 
ness to  hear. 

Many,  without  being  able  to  attain  any  gene- 
ral character  of  excellence,  have  some  single  art 
of  entertainment  which  serves  them  as  a  pass- 
port through  the  world.  One  I  have  known  for 
fifteen  years  the  darling  of  a  weekly  club,  be- 
cause every  night,  precisely  at  eleven,  he  begins 


No.  189.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


283 


his  favourite  song,  and  during  the  vocal  per- 
formance, by  corresponding  motions  of  his  hand, 
chalks  out  a  giant  upon  the  wall.  Another  has 
endeared  himself  to  a  long  succession  of  ac- 
quaintances by  sitting  among  them  with  his  wig 
reversed;  another,  by  contriving  to  smut  the 
nose  of  any  stranger,  who  was  to  be  initiated  in 
the  club  ;  another,  by  purring  like  a  cat,  and 
then  pretending  to  be  frighted  ;  and  another,  by 
yelping  like  a  hound,  and  calling  to  the  drawers 
to  drive  out  the  dog. 

Such  are  the  arts  by  which  cheerfulness  is 
promoted,  and  sometimes  friendship  established  ; 
arts,  which  those  who  despise  them  should  not 
rigorously  blame,  except  when  they  are  practised 
at  the  expense  of  innocence;  for  it  is  always  ne- 
cessary to  be  loved,  but  not  always  necessary  to 
be  reverenced. 


No.  189.]     TUESDAY,  JAN.  7,  1752. 

Quod  tarn  grande  tophos  clamat  tibi  turbo,  togata. 
fton  tu,  Poatfoni,  cocna  diserta  lua  est.  MART. 

Resounding  plaudits  through  the  crowd  have  rung; 
Thy  treat  is  eloquent,  and  not  thy  tongue. 

F.LEWIS. 

THE  world  scarcely  affords  opportunities  of 
making  any  observation  more  frequently  than 
on  false  claims  to  commendation.  Almost  every 
man  wastes  part  of  his  life  in  attempts  to  display 
qualities  which  he  does  not  possess,  and  to  gain 
applause  which  he  cannot  keep ;  so  that  scarcely 
can  two  persons  casually  meet,  but  one  is  of- 
fended or  diverted  by  the  ostentation  of  the  other. 

Of  these  pretenders  it  is  fit  to  distinguish  those 
who  endeavour  to  deceive  from  them  who  are 
deceived ;  those  who  by  designed  impostures 
promote  their  interest,  or  gratify  their  pride,  from 
them  who  mean  only  to  force  into  regard  their 
latent  excellences  and  neglected  virtues;  who 
believe  themselves  qualified  to  instruct  or  please, 
and  therefore  invite  the  notice  of  mankind. 

The  artful  and  fraudulent  usurpers  of  distinc- 
tion deserve  greater  severities  than  ridicule  and 
contempt,  since  they  are  seldom  content  with 
empty  praise,  but  are  instigated  by  passions  more 
pernicious  than  vanity.  They  consider  the  re- 
putation which  they  endeavour  to  establish,  as 
necessary  to  the  accomplishment  of  some  subse- 
quent design,  and  value  praise  only  as  it  may 
conduce  to  the  success  of  avarice  or  ambition. 

The  commercial  world  is  very  frequently  put 
into  confusion  by  the  bankruptcy  of  merchants, 
that  assumed  the  splendour  of  wealth  only  to 
obtain  the  privilege  of  trading  with  the  stock  of 
other  men,  and  of  contracting  debts  which  no- 
thing but  lucky  casualties  could  enable  them  to 


pay;  till,  after  having  supported  their  appearance 
awhile  by  a  tumultuary  magnificence  of  bound- 
less traffic,  they  sink  at  once,  and  drag  down 
into  poverty  those  whom  their  equipages  had 
induced  to  trust  them. 

Among  wretches  that  place  their  happiness  in 
the  favour  of  the  great,  of  beings  whom  only 
high  titles  or  large  estates  set  above  themselves, 
nothing  is  more  common  than  to  boast  of  confi- 
dence which  they  do  not  enjoy ;  to  sell  promises 
which  they  know  their  interest  unable  to  per- 
form ;  and  to  reimburse  the  tribute  which  they 
pay  to  an  imperious  master,  from  ihe  contribu- 
tions of  meaner  dependants,  whom  they  can 


amuse  with  tales  of  their  influence,  and  hopea 
of  their  solicitation. 

Even  among  some,  too  thoughtless  and  vola- 
tile for  avarice  or  ambition,  may  be  found  a  spe- 
cies of  falsehood  more  detestable  than  the  levee 
or  exchange  can  show.  There  are  men  that  boast 
of  debaucheries,  of  which  they  never  had  address 
to  be  guilty :  ruin,  by  lewd  tales,  the  characters 
of  women  to  whom  they  are  scarcely  known,  or 
by  whom  they  have  been  rejected  ;  destroy,  in  a 
drunken  frolic,  the  happiness  of  families,  blast 
the  bloom  of  beauty,  and  intercept  the  reward 
of  virtue. 

Other  artifices  of  falsehood,  though  utterly  un- 
worthy of  an  ingenious  mind,  are  not  yet  to  be 
ranked  with  flagitious  enormities,  nor  is  it  neces- 
sary to  incite  sanguinary  justice  against  them, 
since  they  may  be  adequately  punished  by  de 
tection  and  laughter.  The  traveller  who  de- 
scribes cities  which  he  has  never  seen ;  the  squire 
who,  at  his  return  from  London,  tells  of  his  inti 
macy  with  nobles  to  whom  he  has  only  bowed 
in  the  park  or  coffee-house ;  the  author  who  en 
tertains  his  admirers  with  stories  of  the  assistance 
which  he  gives  to  wits  of  a  higher  rank  ;  the  city 
dame  who  talks  of  her  visit  at  great  houses, 
where  she  happens  to  know  the  cook-maid,  are 
surely  such  harmless  animals  as  truth  herself 
may  be  content  to  despise  without  desiring  to 
hurt  them. 

But  of  the  multitudes  who  struggle  in  vain  for 
distinction,  and  display  their  own  merits  only  to 
feel  more  acutely  the  sting  of  neglect,  a  great 
part  are  wholly  innocent  of  deceit,  and  are  be 
trayed  by  infatuation  and  credulity,  to  that  scorn 
with  which  the  universal  love  of  praise  incites  us 
all  to  drive  feeble  competitors  out  of  our  way. 

Few  men  survey  themselves  with  so  much 
severity  as  not  to  admit  prejudices  in  their  own 
favour,  which  an  artful  flatterer  may  gradually 
strengthen,  till  wishes  for  a  particular  qualifi- 
cation are  improved  to  hopes  of  attainment,  and 
hopes  of  attainment  to  belief  of  possession.  Such 
flatterers  every  one  will  find,  who  has  power  to 
reward  their  assiduities.  Wherever  there  is 
wealth  there  will  be  dependance  and  expecta- 
tion, and  wherever  there  is  dependance  there 
will  be  an  emulation  of  servility. 

Many  of  the  follies  which  provoke  general  cen 
sure,  are  the  effects  of  such  vanity  as  however  it 
might  have  wantoned  in  the  imagination,  would 
scarcely  have  dared  the  public  eye,  had  it  not 
been  animated  and  emboldened  by  flattery. 
Whatever  difficulty  there  may  be  in  the  know- 
ledge of  ourselves,  scarcely  any  one  fails  to  sus- 
pect his  own  imperfections,  till  he  is  elevated  by 
others  to  confidence.  We  are  almost  all  na 
turally  modest  and  timorous ;  but  fear  and 


shame  are  uneasy  sensations,  and  whosoever 
helps  to  remove  them  is  received  with  kindness. 
Turpicula  was  the  heiress  of  a  large  estate, 
and,  having  lost  her  mother  in  her  infancy,  was 
committed  to  her  governess,  whom  misfortunes 
had  reduced  to  suppleness  and  humility.  The 
fondness  of  Turpicula's  father  would  not  suffer 
him  to  trust  her  at  a  public  school ;  but  he  hired 
domestic  teachers,  and  bestowed  on  her  all  the 
accomplishments  that  wealth  could  purchase. 
But  how  many  things  are  necessary  to  happi- 
ness which  money  cannot  obtain !  Thus  secluded 
from  all  with  whom  she  might  converse  on  terms 
of  equality,  she  heard  none  of  those  intimations 


284 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  190. 


of  her  defects,  which  envy,  petulance,  or  anger, 
produce  among  children,  where  they  are  not 
afraid  of  telling  what  they  think. 

Turpicula  saw  nothing  but  obsequiousness, 
and  heard  nothing  but  commendations.  None 
are  so  little  acquainted  with  the  heart,  as  not  to 
know  that  woman's  first  wish  is  to  be  handsome, 
and  that  consequently  the  readiest  method  of  ob- 
taining her  kindness  is  to  praise  her  beauty. 
Turpicula  had  a  distorted  shape  and  a  dark  com- 
plexion ;  yet  when  the  impudence  of  adulation 
had  ventured  to  tell  her  of  the  commanding  dig- 
nity of  her  motion,  and  the  soft  enchantment  of 
her  smile,  she  was  easily  convinced  that  she  was 
the  delight  or  torment  of  every  eye,  and  that  all 
who  gazed  upon  her  felt  the  fire  of  envy  or  love. 
She  therefore  neglected  the  culture  of  an  under- 
standing which  might  have  supplied  the  defects 
of  her  form,  and  applied  all  her  care  to  the  deco- 
ration of  her  person;  for  she  considered  that 
more  could  judge  of  beauty  than  of  wit,  and  was, 
like  the  rest  of  human  beings,  in  haste  to  be  ad- 
mired. The  desire  of  conquest  naturally  led  her 
to  the  lists  in  which  beauty  signalizes  her  power. 
She  glittered  at  court,  fluttered  in  the  park,  and 
talked  loud  in  the  front  box ;  but  after  a  thou- 
sand experiments  of  her  charms,  was  at  last  con- 
vinced that  she  had  been  flattered,  and  that  her 
glass  was  honester  than  her  maid. 


No.  190.]    SATURDAY,  JAN.  11,  1752. 

Ploravere  fuis,  non  respondere  favor  em 
Quasitum  meritis. 


Henry  and  Alfred 

Closed  their  long  glories  with  a  sigU,  to  find 

Th'  unwilling  gratitude  of  base  mankind.          POPE. 

AMONG  the  emirs  and  visiers,  the  sons  of  valour 
and  of  wisdom,  that  stand  at  the  corners  of  the 
Indian  throne  to  assist  the  counsels  or  conduct 
the  wars  of  the  posterity  of  Timur,  the  first  place 
was  long  held  by  Morad  the  son  of  Hanuth. 
Morad,  having  signalized  himself  in  many  battles 
and  sieges,  was  rewarded  with  the  government 
of  a  province,  from  which  the  fame  of  his  wisdom 
and  moderation  was  wafted  to  the  pinnacles  of 
Agra,  by  the  prayers  of  those  whom  his  adminis- 
tration made  happy.  The  emperor  called  him 
into  his  presence,  and  gave  into  his  hand  the 
keys  of  riches,  and  the  sabre  of  command.  The 
voice  of  Morad  was  heard  from  the  cliffs  of  Tau- 
rus to  the  Indian  ocean,  every  tongue  faltered  in 
his  presence,  and  every  eye  wa:s  cast  down  before 
him. 

Morad  lived  many  years  in  prosperity  ;  every 
day  increased  his  wealth,  and  extended  his  influ- 
ence. The  sages  repeated  his  maxims,  the  cap- 
tains of  thousands  waited  his  commands.  Com- 
petition withdrew  into  the  cavern  of  envy,  and 
discontent  trembled  at  her  own  murmurs.  But 
human  greatness  is  short  and  transitory,  as  the 
odour  of  incense  in  the  fire.  The  sun  grew  weary 
of  gilding  the  palaces  of  Morad,  the  clouds  of 
sorrow  gathered  round  his  head,  and  the  tempest 
of  hatred  roared  about  his  dwelling. 

Morad  saw  ruin  hastily  approaching.  The 
first  that  forsook  him  were  his  poets  ;  their  ex- 
ample was  followed  by  all  those  whom  he  had 
rewarded  for  contributing  to  his  pleasures  •  and 
only  a  few,  whose  virtue  had  entitled  them  to 


favour,  were  now  to  be  seen  in  his  hall  or  cham- 
bers. He  felt  his  danger,  and  prostrated  him- 
self at  the  foot  of  the  throne.  His  accusers  were 
confident  and  loud,  his  friends  stood  contented 
with  frigid  neutrality,  and  the  voice  of  truth  was 
overborne  by  clamour.  He  was  divested  of  his 
power,  deprived  of  his  acquisitions,  and  con- 
demned to  pass  the  rest  of  his  life  on  his  heredi- 
tary estate. 

Morad  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to  crowds 
and  business,  supplicants  and  flattery,  that  he 
knew  not  how  to  fill  up  his  hours  in  solitude  ;  he 
saw  with  regret  the  sun  rise  to  force  on  his  eye 
a  new  day  for  which  he  had  no  use  ;  and  envied 
the  savage  that  wanders  in  the  desert,  because 
he  has  no  time  vacant  from  the  calls  of  nature, 
but  is  always  chasing  his  prey,  or  sleeping  in  his 
den. 

His  discontent  in  time  vitiated  his  constitution, 
and  a  slow  disease  seized  upon  him.  He  refused 
physic,  neglected  exercise,  and  lay  down  on  his 
couch  peevish  and  restless,  rather  afraid  to  die 
than  desirous  to  live.  His  domestics,  fora  time, 
redoubled  their  assiduities ;  but  finding  that  no 
officiousness  could  sooth,  nor  exactness  satisfy, 
they  soon  gave  way  to  negligence  and  sloth,  and 
he  that  once  commanded  nations  often  languish- 
ed in  his  chamber  without  an  attendant. 

In  this  melancholy  state,  he  commanded  mes- 
sengers to  recall  his  eldest  son  Abouzaid  from  the 
army.  Abouzaid  was  alarmed  at  the  account  of 
his  father's  sickness,  and  hasted  by  long  jour- 
neys to  his  place  of  residence.  Morad  was  yet 
living,  and  felt  his  strength  return  at  the  em- 
braces of  his  son;  then  commanding  him  to  sit 
down  at  his  bed  side,  "  Abouzaid,"  says  he, 
"  thy  father  has  no  more  to  hope  or  fear  from  the 
inhabitants  of  the  earth ;  the  cold  hand  of  the 
angel  of  death  is  now  upon  him,  and  the  vora- 
cious grave  is  howling  for  his  prey.  Hear,  there- 
fore, the  precepts  of  ancient  experience,  let  not 
my  last  instructions  issue  forth  in  vain.  Thou 
hast  seen  me  happy  and  calamitous,  thou  hast 
beheld  my  exaltation  and  my  fall.  My  power  is 
in  the  hands  of  my  enemies,  my  treasures  have 
rewarded  my  accusers  ;  but  my  inheritance  the 
clemency  of  the  emperor  has  spared,  and  my  wis- 
dom his  anger  could  not  take  away.  Cast  thine 
eyes  round  thee ;  whatever  thou  beholdest  will, 
in  a  few  hours,  be  thine ;  apply  thine  ear  to  my 
dictates,  and  these  possessions  will  promote  thy 
happiness.  Aspire  not  to  public  honours,  enter 
not  the  palaces  of  kings ;  thy  wealth  will  set  thee 
above  insult,  let  thy  moderation  keep  thee  below 
envy.  Content  thyself  with  private  dignity,  dif- 
fuse thy  riches  among  thy  friends,  let  every  day 
extend  thy  beneficence,  and  suffer  not  thy  heart 
to  be  at  rest  till  thou  art  loved  by  all  to  whom 
thou  art  known.  In  the  height  of  my  power,  I 
said  to  Defamation,  Who  will  hear  thee  ?  and  to 
Artifice,  What  canst  thou  perform  ?  But,  my 
son,  despise  not  thou  the  malice  of  the  weakest; 
remember  that  venom  supplies  the  want  of 
strength,  and  that  the  lion  may  perish  by  the 
puncture  of  an  asp." 

Morad  expired  in  a  few  hours.  Abouzaid,  after 
the  months  of  mourning,  determined  to  regulate 
his  conduct  by  his  father's  precepts,  and  cultivate 
the  love  of  mankind  by  every  art  of  kindness 
and  endearment.  He  wisely  considered,  that 
domestic  happiness  was  first  to  be  secured,  and 
that  none  have  so  much  power  of  doing'  good  01 


No.  191.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


hurt,  as  those  who  are  present  in  the  hour  of 
negligence,  hear  the  bursts  of  thoughtless  merri- 
ment, and  observe  the  starts  of  unguarded  pas- 
sion. He  therefore  augmented  the  pay  of  all  his 
attendants,  and  requited  every  exertion  of  un- 
common diligence  by  supernumerary  gratuities. 
While  he  congratulated  himself  upon  the  fidelity 
and  affection  of  his  family,  he  was  in  the  night 
alarmed  with  robbers,  who,  being  pursued  and 
taken,  declared  that  they  had  been  admitted  by 
one  of  his  servants;  the  servant  immediately 
confessed  that  he  unbarred  the  door,  because 
another  not  more  worthy  of  confidence  was  in- 
trusted with  the  keys. 

Abouzaid  was  thus  convinced  that  a  depend- 
ent could  not  easily  be  made  a  friend  ;  and  that, 
while  many  were  soliciting  for  the  first  rank  of 
favour,  all  those  would  be  alienated  whom  he 
disappointed.  He  therefore  resolved  to  associate 
with  a  few  equal  companions  selected  from 
among  the  chief  men  of  the  province.  With 
these  he  lived  happily  for  a  time,  till  familiarity 
set  them  free  from  restraint,  and  every  man 
thought  himself  at  liberty  to  indulge  his  own 
caprice,  and  advance  his  own  opinions.  They 
then  disturbed  each  other  with  contrariety  of  in- 
clinations, and  difference  of  sentiments,  and 
Abouzaid  was  necessitated  to  offend  one  party 
by  concurrence,  or  both  by  indifference. 

He  afterwards  determined  to  avoid  a  close 
union  with  beings  so  discordant  in  their  nature, 
and  to  diffuse  himself  in  a  larger  circle.  He 
practised  the  smile  of  universal  courtesy,  and  in- 
vited all  to  his  table,  but  admitted  none  to  his 
retirements.  Many  who  had  been  rejected  in 
his  choice  of  friendship  now  refused  to  accept 
his  acquaintance;  and  of  those  whom  plenty  and 
magnificence  drew  to  his  table,  every  one  pressed 
forward  toward  intimacy,  thought  himself  over- 
looked in  the  crowd,  and  murmured  because  he 
was  not  distinguished  above  the  rest.  By  de- 
grees all  made  advances,  and  all  resented  repulse. 
The  table  was  then  covered  with  delicacies  in 
rain  ;  the  music  sounded  in  empty  rooms  ;  and 
Abouzaid  was  left  to  form  in  solitude  some  new 
scheme  of  pleasure  or  security. 

Resolving  now  to  try  the  force  of  gratitude, 
he  inquired  for  men  of  science  whose  merit  was 
obscured  by  poverty.  His  house  was  soon 
crowded  with  poets,  sculptors,  painters,  and  de- 
signers, who  wantoned  in  unexperienced  plenty, 
and  employed  their  powers  in  celebration  of 
their  patron.  But  in  a  short  time  they  forgot 
the  distress  from  which  they  had  been  rescued, 
and  began  to  consider  their  deliverer  as  a  wretch 
of  narrow  capacity,  who  was  growing  great  by 
works  which  he  could  not  perform,  and  whom 
they  overpaid  by  condescending  to  accept  his 
bounties.  Abouzaid  heard  their  murmurs  and 
dismissed  them,  and  from  that  hour  continued 
blind  to  colours,  and  deaf  to  panegyric. 

As  the  sons  of  art  departed,  muttering  threats 
of  perpetual  infamy,  Abouzaid,  who  stood  at  the 
gate,  called  to  him  Hamet  the  poet.  "  Hamet," 
said  he,  "  thy  ingratitude  has  put  an  end  to  my 
hopes  and  experiments  :  I  have  now  learned  the 
vanity  of  those  labours  that  wish  to  be  rewarded 
by  human  benevolence  ;  I  shall  henceforth  do 
good,  and  avoid  evil,  without  respect  to  the 
opinion  of  men ;  and  resolve  to  solicit  only  the 
approbation  of  that  Being,  whom  alone  we  are 
sure  to  please  by  endeavouring  to  please  him." 


No.  191.]      TUESDAY,  JAN.  14,  1752. 

Cereusin  vitiumfiecti,  monitoribus  atper.       HOR. 


The  youth 

Yielding  like  wax,  th'  impressive  folly  bears  ; 
Rough  to  reproof,  and  slow  to  future  cares. 

FRANCIS. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

DEAR  MR.  RAMBLER, 

I  HAVE  been  four  days  confined  to  my  chamber 
by  a  cold,  which  has  already  kept  me  from  three 
plays,  nine  sales,  five  shows,  and  six  card-tables, 
and  put  me  seventeen  visits  behindhand;  and 
the  doctor  tells  my  mamma,  that  if  I  fret  and  cry, 
it  will  settle  in  my  head,  and  I  shall  not  be  fit  to 
be  seen  these  six  weeks.  But,  dear  Mr.  Rambler, 
how  can  I  help  it  ?  At  this  very  time  Melissa  is 
dancing-  with  the  prettiest  gentleman  ; — she  will 
breakfast  with  him  to-morrow,  and  then  run  to 
two  auctions,  and  hear  compliments,  and  have 
presents  ;  then  she  will  be  drest,  and  visit,  and 
get  a  ticket  to  the  play  ;  then  go  to  cards,  and 
win,  and  come  home  with  two  flambeaux  before 
her  chair.  Dear  Mr.  Rambler,  who  can  bear  it? 

My  aunt  has  just  brought  me  a  bundle  of  your 
papers  for  my  amusement  She  says,  you  are  a 
philosopher,  and  will  teach  me  to  moderate  my 
desires,  and  look  upon  the  world  with  indiffer- 
ence. But,  dear  Sir,  I  do  not  wish  nor  intend  to 
moderate  my  desires,  nor  can  I  think  it  proper  to 
look  upon  the  world  with  indifference,  till  the 
world  looks  with  indifference  on  me.  I  have 
been  forced,  however,  to  sit  this  morning  a  whole 
quarter  of  an  hour  with  your  paper  before  my 
face  ;  but  just  as  my  aunt  came  in,  Phyllida  had 
brought  me  a  letter  from  Mr.  Trip,  which  I  put 
within  the  leaves ;  and  read  about  absence  and 
inconsolableness,  and  ardour,  and  irresistible  pas- 
sion, and  eternal  constancy,  while  my  aunt  ima- 
gined that  I  was  puzzling  myself  with  your  phi- 
losophy, and  often  cried  out,  when  she  saw  me 
look  confused,  "  If  there  is  any  word  which  you 
do  not  understand,  child,  I  will  explain." 

Dear  soul !  how  old  people  that  think  them- 
selves wise  may  be  imposed  upon  !  But  it  is  fit 
that  they  should  take  their  turn  ;  for  I  am  sure, 
while  they  can  keep  poor  girls  close  in  the  nurse- 
ry, they  tyrannize  over  us  in  a  very  shameful 
manner,  and  fill  our  imaginations  with  tales  of 
terror,  only  to  make  us  live  in  quiet  subjection, 
and  fancy  that  we  can  never  be  safe  but  by  their 
protection. 

I  have  a  mamma  and  two  aunts,  who  have  all 
been  formerly  celebrated  for  wit  and  beauty,  and 
are  still  generally  admired  by  those  who  value 
themselves  upon  their  understanding,  and  love 
to  talk  of  vice  and  virtue,  nature  and  simplicity, 
and  beauty  and  propriety ;  but  if  there  was  not 
some  hope  of  meeting  me,  scarcely  a  creature 
would  come  near  them  that  wears  a  fashionable 
coat  These  ladies,  Mr.  Rambler,  have  had  me 
under  their  government  fifteen  years  and  a  half, 
and  have  all  that  time  been  endeavouring  to  de- 
ceive me  by  such  representations  of  life  as  I  now 
find  not  to  be  true  ;  but  I  know  not  whether  I 
ought  to  impute  them  to  ignorance  or  malice,  as 
it  is  possible  the  world  may  be  much  changed 
since  they  mingled  in  general  conversation. 

Being  desirous  that  I  should  love  books,  they 
told  me,  that  nothing  but  knowledge,  could  make 
me  an  agreeable  companion  to  rnen  of  sense,  or 


286 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  192. 


qualify  me  to  distinguish  the  superficial  glitter 
of  vanity  from  the  solid  merit  of  understanding; 
and  that  a  habit  of  reading  would  enable  me  to 
fill  up  the  vacuities  of  life  without  the  help  of 
silly  or  dangerous  amusements,  and  preserve  me 
from  the  snares  of  idleness  and  the  inroads  of 
temptation. 

But  their  principal  intention  was  to  make  me 
afraid  of  men  ;  in  which  they  succeeded  so  well 
for  a  time,  that  I  durst  not  look  in  their  faces,  or 
be  left  alone  with  them  in  a  parlour ;  for  they 
made  me  fancy  that  no  man  ever  spoke  but  to 
deceive,  or  looked  but  to  allure;  that  the  girl 
who  suffered  him  that  had  once  squeezed  her 
hand,  to  approach  her  a  second  time,  was  on  the 
brink  of  ruin ;  and  that  she  who  answered  a 
billet,  without  consulting  her  relations,  gave  love 
such  power  over  her,  that  she  would  certainly 
either  become  poor  or  infamous. 

From  the  time  that  my  leading-strings  were 
taken  off",  I  scarce  heard  any  mention  of  my 
beauty  but  from  the  milliner,  the  mantuamaker, 
and  my  own  maid ;  for  mamma  never  said  more, 
when  she  heard  me  commended,  but  "  The  girl 
is  very  well,"  and  then  endeavoured  to  divert 
my  attention  by  some  inquiry  after  my  needle  or 
my  book. 

It  is  now  three  months  since  I  have  been  suf- 
fered to  pay  and  receive  visits,  to  dance  at  public 
assemblies,  to  have  a  place  kept  for  me  in  the 
boxes,  and  to  play  at  Lady  Racket's  rout ;  and 
you  may  easily  imagine  what  I  think  of  those 
who  have  so  long  cheated  me  with  false  expect- 
ations, disturbed  me  with  fictitious  terrors  and 
concealed  from  me  all  that  I  have  found  to  make 
the  happiness  of  woman. 

I  am  so  far  from  perceiving  the  usefulness  or 
necessity  of  books,  that  if  I  had  not  dropped  all 
pretensions  to  learning,  I  should  have  lost  Mr. 
Trip,  whom  I  once  frighted  into  another  box 
by  retailing  some  of  Dryden's  remarks  upon  a 
tragedy  ;  for  Mr.  Trip  declares  that  he  hates 
nothing  like  hard  words,  and  I  am  sure  there  is 
not  a  better  partner  to  be  found ;  his  very  walk 
is  a  dance.  I  have  talked  once  or  twice  among 
ladies  about  principles  and  ideas  :  but  they  put 
their  fans  before  their  faces,  and  told  me  1  was 
loo  wise  for  them,  who  for  their  part  never  pre- 
tended to  read  any  thing  but  the  play-bill ;  and 
then  asked  me  the  price  of  my  best  head. 

Those  vacancies  of  time  which  are  to  be  filled 
up  with  books,  I  have  never  yet  obtained  ;  for 
consider,  Mr.  Rambler,  I  go  to  bed  late,  and 
therefore  cannot  rise  early  ;  as  soon  as  I  am  up, 
I  dress  for  the  gardens  ;  then  walk  in  the  park  ; 
then  always  go  to  some  sale  or  show,  or  enter- 
tainment at  the  Little  Theatre  ;  then  must  be 
dressed  for  dinner ;  then  must  pay  my  visits ; 
then  walk  in  the  park  ;  then  hurry  to  the  play ; 
and  from  thence  to  the  card-table.  This  is  the 
general  course  of  the  day,  when  there  happens 
nothing  extraordinary  ;  but  sometimes  I  ramble 
into  the  country,  and  come  back  again  to  a  ball ; 
sometimes  I  am  engaged  for  a  whole  day  and 
part  of  the  night.  If,  at  any  time,  I  can  give  an 
hour  by  not  being  at  home,  I  have  so  many 
things  to  do,  so  many  orders  to  give  to  the  mil- 
liner, so  many  alterations  to  make  in  my  clothes, 
so  many  visitants'  names  to  read  over,  so  many 
invitations  to  accept  or  refuse,  so  many  cards  to 
write,  and  so  many  fashions  to  consider,  that  I 
am  lost  in  confusion,  forced  at  last  to  let  in  com- 


pany, or  step  into  my  chair,  and  leave  half  my 
affairs  to  the  direction  of  my  maid. 

This  is  the  round  of  my  day  ;  and  when  shall 
I  either  stop  my  course,  or  so  change  it  as  to 
want  a  book  ?  I  suppose  it  cannot  be  imagined 
that  any  of  these  diversions  will  soon  be  at  an 
end.  There  will  always  be  gardens,  and  a  park, 
and  auctions,  and  shows,  and  playhouses,  and 
cards ;  visits  will  always  be  paid,  and  clothes 
always  be  worn;  and  how  can  I  have  time  un- 
employed upon  my  hands  ? 

But  I  am  most  at  a  loss  to  guess  for  what  pur- 
pose they  related  such  tragic  stories  of  the  cruel- 
ty, perfidy,  and  artifices  of  men,  who,  if  they  ever 
were  so  malicious  and  destructive,  have  certainly 
now  reformed  their  manners.  I  have  not,  since 
my  entrance  into  the  world,  found  one  who  does 
not  profess  himself  devoted  to  my  service,  and 
ready  to  live  or  die  as  I  shall  command  him. 
They  are  so  far  from  intending  to  hurt  me,  that 
their  only  contention  is  who  shall  be  allowed 
most  closely  to  attend,  and  most  frequently  to 
treat  me.  When  different  places  of  entertain- 
ment or  schemes  of  pleasure  are  mentioned,  I 
can  see  the  eye  sparkle  and  the  cheeks  glow  of 
him  whose  proposals  obtain  my  approbation  ; 
he  then  leads  me  offin  triumph,  adores  my  con- 
descension, and  congratulates  himself  that  he 
has  lived  to  the  hour  of  felicity.  Are  these,  Mr. 
Rambler,  creatures  to  be  feared?  Is  it  likely 
that  any  injury  will  be  done  me  by  those  who 
can  enjoy  life  only  while  I  favour  them  with  my 
presence  ? 

As  little  reason  can  I  yet  find  to  suspect  them 
of  stratagems  and  fraud.  When  I  play  at  cards, 
they  never  take  advantage  of  my  mistakes,  or 
exact  from  me  a  rigorous  observation  of  the  game. 
Even  Mr.  Shuffle,  a  grave  gentleman,  who  has 
daughters  older  than  myself,  plays  with  me  so 
negligently,  that  I  am  sometimes  inclined  to  be- 
lieve he  loses  his  money  by  design  ;  and  yet  he 
is  so  fond  of  play,  that  he  says  he  will  one  day 
take  me  to  his  house  in  the  country,  that  we  may 
try  by  ourselves  who  can  conquer.  I  have  not 
yet  promised  him ;  but  when  the  town  grows  a 
little  empty,  I  shall  think  upon  it,  for  I  want  some 
trinkets,  like  Letitia's,  to  my  watch.  I  do  not 
doubt  my  luck,  but  must  study  some  means  of 
amusing  my  relations. 

For  all  these  distinctions  I  find  myself  indebted 
to  that  beauty  which  I  was  never  suffered  to  hear 
praised,  and  of  which,  therefore,  I  did  not  before 
know  the  full  value.  This  concealment  was 
certainly  an  intentional  fraud ;  for  my  aunts  have 
eyes  like  other  people,  and  I  am  every  day  told, 
that  nothing  but  blindness  can  escape  the  influ- 
ence of  my  charms.  Their  whole  account  of  that 
world  which  they  pretend  to  know  so  well,  has 
been  only  one  fiction  entangled  with  another  ; 
and  though  the  modes  of  life  oblige  me  to  con- 
tinue some  appearances  of  respect,  I  cannot 
think  that  they,  who  have  been  so  clearly  de 
tected  in  ignorance  or  imposture,  have  any 
right  to  the  esteem,  veneration,  or  obedience  of, 
Sir,  yours,  BELLARIA. 


No.  192.]     SATURDAY,  JAN.  18,  1752. 

Tivos  ov&cv  els  tptura, 
^oipltj,  rpiiros  xaTciTat' 
M6vov  a'pyupoy  fi\iirovaiv- 
'AmiXotro  Troairo;  airij 


. 


No.  192.J 


THE  RAMBLER. 


287 


'O  TOV  dpyvpov  <jn\fiaaf 
A(a  TOVTOV  oi>K 


Ata  TOVTOV  oil  TOKTJIS. 
OdAt^ot,  (povoi  ii'  a»T(5v. 
To  <5f  ^tipov,  oXMfieaOa 

Aid  TOVTOV  01   ^(AoDVTtJ.  ANACREON. 

In  vain  the  noblest  birth  would  prove, 

Nor  worth  nor  wit  avail  in  love  ; 

•Tis  gold  alone  succeeds  —  by  gold 

The  venal  sex  is  bought  and  sold. 

Accursed  be  he  who  first  of  yore 

Discovered  the  pernicious  ore  ! 

This  sets  a  brother's  heart  on  fire, 

And  arms  the  son  against  the  sire  ; 

And  what,  alas  !  is  worse  than  all, 

To  this  the  lover  owes  his  fall.  F.  LEWIS. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

I  AM  the  son  of  a  gentleman  whose  ancestors  for 
many  ages  held  the  first  rank  in  the  country  ; 
till  at  last  one  of  them,  too  desirous  of  popularity, 
set  his  house  open,  kept  a  table  covered  with 
continual  profusion,  and  distributed  his  beef  and 
ale  to  such  as  chose  rather  to  live  upon  the  folly 
of  others,  than  their  own  labour,  with  such 
thoughtless  liberality,  that  he  left  a  third  part  of 
his  estate  mortgaged.  His  successor  a  man  of 
spirit,  scorned  to  impair  his  dignity  by  parsimo- 
nious retrenchments,  or  to  admit,  by  a  sale  of  his 
lands,  any  participation  of  the  rights  of  his  ma- 
nor ;  he  therefore  made  another  mortgage  to  pay 
the  interest  of  the  former,  and  pleased  himself 
with  the  reflection,  that  his  son  would  have  the 
hereditary  estate  without  the  diminution  of  an 
acre. 

Nearly  resembling  this  was  the  practice  of  my 
wise  progenitors  for  many  ages.  Every  man 
boasted  the  antiquity  of  his  family,  resolved  to 
support  the  dignity  of  his  birth,  and  lived  in  splen- 
dour and  plenty  at  the  expense  of  his  heir,  who, 
sometimes  by  a  wealthy  marriage,  and  some- 
times by  lucky  legacies,  discharged  part  of  the 
incumbrances,  and  thought  himself  entitled  to 
contract  new  debts,  and  to  leave  to  his  children 
the  same  inheritance  of  embarrassment  and  dis- 
tress. Thus  the  estate  perpetually  decayed  ;  the 
woods  were  felled  by  one,  the  park  ploughed  by 
another,  the  fishery  let  to  farmers  by  a  third  ;  at 
last  the  old  hall  was  pulled  down  to  spare  the 
cost  of  reparation,  and  part  of  the  materials  sold 
to  build  a  small  house  with  the  rest.  We  were  now 
openly  degraded  from  our  original  rank,  and  my 
father's  brother  was  allowed  with  less  reluctance 
to  serve  an  apprenticeship,  though  we  never  re- 
conciled ourselves  heartily  to  the  sound  of  haber- 
dasher, but  always  talked  of  warehouses  and  a 
merchant,  and  when  the  wind  happened  to  blow 
loud,  affected  to  pity  the  hazards  of  commerce, 
and  to  sympathize  with  the  solicitude  of  my  poor 
uncle,  who  had  the  true  retailer's  terror  of  adven- 
ture, and  never  exposed  himself  or  his  property 
to  any  wider  water  than  the  Thames. 

In  time,  however,  by  continual  profit  and  small 
expenses,  he  grew  rich,  and  began  to  turn  his 
thoughts  towards  rank.  He  hung  the  arms  of 
the  family  over  his  parlour-chimney  ;  pointed  at 
a  chariot  decorated  only  with  a  cipher  ;  became 
of  opinion  that  money  could  not  make  a  gentle- 
man ;  resented  the  petulance  of  upstarts  ;  told 
stories  of  Alderman  Puffs  grandfather,  the  por- 
ter ;  wondered  that  there  was  no  better  method 
for  regulating  precedence;  wished  for  some 
dress  peculiar  to  men  of  fashion  ;  and  when  his 


servant  presented  a  letter,  always  inquired  whe- 
ther it  came  from  his  brother  the  esquire. 

My  father  was  careful  to  send  him  game  by 
every  carrier,  which,  though  the  conveyance  often 
cost  more  than  the  value,  was  well  received,  be- 
cause it  gave  an  opportunity  of  calling  his  friends 
together,  describing  the  beauty  of  his  brother's 
seat,  and  lamenting  his  own  folly,  whom  no  re- 
monstrances could  withhold  from  polluting  his 
fingers  with  a  shop-book. 

The  little  presents  which  we  sent  were  alway 
returned  with  great  munificence.    He  was  de 
sirous  of  being  the  second  founder  of  his  family 
and  could  not  bear  that  we  should  be  any  longer 
outshone  by  those  whom  we  considered  as  climb- 
ers upon  our  ruins,  and  usurpers  of  our  fortune. 
He  furnished  our  house  with  all  the  elegance  of 
fashionable  expense,  and  was  careful  to  conceal 
his  bounties,  lest  the  poverty  of  his  family  should 
be  suspected. 

At  length  it  happened  that,  by  misconduct  like 
our  own,  a  large  estate,  which  had  been  pur- 
chased from  us,  was  again  exposed  to  the  best 
bidder.  My  uncle,  delighted  with  an  opportu- 
nity of  reinstating  the  family  in  their  possessions, 
came  down  with  treasures  scarcely  to  be  ima- 
gined in  a  place  where  commerce  has  not  made 
large  sums  familiar,  and  at  once  drove  all  the 
competitors  away,  expedited  the  writings,  and 
took  possession.  He  now  considered  himself  as 
superior  to  trade,  disposed  of  his  stock,  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  settled  his  economy,  began  to 
show  his  rural  sovereignty,  by  breaking  the 
hedges  of  his  tenants  in  hunting,  and  seizing  the 
guns  or  nets  of  those  whose  fortunes  did  not 
qualify  them  for  sportsmen.  He  soon  afterwards 
solicited  the  office  of  sheriff,  from  which  all  his 
neighbours  were  glad  to  be  reprieved,  but  which 
he  regarded  as  a  resumption  of  ancestral  claims, 
and  a  kind  of  restoration  to  blood  after  the  at- 
tainder of  a  trade. 

My  uncle,  whose  mind  was  so  filled  with  this 
change  of  his  condition,  that  he  found  no  want  of 
domestic  entertainment,  declared  himself  too  old 
to  marry,  and  resolved  to  let  the  newlyrpurchased 
estate  fall  into  the  regular  channel  of  inheritance, 
I  was  therefore  considered  as  heir-apparent  and 
courted  with  officiousness  and  caresses,  by  the 
gentlemen  who  had  hitherto  coldly  allowed  me 
that  rank  which  they  could  not  refuse,  depressed 
me  with  studied  neglect,  and  irritated  me  with 
ambiguous  insults. 

I  felt  not  much  pleasure  from  the  civilities  for 
which  T  knew  myself  indebted  to  my  uncle's  in- 
dustry, till,  by  one  of  the  invitations  which  every 
day  now  brought  me,  I  was  induced  to  spend  a 
week  with  Lucius,  whose  daughter  Flavilla  I  had 
often  seen  and  admired  like  others,  without  any 
thought  of  nearer  approaches.  The  inequality 
which  had  hitherto  kept  me  at  a  distance  being 
now  levelled,!  was  received  with  es-ery  evidence 
of  respect ;  Lucius  told  me  the  fortune  which  he 
intended  for  his  favourite  daughter,  many  odd 
accidents  obliged  us  to  be  often  together  without 
company,  and  I  soon  began  to  find  that  they  were 
spreading  forme  the  nets  of  matrimony. 

Flavilla  was  all  softness  and  complaisance.  T, 
who  have  been  excluded  by  a  narrow  fortune 
from  much  acquaintance  with  the  world,  and 
never  been  honoured  before  with  the  notice  of  so 
fine  a  lady,  was  easily  enamoured.  Lucius  either 
perceived  my  passion,  or  Flavilla  betrayed  it; 


238 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  193. 


care  wis  taken  that  our  private  meetings  should 
be  less  frequent,  and  my  charmer  confessed  by 
her  eyes  how  much  pain  she  suffered  from  our 
restraint.  J  renewed  my  visit  upon  every  pre- 
tence, but  was  not  allowed  one  interview  without 
witness  :  at  last  I  declared  my  passion  to  Lucius, 
who  received  me  as  a  lover  worthy  of  his  daugh- 
ter, and  told  me  that  nothing  was  wanting  to  his 
consent,  but  that  my  uncle  should  settle  his 
estate  upon  me.  I  objected  the  indecency  of  en- 
croaching on  his  life,  and  the  danger  of  provoking 
him  by  such  an  unseasonable  demand.  Lucius 
seemed  not  to  think  decency  of  much  importance, 
but  admitted  the  danger  of  displeasing,  and  con- 
cluded that,  as  he  was  now  old  and  sickly,  we 
might,  without  any  inconvenience,  wait  for  his 
death. 

With  this  resolution  I  was  better  contented,  as 
it  procured  me  the  company  of  Flavilla,  in  which 
the  days  passed  away  amidst  continual  rapture ; 
but  in  time  I  began  to  be  ashamed  of  sitting  idle, 
in  expectation  of  growing  rich  by  the  death  of 
my  benefactor,  and  proposed  to  Lucius  many 
schemes  of  raising  my  own  fortune  by  such  as- 
sistance as  I  knew  my  uncle  willing  to  give 
me.  Lucius,  afraid  lest  I  should  change  my  af- 
fection in  absence,  diverted  me  from  my  design 
by  dissuasives  to  which  my  passion  easily  lis- 
tened. At  last  my  uncle  died,  and  considering 
himself  as  neglected  by  me,  from  the  time  that 
Flavilla  took  possession  of  my  heart,  left  his 
estate  to  my  younger  brother,  who  was  always 
hovering  about  his  bed,  and  relating  stories  of  my 
pranks  and  extravagance,  my  contempt  of  the 
commercial  dialect,  and  my  impatience  to  be  sell- 
ing stock. 

My  condition  was  soon  known,  and  I  was  no 
longer  admitted  by  the  father  of  Flavilla.  I  re- 
peated the  protestations  of  regard,  which  had 
been  formerly  returned  with  so  much  ardour,  in  a 
letter  which  she  received  privately,  but  returned 
by  her  father's  footman.  Contempt  has  driven 
out  my  love,  and  I  am  content  to  have  purchased, 
by  the  loss  of  fortune,  an  escape  from  a  harpy,  who 
has  joined  the  artifices  of  age  to  the  allurements 
of  youth.  I  am  now  going  to  pursue  my  former 
projects  w  ith  a  legacy  which  my  uncle  bequeath- 
ed me,  and  if  I  succeed,  shall  expect  to  hear  of 
the  repentance  of  Flavilla. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  &c. 

CONSTANTIUS. 

No.  193.]        TUESDAY,  JAN.  21,  1752. 

I.andls  amore  tumes  ?  S-unt  certa piacula  qua  te 
Terpure  lecto  poterunt  recreare  libello.  HOR. 

Or  art  thou  vain  ?  books  yield  a  certain  spell 
To  stop  thy  tumour  ;  you  shall  cease  to  swell 
When  you  have  read  them  thrice,  and  studied  well. 

CREECH. 

WHATEVER  is  universally  desired  will  be  sought 
by  industry  and  artifice,  by  merit  and  crimes,  by 
means  good  and  bad,  rational  and  absurd,  accord- 
ing to  the  prevalence  of  virtue  or  vice,  of  wisdom 
or  folly.  Some  will  always  mistake  the  degree 
of  their  own  desert,  and  some  will  desire  that 
others  may  mistake  it.  The  cunning  will  have 
recourse  to  stratagem,  and  the  powerful  to  vio- 
lence, for  the  attainment  of  their  wishes  ;  some 
will  stoop  to  theft,  and  others  venture  upon 
plunder. 


Praise  is  so  pleasing  to  the  mind  of  man,  that 
it  is  the  original  motive  of  almost  all  our  actions. 
The  desire  of  commendation,  as  of  every  thing 
else,  is  varied  indeed  by  innumerable  differences 
of  temper,  capacity,  and  knowledge ;  some  have 
no  higher  wish  than  for  the  applause  of  a  club? 
some  expect  the  acclamations  of  a  county  ;  and 
some  have  hoped  to  fill  the  mouths  of  all  ages 
and  nations  with  their  names.  Every  man  pants 
for  the  highest  eminence  within  his  view ;  none, 
however  mean,  ever  sinks  below  the  hope  of  be- 
ing distinguished  by  his  fellow-beings,  and  very 
few  have  by  magnanimity  or  piety,  been  so  raised 
above  it,  as  to  act  wholly  without  regard  to  cen- 
sure or  opinion. 

To  be  praised,  therefore,  every  man  resolves  ; 
but  resolutions  will  not  execute  themselves. 
That  which  all  think  too  parsimoniously  distri 
buted  to  their  own  claims,  they  will  not  gratui- 
tously squander  upon  others,  and  some  expedi 
ent  must  be  tried,  by  which  praise  may  be  gained 
before  it  can  be  enjoyed. 

Among  the  innumerable  bidders  for  praise, 
some  are  willing  to  purchase  at  the  highest  rate, 
and  offer  ease  and  health,  fortune  and  life.  Yet 
even  of  these  only  a  small  part  have  gained  what 
they  so  earnestly  desired ;  the  student  wastes 
away  in  meditation,  and  the  soldier  perishes  on 
the  ramparts,  but  unless  some  accidental  advan- 
tage co-operates  with  merit,  neither  persever- 
ance nor  advantage  attract  attention,  and  learn- 
ing and  bravery  sink  into  the  grave,  without 
honour  or  remembrance. 

But  ambition  and  vanity  generally  expect  to 
be  gratified  on  easier  terms.  It  has  been  long 
observed,  that  what  is  procured  by  skill  or  labour 
to  the  first  possessor,  may  be  afterwards  trans- 
ferred for  money ;  and  that  the  man  of  wealth 
may  partake  all  the  acquisitions  of  courage  with- 
out hazard,  and  all  the  products  of  industry  with- 
out fatigue,  it  was  easily  discovered  that  riches 
would  obtain  praise  among  other  conveniences, 
and  that  he  whose  pride  was  unluckily  associated 
with  laziness,  ignorance,  or  cowardice,  needed 
only  to  pay  the  hire  of  a  panegyrist,  and  he  might 
be  regaled  with  periodical  eulogies ;  might  de- 
termine, at  leisure,  what  virtue  or  science  he 
would  be  pleased  to  appropriate,  and  be  lulled 
in  the  evening  with  soothing  serenades,  or  waked 
in  the  morning  by  sprightly  gratulations. 

The  happiness  which  mortals  receive  from  the 
celebration  of  beneficence  which  never  relieved, 
eloquence  which  never  persuaded,  or  elegance 
which  never  pleased,  ought  not  to  be  envied  or 
disturbed,  when  they  are  known  honestly  to  pay 
for  their  entertainment.  But  there  are  unmerci- 
ful exactors  of  adulation,  who  withhold  the  wages 
of  venality ;  retain  their  encomiast  from  year  to 
year  by  general  promises  and  ambiguous  blan- 
dishments ;  and  when  he  has  run  through  the 
whole  compass  of  flattery,  dismiss  him  with  con- 
tempt, because  his  vein  of  fiction  is  exhausted. 

A  continual  feast  of  commendation  is  only  to 
be  obtained  by  merit  or  by  wealth ;  many  are 
therefore  obliged  to  content  themselves  witli  sin- 
gle morsels,  and  recompense  the  infrequency  of 
their  enjoyment  by  excess  and  riot,  whenever 
fortune  sets  the  banquet  before  them.  Hunger 
is  never  delicate ;  they,  who  are  seldom  gorged 
to  the  full  with  praise,  may  be  safely  fed  with 
gross  compliments ;  for  the  appetite  must  be  sa- 
tisfied before  it  is  disgusted. 


No.  194.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


2S9 


It  is  easy  to  find  the  moment  at  which  vanit 
is  eager  for  sustenance,  and  all  that  impudeno 
or  servility  can  offer  will  be  well  received.  Wher 
any  one  complains  of  the  want  of  what  he  is 
known  to  possess  in  an  uncommon  degree,  ht 
certainly  waits  with  impatience  to  be  contradicted 
When  the  trader  pretends  anxiety  about  the 
payment  of  his  bills,  or  the  beauty  remarks  how 
frightfully  she  looks,  then  is  the  lucky  moment 
to  talk  ol  riches  or  of  charms,  of  the  death  of  lov- 
ers, or  the  honour  of  a  merchant. 

Others  there  are  yet  more  open  and  artless 
who,  instead  of  suborning  a  flatterer,  are  conteni 
lo  supply  his  place,  and,  as  some  animals  im- 
pregnate themselves,  swell  with  the  praises  which 
they  hear  from  their  own  tongues.  Recte  is  dici- 
turlaudaresese,  ciri  nemo  alias contigit  laudator.  "It 
is  right,"  says  Erasmus,  "  that  he,  whom  no  one 
else  will  commend,  should  bestow  commenda- 
tions on  himself."  Of  all  the  sons  of  vanity, 
these  are  surely  the  happiest  and  greatest ;  for 
what  is  greatness  or  happiness  but  independence 
on  external  influences,  exemption  from  hope,  or 
fear,  and  the  power  of  supplying  every  want  from 
the  common  stores  of  nature,  whjch  can  neither 
be  exhausted  nor  prohibited  ?  Such  is  the  wise 
man  of  the  stoics  ;  such  is  the  divinity  of  the  Epi- 
cureans; and  euch  is  the  flatterer  of  himself. 
Every  other  enjoyment  malice  may  destroy ;  eve- 
ry other  panegyric  envy  may  withhold ;  but  no 
human  power  can  deprive  the  boaster  of  his  own 
encomiums.  Infamy  may  hiss,  or  contempt  may 
growl ;  the  hirelings  of  the  great  may  follow  for- 
tune, and  the  votaries  of  truth  may  attend  on  vir- 
tue ;  but  his  pleasures  still  remain  the  same ;  he 
can  always  listen  with  rapture  to  himself,  and 
leave  those  who  dare  not  repose  upon  their  own 
attestation,  to  be  elated  or  depressed  by  chance, 
and  toil  on  in  the  hopeless  task  of  fixing  caprice, 
and  propitiating  malice. 

This  art  of  happiness  has  been  long  practised 
by  periodical  writers,  with  little  apparent  vio- 
lation of  dec  ncy.  When  we  think  our  excel- 
lences overlooked  by  the  world,  or  desire  to  recall 
the  attention  of  the  public  to  some  particular  per- 
formance, we  sit  down  with  great  composure, 
and  write  a  letter  to  ourselves.  The  correspond- 
ent, whose  character  we  assume,  always  ad- 
dresses us  with  the  deference  due  to  a  superior 
intelligence  ;  proposes  his  doubts  with  a  proper 
eenseof  his  own  inability;  offers  an  objection  with 
trembling  diffidence  ;  and  at  last  has  no  other 
pretensions  to  our  notice  than  his  profundity  of 
respect,  and  sincerity  of  admiration,  his  submis- 
sion to  our  dictates,  and  zeal  for  our  success.  To 
such  a  reader,  it  is  impossible  to  refuse  regard, 
nor  can  it  easily  be  imagined  with  how  much 
alacrity  we  snatch  up  the  pen  which  indignation 
or  despair  had  condemned  to  inactivity,  when  we 
find  such  candour  and  judgment  yet  remaining 
in  the  world. 

A  letter  of  this  kind  I  had  lately  the  honour  of 
perusing,  in  which,  though  some  of  the  periods 
were  negligently  closed,  and  some  expressions 
of  familiarity  were  used,  which  I  thought  might 
teach  others  to  address  me  with  too  little  rever- 
ence, I  was  so  much  delighted  with  the  passages 
in  which  mention  was  made  of  universal  learning 
— unbounded  genius— soul  of  Homer,  Pythago° 
ras,  and  Plato — solidity  of  thought — accuracy  of 
distinction — elegance  of  combination — vigour  of 
fancy — strength  of  reason — and  regularity  of 
2M 


composition — that  I  had  once  determined  to  lay 
it  before  the  public.  Three  times  I  sent  it  to  the 
printer,  and  three  times  I  fetched  it  back.  My 
modesty  was  on  the  point  of  yielding,  when  re 
fleeting  that  I  was  about  to  waste  panegyrics  on 
myself,  which  might  be  more  profitably  reserved 
for  my  patron?«i  locked  it  up  for  a  better  hour,  in 
compliance  with  the  farmer's  principle,  who  ne- 
ver eats  at  home  what  he  can  carry  to  the  market. 


No.  194.]      SATURDAY,  JAW.  25,  1752. 

Si  damnota  senemjuvat  aha,  ludit  et  hares 
BuUatus,parvoque  eadem  movet  armajritillo,          jov 

If  gaming  does  an  aged  sire  entice, 

Then  my  young  master  swiftly  learns  the  vice, 

And  shakes  in  hanging  sleeves  the  little  box  and  dice. 

J-DRYDEN,  Juil 


SIR, 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


THAT  vanity  which  keeps  every  man  important 
in  his  own  eyes,  inclines  me  So  believe  that  nei- 
ther you  nor  your  readers  hsve  yet  forgotten  the 
name  of  EuTiathcs,  who  sent  you  a  few  months 
ago  an  ac«  jnt  of  his  arrival  at  London,  with  a 
young  nobleman  his  pupil.  I  shall  therefore 
continue  my  narrative  without  preface  or  recapi- 
tulation. 

My  pupil,  in  a  very  short  time,  by  his  mother's 
countenance  and  direction,  accomplished  him- 
self with  all  those  qualifications  which  constitute 
puerile  politeness.  He  became  in  a  few  days  a 
perfect  master  of  his  hat,  which  with  a  careless 
nicety  he  could  put  off  or  on,  without  any  need 
to  adjust  it  by  a  second  motion.  This  was  not 
attained  but  by  frequent  consultations  with  his 
dancing  master,  and  constant  practice  before  the 
olass,  for  he  had  some  rustic  habits  to  overcome  ; 
but  what  will  not  time  and  industry  perform  ?  A 
fortnight  more  furnished  him  with  all  the  airs  and 
forms  of  familiar  and  respectful  salutation,  from 
the  clap  on  the  shoulder  to  the  humble  bow  ;  he 
practises  the  stare  of  strangeness,  and  the  smile 
of  condescension,  the  solemnity  of  promise,  and 
:he  graciousness  of  encouragement,  as  if  he  had 
3een  nursed  at  a  levee  ;  and  pronounces,  with 
no  less  propriety  than  his  father,  the  monosylla- 
bles of  coldness,  and  sonorous  periods  of  respect- 
"ul  profession. 

He  immediately  lost  the  reserve  and  timidity 
which  solitude  and  study  are  apt  to  impress  upon 
the  most  courtly  genius ;  was  able  to  enter  a 
crowded  room  with  airy  civility ;  to  meet  the 
glances  of  a  hundred  eyes  without  perturbation ; 
and  address  those  whom  he  never  saw  before 
with  ease  and  confidence.  In  less  than  a  month 
lis  mother  declared  -her  satisfaction  at  his  profi- 
ciency by  a  triumphant  observation  that  she  be- 
ieved  nothing  would  make  him  blush. 

The  silence  with  which  I  was  contented  to 
lear  my  pupil's  praises,  gave  the  lady  reason  to 
suspect  me  not  much  delighted  with  his  acquisi- 
ions;  but  she  attributed  my  discontent  to  the 
liminution  of  my  influence,  and  my  fears  of  los- 
ng  the  patronage  of  the  family ,  and  though  she 
hinks  favourably  of  my  learning  and  morals, 
.he  considers  me  as  wholly  unacquainted  with 
he  customs  of  the  polite  part  of  mankind  j  and 
herefore  not  qualified  to  form  the  manners  of  a 
foung  nobleman,  or  communicate  the  know- 
edge  of  the  world.  This  knowledge  she  com- 


THE  RAMBLER. 


["No.  195. 


prises  in  the  rules  of  visiting,  the  history  of  the 
present  hour,  an  early  intelligence  of  the  change 
of  fashions,  an  extensive  acquaintance  with  the 
names  and  faces  of  persons  of  rank,  and  a  fre- 
quent appearance  in  places  of  resort. 

All  this  my  pupil  pursues  with  great  applica- 
tion. He  is  twice  a  day  in  thflrtMall,  where  he 
studies  the  dress  of  every  man  splendid  enough 
to  attract  his  notice,  and  never  comes  home  with- 
out some  observation  upon  sleeves,  button-holes, 
and  embroidery.  At  his  return  from  the  thea- 
tre, he  can  give  an  account  of  the  gallantries, 
glances,  whispers,  smiles,  sighs,  flirts,  and  blushes 
of  every  box,  so  much  to  his  mother's  satisfac- 
tion, that  when  I  attempted  to  resume  my  cha- 
racter, by  inquiring  his  opinion  of  the  sentiments 
and  diction  of  the  tragedy,  she  at  once  repressed 
my  criticism,  by  telling  me,  that  she  hoped  he  did 
not  go  to  lose  his  time  in  attending  to  the  creatures 
on  the  stage. 

But  his  acuteness  was  most  eminently  signal- 
ized at  the  masquerade,  where  he  discovered  his 
acquaintance  through  their  disguises,  with  such 
wonderful  facility,  as  has  afforded  the  family  an 
inexhaustible  topic  of  conversation.  Every  new 
visiter  is  informed  how  one  was  detected  by  his 
gait,  and  another  by  the  swing  of  his  arms,  a 
third  by  the  toss  of  his  head,  and  another  by  his 
favourite  phrase  ;  nor  can  you  doubt  but  these 
performances  receive  their  just  applause,  and  a 
genius  thus  hastening  to  maturity  is  promoted  by 
every  art  of  cultivation. 

Such  have  been  his  endeavours,  and  such  his 
assistances,  that  every  trace  of  literature  was 
soon  obliterated.  He  has  changed  his  language 
with  his  dress,  and,  instead  of  endeavouring  at 
purity  or  propriety,  has  no  other  care  than  to 
catch  the  reigning  phrase  and  current  exclama- 
tion, till,  by  copying  whatever  is  peculiar  in  the 
talk  of  all  those  whose  birth  or  fortune  entitles 
them  to  imitation,  he  has  collected  every  fashion- 
able barbarism  of  the  present  winter,  and  speaks 
a  dialect  not  to  be  understood  among  those  who 
form  their  style  by  poring  upon  authors. 

To  this  copiousness  of  ideas,  and  felicity  of 
language,  he  has  joined  such  eagerness  to  lead 
the  conversation,  that  he  is  celebrated  among  the 
ladies  as  the  prettiest  gentleman  that  the  age  can 
boast  of,  except  that  some  who  love  to  talk  them- 
selves think  him  too  forward,  and  others  lament 
that,  with  so  much  wit  and  knowledge,  he  is  not 
taller. 

His  mother  listens  to  his  observations  with 
her  eyes  sparkling,  and  her  heart  beating,  and 
can  scarcely  contain,  in  the  most  numerous  as- 
semblies, the  expectations  which  she  has  formed 
for  his  future  eminence.  Women,  by  whatever 
fate,  always  judge  absurdly  of  the  intellects  of 
boys.  The  vivacity  and  confidence  which  at- 
tract female  admiration,  are  seldom  produced  in 
the  early  part  of  life,  but  by  ignorance  at  least, 
if  not  by  stupidity  ;  for  they  proceed  not  from 
confidence  of  right,  but  fearlessness  of  wrong. 
Whoever  has  a  clear  apprehension,  must  have 
quick  sensibility,  and  where  he  has  no  sufficient 
reason  to  trust  his  own  judgment,  will  proceed 
with  doubt  and  caution,  because  he  perpetually 
dreads  the  disgrace  of  error.  The  pain  of  mis- 
carriage is  naturally  proportionate  to  the  desire 
of  excellence;  and,  therefore,  till  men  are  hard- 
ened by  long  familiarity  with  reproach,  or  have 
attained,  by  frequent  struggles,  the  art  of  sup- 


pressing their  emotions,  diffidence  is  found  the 
inseparable  associate  of  understanding. 

But  so  little  distrust  has  my  pupil  of  his  own 
abilities,  that  he  has  for  some  time  professed 
himself  a  wit,  and  tortures  his  imagination  on 
all  occasions  for  burlesque  and  jocularity.  How 
he  supports  a  character  which,  perhaps,  no  man 
ever  assumed  without  repentance,  may  be  easily 
conjectured.  Wit,  you  know,  is  the  unexpected 
copulation  of  ideas,  the  discovery  of  some  occult 
relation  between  images  in  appearance  remote 
from  each  other ;  an  effusion  of  wit,  therefore, 
presupposes  an  accumulation  of  knowledge  ;  a 
memory  stored  with  notions,  which  the  imagina- 
tion may  cull  out  to  compose  new  assemblages. 
Whatever  may  be  the  native  vigour  of  the  mind, 
she  can  never  form  many  combinations  from  few 
ideas,  as  many  changes  can  never  be  rung  upon 
a  few  bells.  Accident  may  indeed  sometimes 
produce  a  lucky  parallel  or  a  striking  contrast: 
but  these  gifts  of  chance  are  not  frequent,  and 
he  that  has  nothing  of  his  own,  and  yet  con- 
demns himself  to  needless  expenses,  must  live 
upon  loans  or  theft. 

The  indulgence  which  his  youth  has  hitherto 
obtained,  and  the  respect  which  his  rank  secures, 
have  hitherto  supplied  the  want  of  intellectual 
qualifications  ;  and  he  imagines  that  all  admire 
who  applaud,  and  that  all  who  laugh  are  pleased. 
He  therefore  returns  every  day  to  the  charge 
with  increase  of  courage,  though  not  of  strength, 
and  practises  all  the  tricks  by  which  wit  is  coun- 
terfeited. He  lays  trains  for  a  quibble  ;  he  con- 
trives blunders  for  his  footman  ;  he  adapts  old 
stories  to  present  characters  ;  he  mistakes  the 
question,  that  he  may  return  a  smart  answer;  he 
anticipates  the  argument,  that  he  may  plausibly 
object;  when  he  has  nothing  to  reply,  he  repeats 
the  last  words  of  his  antagonist,  then  says, 
"  your  humble  servant,"  and  concludes  with  a 
laugh  of  triumph. 

These  mistakes  I  have  honestly  attempted  to 
correct ;  but  what  can  be  expected  from  reason 
unsupported  by  fashion,  splendour,  or  authority  ? 
He  hears  me,  indeed,  or  appears  to  hear  me,  but 
is  soon  rescued  from  the  lecture  by  more  pleasing 
avocations ;  and  shows,  diversions  and  caresses, 
drive  my  precepts  from  his  remembrance. 

He  at  last  imagines  himself  qualified  to  enter 
the  world,  and  has  met  with  adventures  in  his 
first  sally,  which  I  shall,  by  your  paper,  commu- 
nicate to  the  public.  I  am,  &c. 

EUMATHES. 


No.  195.]      TUESDAY,  JAN.  28,  1752 

Nesc.it  eguo  rudis 

Htcrere  ingcnviis  puer 
Vcnarique  timet ;  ludere  doctior 

Sen  Grttc'o  jubeas  trocho, 
Seu  malis  velita  legibus  alea.  HOR. 

Nor  knows  our  youth,  of  noblest  race, 
To  mount  the  managed  steed  or  urge  the  chase; 

More  skill'd  in  the  mean  arts  of  vice, 
The  whirling  troque,  or  law-forbidden  dice. 

FRANCIS. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 
SIR, 

FAVOURS  of  every  kind  are  doubled  when  they 
are  speedily  conferred.  This  is  particularly  true 
of  the  gratification  of  curiosity :  he  that  long  de- 
lays a  story,  and  suffers  his  auditor  to  tormeni 


No.  195.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


291 


himself  with  expectation,  will  seldom  be  able  to 
recompense  the  uneasiness,  or  equal  the  hope 
which  he  suffers  to  be  raised. 

For  this  reason,  I  have  already  sent  you  the 
continuation  of  my  pupil's  history,  which,  though 
it  contains  no  events  very  uncommon,  may  be 
of  use  to  young  men  who  are  in  too  much  haste, 
to  trust  their  own  prudence,  and  quit  the  wing  of 
protection  before  they  are  able  to  shift  for  them- 
selves. 

When  he  first  settled  in  London,  he  was  so 
much  bewildered  in  the  enormous  extent  of  the 
town,  so  confounded  by  incessant  noise,  and 
crowds,  and  hurry,  and  so  terrified  by  rural  nar- 
ratives of  the  arts  of  sharpers,  the  rudeness  of 
the  populace,  malignity  of  porters,  and  treachery 
of  coachmen,  that  he  was  afraid  to  go  beyond 
the  door  without  an  attendant,  and  imagined  his 
life  in  danger  if  he  was  obliged  to  pass  the  streets 
at  night  in  any  vehicle  but  his  mother's  chair. 

He  was  therefore  contented,  for  a  time,  that  I 
should  accompany  him  in  all  his  excursions. 
But  his  fear  abated  as  he  grew  more  familiar 
with  its  objects ;  and  the  contempt  to  which  his 
rusticity  exposed  him  from  such  of  his  com- 
panions as  had  accidentally  known  the  town 
longer,  obliged  him  to  dissemble  his  remaining 
terrors. 

His  desire  of  liberty  made  him  now  willing  to 
spare  me  the  trouble  of  observing  his  motions ; 
but  knowing  how  much  liis  ignorance  exposed 
him  to  mischief,  I  thought  it  cruel  to  abandon  him 
to  the  fortune  of  the  town.  We  went  together 
every  day  to  a  coffee-house,  where  he  met  wits, 
heirs,  and  fops,  airy,  ignorant,  and  thoughtless  as 
himself,  with  whom  he  had  become  acquainted 
at  card-tables,  and  whom  he  considered  as  the 
only  beings  to  be  envied  or  admired.  What 
were  their  topics  of  conversation,  I  could  never 
discover;  for  so  much  was  their  vivacity  de- 
pressed by  my  intrusive  seriousness,  that  they 
seldom  proceeded  beyond  the  exchange  of  nods 
and  shrugs,  an  arch  grin,  or  a  broken  hint,  ex- 
cept when  they  could  retire,  while  I  was  looking 
on  the  papers,  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  where 
they  seemed  to  disburthen  their  imaginations, 
and  commonly  vented  the  superfluity  of  their 
sprightliness  in  a  peal  of  laughter.  When  they 
had  tittered  themselves  into  negligence,  I  could 
sometimes  overhear  a  few  syllables,  such  as — 
solemn  rascal — academical  airs — smoke  the  tu- 
tor— company  for  gentlemen — and  other  broken 
phrases,  by  which  I  did  not  suffer  my  quiet  to 
be  disturbed,  for  they  never  proceeded  to  avowed 
indignities,  but  contented  themselves  to  murmur 
in  secret,  and  whenever  I  turned  my  eye  upon 
<hem,  shrunk  into  stillness. 

He  was,  however,  desirous  of  withdrawing 
from  the  subjection  which  he  could  not  venture 
to  break,  and  made  a  secret  appointment  to  as- 
sist his  companions  in  the  persecution  of  a  play. 
His  footman  privately  procured  him  a  catcall, 
on  which  he  practised,  in  a  back  garret,  for  two 
hours  in  the  afternoon.  At  the  proper  time  a 
chair  was  called  ;  he  pretended  an  engagement 
at  Lady  Flutter's,  and  hastened  to  the  place 
where  his  critical  associates  had  assembled. 
They  hurried  away  to  the  theatre,  full  of  ma- 
lignity and  denunciations  against  a  man  whose 
name  they  had  never  heard,  and  a  performance 
which  they  could  not  understand  ;  for  they  were 
resolved  to  judge  for  themselves,  and  would  not 


suffer  the  town  to  be  imposed  upon  by  scribblers. 
In  the  pit,  they  exerted  themselves  with  great 
spirit  and  vivacity;  called  out  for  the  tunes  of 
obscene  songs,  talked  loudly  at  intervals  of 
Shakspeare  and  Jonson,  played  on  their  catcalls 
a  short  prelude  of  terror,  clamoured  vehemently 
for  the  prologue,  and  clapped  with  great  dex- 
terity at  the  first  entrance  of  the  players. 

Two  scenes  they  heard  without  attempting  in 
terruption  ;  but  being  no  longer  able  to  restrain 
their  impatience,  they  then  began  to  exert  them- 
selves in  groans  and  hisses,  and  plied  their  cat- 
calls with  incessant  diligence ;  so  that  they  were 
soon  considered  by  the  audience"  as  disturbers  of 
the  house,  and  some  who  sat  near  them,  either 
provoked  at  the  obstruction  of  their  entertain- 
ment, or  desirous  to  preserve  the  author  from  the 
mortification  of  seeing  his  hopes  destroyed  by 
children,  snatched  away  their  instruments  of 
criticism,  and,  by  the  seasonable  vibration  of  a 
stick,  subdued  them  instantaneously  to  decency 
and  silence. 

To  exhilarate  themselves  after  this  vexatious 
defeat,  they  posted  to  a  tavern,  where  they  re- 
covered their  alacrity,  and,  after  two  hours  of 
obstreperous  jollity,  burst  out  big  with  enter- 
prise, and  panting  for  some  occasion  to  signal- 
ise their  prowess.  They  proceeded  vigorously 
through  two  streets,  and  with  very  little  oppo- 
sition dispersed  a  rabble  of  drunkards  less  daring 
than  themselves,  then  rolled  two  watchmen  in 
the  kennel,  and  broke  the  windows  of  a  tavern 
in  which  the  fugitives  took  shelter.  At  last  it 
was  determined  to  march  up  to  a  row  of  chairs, 
and  demolish  them  for  standing  on  the  pavement; 
the  chairmen  formed  a  line  of  battle,  and  blows 
were  exchanged  for  a  time  with  equal  courage  on 
both  sides.  At  last  the  assailants  were  over- 
powered, and  the  chairmen,  when  they  knew 
their  captives  brought  them  home  by  force. 

The  young  gentleman,  next  morning,  hung  his 
head,  and  was  so  much  ashamed  of  his  outrages 
and  defeat,  that  perhaps  he  might  have  been 
checked  in  his  first  follies,  had  not  his  mother, 
partly  in  pity  of  his  dejection,  and  partly  in  ap- 
probation of  his  spirit,  relieved  him  from  his  per- 
plexity by  paying  the  damages  privately,  and  dis- 
couraging all  animadversion  and  reproof. 

This  indulgence  could  not  wholly  preserve  him 
from  the  remembrance  of  his  disgrace,  nor  at 
once  restore  his  confidence  and  elation.  He  was 
for  three  days  silent,  modest  and  compliant,  and 
thought  himself  neither  too  wise  for  instruction, 
nor  too  manly  for  restraint.  But  his  levity  over- 
came this  salutary  sorrow  ;  he  began  to  talk  with 
his  former  raptures  of  masquerades,  taverns,  and 
frolics ;  blustered  when  his  wig  was  not  combed 
with  exactness ;  and  threatened  destruction  to 
a  tailor  who  had  mistaken  his  directions  about 
the  pocket. 

I  knew  that  he  was  now  rising  again  above 
control,  and  that  this  inflation  of  spirits  would 
burst  out  into  some  mischievous  absurdity.  I 
therefore  watched  him  with  great  attention ;  but 
one  evening,  having  attended  his  mother  at  a 
visit,  he  withdrew  himself  unsuspected,  while  the 
company  was  engaged  at  cards.  His  vivacity 
and  officiousness  were  soon  missed,  and  his  re- 
turn impatiently  expected  ;  supper  was  delayed 
and  conversation  suspended  ;  every  coach  that 
rattled  through  the  street  was  expected  to  bring 
him,  and  every  servant  that  entered  the  room 


292 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.   196. 


was  examined  concerning  his  departure.  At 
last  the  lady  returned  home,  and  was  with  great 
difficulty  preserved  from  fits  by  spirits  and  cor- 
dials. The  family  was  despatched  a  thousand 
ways  without  success,  and  the  house  was  filled 
with  distraction,  till,  as  we  were  deliberating 
what  further  measures  to  take,  he  returned  from 
a  petty  gaming-table,  with  his  coat  torn,  and  his 
head  broken ;  without  his  sword,  snuff-box, 
sleeve-buttons,  and  watch. 

Of  this  loss,  or  robbery,  he  gave  little  account ; 
but,  instead  of  sinking  into  his  former  shame,  en- 
deavoured to  support  himself  by  surliness  and 
asperity.  "  He  was  not  the  first  that  had  played 
away  a  few  trifles,  and  of  what  use  were  birth 
and  fortune  if  they  would  not  admit  some  sallies 
and  expenses  ?"  His  mamma  was  so  much  pro- 
voked by  the  cost  of  this  prank,  that  she  would 
neither  palliate  nor  conceal  it ;  and  his  father, 
after  some  threats  of  rustication  which  his  fond- 
ness would  not  suffer  him  to  execute,  reduced  the 
allowance  of  his  pocket,  that  he  might  not  be 
tempted  by  plenty  to  profusion.  This  method 
would  have  succeeded  m  a  place  where  there  are 
no  panders  to  folly  and  extravagance,  but  was 
now  likely  to  have  produced  pernicious  conse- 
quences ;  for  we  have  discovered  a  treaty  with  a 
broker,  whose  daughter  he  seems  disposed  to 
marry,  on  condition  that  he  shall  be  supplied 
with  present  money,  for  which  he  is  to  repay 
thrice  the  value  at  the  death  of  his  father. 

There  was  now  no  time  to  be  lost.  A  domes- 
tic consultation  was  immediately  held,  and  he 
was  doomed  to  pass  two  years  in  the  country ; 
but  his  mother,  touched  with  his  tears,  declared 
that  she  thought  him  too  much  of  a  man  to  be 
any  longer  confined  to  his  book,  and  he  there- 
fore begins  his  travels  to-morrow  under  a  French 
governor. 

I  am,  &c. 

EUMATHES. 


No.  196.]     SATURDAY,  FEB.  1,  1752. 

Multnferunt  anni  venientes  commoda  scrum, 
Malta  recedentes  adimunt. HOR. 

The  blessings  flowing  in  with  life's  full  tide 
Down  with  our  ebb  of  life  decreasing  glide. 

FRANCIS. 

BAXTER,  in  the  narrative  of  his  own  life,  has 
enumerated  several  opinions,  which,  though  he 
thought  them  evident  and  incontestable  at  his 
first  entrance  into  tho  world,  time  and  experience 
disposed  him  to  change. 

Whoever  reviews  the  state  of  his  own  mind 
from  the  dawn  of  manhood  to  its  decline,  and 
considers  what  he  pursued  or  dreaded,  slighted 
or  esteemed,  at  different  periods  of  his  age,  will 
have  no  reason  to  imagine  such  changes  of  sen- 
timent peculiar  to  any  station  or  character.  Every 
man,  however  careless  and  inattentive,  has  con- 
viction forced  upon  him ;  the  lectures  of  time  ob- 
trude themselves  upon  the  most  unwilling  or 
dissipated  auditor ;  and  by  comparing  our  past 
with  our  present  thoughts,  we  perceive  that  we 
have  changed  our  minds,  though  perhaps  we 
cannot  discover  when  the  alteration  happened,  or 
by  what  causes  it  was  produced. 

This  revolution  of  sentiments  occasions  a  per- 
petual contest  between  the  old  and  young.  They 
who  imagine  themselves  entitled  to  veneration 


by  the  prerogative  of  longer  life,  are  inclined  to 
treat  the  notions  of  those  whoso  conduct  they 
superintend  with  superciliousness  and  contempt, 
for  want  of  considering  that  the  future  and  the 
past  have  different  appearances ;  that  the  dis- 
proportion will  always  be  great  between  expect- 
ation and  enjoyment,  between  new  possession 
and  satiety  ;  that  the  truth  of  many  maxims  of 
age  gives  too  little  pleasure  to  be  allowed  till  it 
's  felt;  and  that  the  miseries  of  life  would  be 
increased  beyond  all  human  power  of  endurance, 
if  we  'were  to  enter  the  world  with  the  same 
opinions  as  we  carry  from  it. 

We  naturally  indulge  those  ideas  that  please 
us.  Hope  will  predominate  in  every  mind,  till 
it  has  been  suppressed  by  frequent  disappoint- 
ments. The  youth  has  not  yet  discovered  how 
many  evils  are  continually  hovering  about  us, 
and  when  he  is  set  free  from  the  shackles  of  dis- 
cipline, looks  abroad  into  the  world  with  rapture ; 
he  sees  an  elysian  region  open  before  him,  so 
variegated  with  beauty,  and  so  stored  with  plea- 
sure, that  his  care  is  rather  to  accumulate  good, 
than  to  shun  evil ;  he  stands  distracted  by  differ- 
ent forms  of  delight,  and  has  no  other  doubt, 
than  which  path  to  follow  of  those  which  all  lead 
equally  to  the  bowers  of  happiness. 

He  who  has  seen  only  the  superficies  of  life 
believes  every  thing  to  be  what  it  appears,  and 
rarely  suspects  that  external  splendour  conceals 
any  latent  sorrow  or  vexation.  He  never  ima- 
gines that  there  may  be  greatness  without  safety, 
affluence  without  content,  jollity  without  friend- 
ship, and  solitude  without  peace.  He  fancies 
himself  permitted  to  cull  the  blessings  of  every 
condition,  and  to  leave  its  inconveniences  to  the 
idle  and  the  ignorant.  He  is  inclined  to  believe 
no  man  miserable  but  by  his  own  fault,  and  sel- 
dom looks  with  much  pity  upon  failings  or  mis- 
carriages, because  he  thinks  them  willingly  ad 
mitted,  or  negligently  incurred. 

It  is  impossible,  without  pity  and  contempt,  to 
hear  a  youth  of  generous  sentiments  and  warm 
imagination,  declaring  in  the  moment  of  open- 
ness and  confidence,  his  designs  and  expecta- 
tions ;  because  long  life  is  possible,  he  considers 
it  as  certain,  and  therefore  promises  himself  all 
the  changes  of  happiness,  and  provides  gratifica- 
tions for  every  desire.  He  is,  for  a  time,  to  give 
himself  wholly  to  frolic  and  diversion,  to  range 
the  world  in  search  of  pleasure,  to  delight  every 
eye,  to  gain  every  heart,  and  to  be  celebrated 
equally  for  his  pleasing  levities  and  solid  attain 
ments,  his  deep  reflections  and  his  sparklingrepar- 
tees.  He  then  elevates  his  views  to  nobler  en- 
joyments, and  finds  all  the  scattered  excellences 
of  the  female  world  united  in  a  woman,  who 
prefers  his  addresses  to  wealth  and  titles  ;  he  is 
afterwards  to  engage  in  business,  to  dissipate  dif- 
ficulty, and  overpower  opposition ;  to  climb,  by 
the  mere  force  of  merit,  to  fame  and  greatness ; 
and  reward  all  those  who  countenanced  his  rise, 
or  paid  due  regard  to  his  early  excellence.  At 
last  he  will  retire  in  peace  and  honour;  contract 
his  views  to  domestic  pleasures  ;  form  the  man- 
ners of  children  like  himself;  observe  how  every 
year  expands  the  beauty  of  his  daughters,  and 
how  his  sons  catch  ardour  from  their  father's 
history;  he  will  give  laws  to  the  neighbourhood  , 
dictate  axioms  to  posterity  ;  and  leave  the  world 
an  example  of  wisdom  and  of  happiness. 

With  hopes  like  these,  he  sallies  jocund  into 


No.   197.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


293 


life  ;  to  little  purpose  is  he  told,  that  the  condi- 
tion of  humanity  admits  no  pure  and  unmingled 
happiness  ;  that  the  exuberant  gayety  of  youth 
ends  in  poverty  or  disease  ;  that  uncommon  qua- 
lifications and  contrarieties  of  excellence,  pro- 
duce envy  equally  with  applause ;  that,  whatever 
admiration  and  fondness  may  promise  him,  he 
must  marry  a  wife  like  the  wives  of  others,  with 
some  virtues  and  some  faults,  and  be  as  often 
disgusted  by  her  vices,  as  delighted  by  her  ele- 
gance ;  that  if  he  adventures  into  the  circle  of 
action,  he  must  expect  to  encounter  men  as  art- 
ful, as  daring,  as  resolute  as  himself;  that  of  his 
children,  some  may  be  deformed,  and  others  vi- 
cious ;  some  may  disgrace  him  by  their  follies ; 
some  offend  him  by  their  insolence,  and  some 
exhaust  him  by  their  profusion.  He  hears  all 
this  with  obstinate  incredulity,  and  wonders  by 
what  malignity  old  age  is  influenced,  that  it  can- 
not forbear  to  fill  his  ears  with  predictions  of 
misery. 

Among  other  pleasing  errors  of  young  minds, 
is  the  opinion  of  their  own  importance.  He  that 
has  not  yet  remarked  how  little  attention  his 
contemporaries  can  spare  from  their  own  affairs, 
conceives  all  eyes  turned  upon  himself,  and  ima- 
gines every  one  that  approaches  him  to  be  an 
enemy  or  a  follower,  an  admirer  or  a  spy.  He 
therefore  considers  his  fame  as  involved  in  the 
event  of  every  action.  Many  of  the  virtues  and 
vices  of  youth  proceed  from  this  quick  sense  of 
reputation.  This  it  is  that  gives  firmness  and 
constancy,  fidelity  and  disinterestedness,  and  it  is 
this  that  kindles  resentment  for  slight  injuries, 
and  dictates  all  the  principles  of  sanguinary 
honour. 

But  as  time  brings  him  forward  into  the  world, 
he  soon  discovers  that  he  only  shares'fame  or  re- 
proach with  innumerable  partners ;  that  he  is 
left  unmarked  in  the  obscurity  of  the  crowd ; 
and  that  what  he  does,  whether  good  or  bad, 
soon  gives  way  to  new  objects  of  regard.  He 
then  easily  sets  himself  free  from  the  anxieties  of 
reputation,  and  considers  praise  or  censure  as  a 
transient  breath,  which,  while  he  hears  it,  is 
passing  away,  without  any  lasting  mischief  or  ad- 
vantage. 

In  youth,  it  is  common  to  measure  right  and 
wrong  by  the  opinion  of  the  world,  and  in  age, 
to  act  without  any  measure  but  interest,  and  to 
lose  shame  without  substituting  virtue. 

Such  is  the  condition  of  life,  that  something  is 
always  wanting  to  happiness.  In  youth,  we 
have  warm  hopes,  which  are  soon  blasted  by 
rashness  and  negligence,  and  great  designs, 
which  are  defeated  by  inexperience.  In  age,  we 
have  knowledge  and  prudence  without  spirit  to 
exert,  or  motives  to  prompt  them ;  we  are  able 
to  plan  schemes,  and  regulate  measures;  but 
have  not  time  remaining  to  bring  them  to  com- 
pletion. 


No.  197.]      TUESDAY,  FEB.  4,  1752. 

Cujus  vulturis  hoc  erit  cadaver  ?  MART. 

Say,  to  what  vulture's  share  this  carcass  falls  ? 

F.  LEWIS. 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


SIR, 


I  BELONG  to  an  order  of  mankind,  considerable 
nl  least  for  th"ir  number,  to  which  vour  notice 


has  never  been  formally  extended,  though  equally 
entitled  to  regard  with  those  triflers,  who  have 
hitherto  supplied  you  with  topics  of  amusement 
or  instruction.  I  am,  Mr.  Rambler,  a  legacy- 
hunter;  and,  as  every  man  is  willing  to  think 
well  of  the  tribe  in  which  his  name  is  registered, 
you  will  forgive  my  vanity,  if  I  remind  you  that 
the  legacy-hunter,  however  degraded  by  an  ill- 
compounded  appellation  in  our  barbarous  lan- 
guage, was  known,  as  I  am  told,  in  ancient 
Rome,  by  the  sonorous  titles  of  ca'ptator  and  h<e- 
rcdipeta. 

My  father  was  an  attorney  in  the  country, 
who  married  his  master's  daughter  in  hopes  of  a 
fortune  which  he  did  not  obtain,  having  been,  as 
he  afterwards  discovered,  chosen  by  her  only 
because  she  had  no  better  offer,  and  was  afraid 
of  service.  I  was  the  first  offspring  of  a  marriage, 
thus  reciprocally  fraudulent,  and  therefore  could 
not  be  expected  to  inherit  much  dignity  or  gene- 
rosity, and  if  I  had  them  not  from  nature,  was 
not  likely  ever  to  attain  them  ;  for,  in  the  years 
which  I  spent  at  home,  I  never  heard  any  reason 
for  action  or  forbearance,  but  that  we  should 
gain  money  or  lose  it ;  nor  was  taught  any  other 
style  of  commendation,  than  that  Mr.  Sneaker  is 
a  warm  man,  Mr.  Gripe  has  done  his  business, 
and  needs  care  for  nobody. 

My  parents,  though  otherwise  not  great  phi- 
losophers, knew  the  force  of  early  education, 
and  took  care  that  the  blank  of  my  understanding 
should  be  filled  with  impressions  of  the  value  of 
money.  My  mother  used,  upon  all  occasions, 
to  inculcate  some  salutary  axioms,  such  as  might 
incite  me  to  keep  what  I  had,  and  get  what  I  could; 
she  informed  me  that  we  were  in  a  world,  where 
all  must  catch  that  catch  can;  and  as  I  grew  up, 
stored  my  memory  with  deeper  observations; 
restrained  me  from  the  usual  puerile  expenses, 
by  remarking  that  many  a  little  make  a  mickle; 
and  when  I  envied  the  finery  of  my  neighbours, 
told  me  that  brag  teas  a  good  dog,  but  holdfast  was 
a  better. 

I  was  soon  sagacious  enough  to  discover  that 
I  was  not  born  to  great  wealth;  and  having 
heard  no  other  name  for  happiness,  was  some- 
times inclined  to  repine  at  my  condition.  But 
my  mother  always  relieved  me  by  saying  that 
there  was  money  enough  in  the  family,  that  it 
teas  good  to  be  of  kin  to  means,  that  I  had  nothing 
to  do  but  to  please  my  friends,  and  I  might  come 
to  hold  up  my  head  with  the  best  squire  in  the 
country. 

These  splendid  expectations  arose  from  our 
alliance  to  three  persons  of  considerable  fortune. 
My  mother's  aunt  had  attended  on  a  lady,  who, 
when  she  died,  rewarded  her  officiousness  and 
fidelity  with  a  large  legacy.  My  father  had  two 
relations,  of  whom  one  had  broken  his  inden- 
tures and  run  to  sea,  from  whence,  after  an  ab- 
sence of  thirty  years,  he  returned  with  ten  thou- 
sand pounds;  and  the  other  had  lured  an  heiress 
out  of  a  window,  who  dying  of  her  first  child, 
had  left  him  her  estate,  on  which  he  lived,  with- 
out any  other  care  than  to  collect  his  rents,  and 
preserve  from  poachers  that  game  which  ho 
could  not  kill  himself, 

These  hoarders  of  money  were  visited  and 
courted  by  all  who  had  any  pretence  to  approach 
them,  and  received  presents  and  compliments 
from  cousins  who  could  scarcely  tell  the  degree 
of  their  relation.  But  we  had  peculiar  advan 


294 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  198. 


tages,  which  encouraged  us  to  hope,  that  we 
should  by  degrees  supplant  our  competitors.  My 
lather,  by  his  profession,  made  himself  necessary 
ia  their  affairs;  for  the  sailor  and  the  chamber- 
maid, he  inquired  out  mortgages  and  securities, 
and  wrote  bonds  and  contracts  ;  and  had  en- 
deared himself  to  the  old  woman,  who  once 
rashly  lent  a  hundred  pounds  without  consulting 
him,  by  informing  her  that  her  debtor  was  on 
the  point  of  bankruptcy,  and  posting  so  expedi- 
tiously  with  an  execution  that  all  the  other  credi- 
tors were  defrauded. 

To  the  squire  he  was  a  kind  of  steward,  and 
had  distinguished  himself  in  his  office  by  his  ad- 
dress in  raising  the  rents,  his  inflexibility  in  dis- 
tressing the  tardy  tenants,  and  his  acuteness  in 
setting  the  parish  free  from  burdensome  inhabit- 
ants, by  shifting  them  off  to  some  other  settle- 
ment. 

Business  made  frequent  attendance  necessary; 
trust  soon  produced  intimacy ;  and  success  gave 
a  claim  to  kindness ;  so  that  we  had  opportunity 
to  practise  all  the  arts  of  flattery  and  endearment. 
My  mother,  who  could  not  support  the  thought 
of  losing  any  thing,  determined  that  all  their  for- 
tunes should  centre  in  me  ;  and,  in  the  prosecu- 
tion of  her  schemes,  took  care  to  inform  me  that 
nothing  cost  less  than  good  words,  and  that  it  is 
comfortable  to  leap  into  an  estate  which  another 
has  got. 

She  trained  me  by  these  precepts  to  the  utmost 
ductility  of  obedience,  and  the  closest  attention 
to  profit.  At  an  age  when  other  boys  are  sport- 
ing the  fields,  or  murmuring  in  the  school,  I 
was  contriving  some  new  method  of  paying  my 
court;  inquiring  the  age  of  my  future  benefactors; 
or  considering  how  I  should  employ  their  lega- 
cies. 

If  our  eagerness  of  money  could  have  been 
satisfied  with  the  possessions  of  any  one  of  my 
relations,  they  might  perhaps  have  been  obtained , 
but  as  it  was  impossible  to  be  always  present 
with  all  three,  our  competitors  were  busy  to  ef- 
face any  trace  of  affection  which  we  might  have 
left  behind ;  and  since  there  was  not,  on  any 
part,  such  superiority  of  merit  as  could  enforce  a 
constant  and  unshaken  preference,  whoever  was 
the  last  that  flattered  or  obliged  had  for  a  time 
the  ascendant. 

My  relations  maintained  a  regular  exchange 
of  courtesy,  took  care  to  miss  no  occasion  of 
condolence  or  congratulation,  and  sent  presents 
at  stated  times,  but  had  in  their  hearts  not  much 
esteem  for  one  another.  The  seaman  looked 
with  contempt  upon  the  squire  as  a  milksop  and 
a  landman,  who  had  lived  without  knowing  the 
points  of  the  compass,  or  seeing  any  part  of  the 
world  beyond  the  county-town ;  and,  whenever 
they  met,  would  talk  of  longitude  and  latitude, 
and  circles  and  tropics,  would  scarcely  tell  him 
the  hour  without  some  mention  of  the  horizon 
and  meridian,  nor  show  him  the  news  without 
detecting  his  ignorance  of  the  situation  of  other 
countries. 

The  squire  considered  the  sailor  as  a  rude  un- 
cultivated savage,  with  little  more  of  human  than 
his  form,  and  diverted  himself  with  his  ignorance 
of  all  common  objects  and  affairs  ;  when  he 
conld  persuade  him  to  go  into  the  fields,  he  al- 
ways exposed  him  to  the  sportsmen,  by  sending 
him  to  look  for  game  in  improper  places  ;  and 
once  prevailed  upon  him  to  be  present  at  the 


races,  only  that  he  might  show  the  gentlemen 
how  a  sailor  sat  upon  a  horse. 

The  old  gentlewoman  thought  herself  wiser 
than  both,  for  she  lived  with  no  servant  but  a 
maid,  and  saved  her  money.  The  others  were 
indeed  sufficiently  frugal ;  but  the  squire  could 
not  live  without  dogs  and  horses,  and  the  sailor 
never  suffered  the  day  to  pass  but  over  a  bowl 
of  punch,  to  which,  as  he  was  not  critical  in  the 
choice  of  his  company,  every  man  was  welcome 
that  could  roar  out  a  catch,  or  tell  a  story. 

All  these,  however,  I  was  to  please  ;  an  ar- 
duous task  ;  but  what  will  not  youth  and  ava- 
rice undertake  ?  I  had  an  unresisting  suppleness 
of  temper,  and  an  unsatiable  wish  for  riches ;  I 
was  perpetually  instigated  by  the  ambition  of  my 
parents,  and  assisted  occasionally  by  their  in- 
structions. What  these  advantages  enabled  me 
to  perform,  shall  be  told  in  the  next  letter  of, 
Yours,  &c. 

CAPTATOR. 


No.  198.]     SATURDAY,  FEB.  8,  1752. 

Fil  mihidas  vivus,  dicis  post  fata  daturum, 
Si  nun  insanis,  scis,  Maro,  quid  cupiam. 

MART 

You've  told  me,  Maro,  whilst  you  live, 
You'd  not  a  single  penny  give, 
But  that  whene'er  you  chanced  to  dio 
You'd  leave  a  handsome  legacy ; 
You  must  be  mad  beyond  redress, 
If  my  next  wish  you  cannot  guess. 

F.  LEWIS 

MR.  RAMBLER. 

SIR, 

You,  who  must  have  observed  the  inclination 
which  almost  every  man,  however  unactive  or 
insignificant,  discovers  of  representing  his  life  as 
distinguished  by  extraordinary  events,  will  not 
wonder  that  Captator  thinks  his  narrative  im- 
portant enough  to  be  continued.  Nothing  is 
more  common  than  for  those  to  teaze  their  com- 
panions with  their  history,  who  have  neither 
done  nor  suffered  any  thing  that  can  excite  cu- 
riosity, or  afford  instruction. 

As  I  was  taught  to  flatter  with  the  first  essays 
of  speech,  and  had  very  early  lost  every  other 
passion  in  the  desire  of  money,  I  began  my  pur- 
suit with  omens  of  success ;  for  I  divided  my 
officiousness  so  judiciously  among  my  relations, 
that  I  was  equally  the  favourite  of  all.  When 
any  of  them  entered  the  door,  I  went  to  welcome 
him  with  raptures  ;  when  he  went  away,  I  hung 
down  my  head,  and  sometimes  entreated  to  go 
with  him  with  so  much  importunity,  that  I  very 
narrowly  escaped  a  consent  which  I  dreaded  in 
my  heart.  When  at  an  annual  entertainment 
they  were  all  together,  I  had  a  harder  task;  but 
plied  them  so  impatiently  with  caresses,  that 
none  could  charge  me  with  neglect ;  and  when 
they  were  wearied  with  my  fondness  and  civili- 
ties, I  was  always  dismissed  with  money  to  buy 
playthings. 

Life  cannot  be  kept  at  a  stand  ;  the  years  of 
innocence  and  prattle  were  soon  at  an  end,  and 
other  qualifications  were  necessary  to  recom- 
mend me  to  continuance  of  kindness.  It  luckily 
happened  that  none  of  my  friends  had  high  no- 
tions of  book-learning.  The  sailor  hated  to  see 
tall  boys  shut  up  in  a  school,  when  they  might 


No.  198.J 


THE  RAMBLER. 


more  properly  be  seeing  the  world,  and  making 
their  fortunes  ;  and  was  of  opinion  that,  when 
the  first  rules  of  arithmetic  were  known,  all  tha 
was  necessary  to  make  a  man  complete  migh 
be  learned  on  ship-board.  The  squire  only  in- 
sisted that  so  much  scholarship  was  indispensa- 
bly necessary  as  might  confer  ability  to  draw  a 
lease  and  read  the  court-hands ;  and  the  olc 
chambermaid  declared  loudly  her  contempt  of 
books,  and  her  opinion  that  they  only  took  the 
head  of  the  main  chance. 

To  unite,  as  well  as  we  could,  all  their  sys- 
tems, I  was  bred  at  home.  Each  was  taught  to 
believe  that  I  followed  his  directions,  and  1 
gained  likewise,  as  my  mother  observed,  this 
advantage,  that  I  was  always  in  the  way;  for 
she  had  known  many  favourite  children  sent  to 
schools  or  academies,  and  forgotten. 

As  1  grew  fitter  to  be  trusted  to  my  own  dis- 
cretion, I  was  often  despatched  upon  various 
pretences  to  visit  my  relations,  with  directions 
from  my  parents  how  to  ingratiate  myself,  and 
drive  away  competitors. 

I  was,  from  my  infancy,  considered  by  the 
sailor  as  a  promising  genius,  because  I  liked 
punch  better  than  wine  ;  and  I  took  care  to  im- 
prove this  prepossession  by  continual  inquiries 
about  the  art  of  navigation,  the  degree  of  heat 
and  cold  in  different  climates,  the  profits  of  trade, 
and  the  dangers  of  shipwreck.  I  admired  the 
courage  of  the  seaman,  and  gained  his  heart  by 
importuning  him  for  a  recital  of  his  adventures, 
and  a  sight  of  his  foreign  curiosities.  I  listened 
with  an  appearance  of  close  attention  to  stories 
which  I  could  already  repeat,  and  at  the  close 
never  failed  to  express  my  resolution  to  visit 
distant  countries,  and  my  contempt  of  the  cow- 
ards and  drones  that  spend  all  their  lives  in  their 
native  parish ;  though  I  had  in  reality  no  desire 
of  any  thing  but  money,  nor  ever  felt  the  stimu- 
lations of  curiosity  or  ardour  of  adventure,  but 
would  contentedly  have  passed  the  years  of 
Nestor  in  receiving  rents,  and  lending  upon 
mortgages. 

The  squire  I  was  able  to  please  with  less  hy- 
pocrisy, for  I  really  thought  it  pleasant  enough  to 
kill  the  game  and  eat  it.  Some  arts  of  falsehood, 
however,  the  hunger  of  gold  persuaded  me  to  prac- 
tise, by  which,  though  no  other  mischief  was  pro- 
duced, the  purity  of  my  thoughts  was  vitiated, 
and  the  reverence  for  truth  gradually  destroyed. 
I  sometimes  purchased  fish,  and  pretended  to 
have  caught  them ;  I  hired  the  countrymen  to 
show  me  partridges,  and  then  gave  my  uncle  in- 
telligence of  their  haunt ;  I  learned  the  seats  of 
hares  at  night,  and  discovered  them  in  the  morn- 
ing with  a  sagacity  that  raised  the  wonder  and 
envy  of  old  sportsmen.  One  only  obstruction 
to  the  advancement  of  my  reputation  I  could  ne- 
ver fully  surmount ;  I  was  naturally  a  coward, 
and  was  therefore  always  left  shamefully  behind, 
when  there  was  a  necessity  to  leap  a  hedge,  to 
swim  a  river,  or  force  the  horses  to  their  utmost 
speed ;  but  as  these  exigencies  did  not  frequently 
happen,  I  maintained  my  honour  with  sufficient 
success,  and  was  never  left  out  of  a  hunting 
party. 

The  old  chambermaid  was  not  so  certainly, 
nor  so  easily  pleased,  for  she  had  no  predominant 
passion  but  avarice,  and  was  therefore  cold  and 
inaccessible.  She  had  no  conception  of  any  vir- 
tue in  a  young  man  but  that  of  saving  his  money. 


When  she  heard  of  my  exploits  in  the  field,  she 
would  shake  her  head,  inquire  how  much  I  should 
be  the  richer  for  all  my  performances,  and  lament 
that  such  sums  should  be  spent  upon  dogs  and 
horses.  If  the  sailor  told  her  of  my  inclination 
to  travel,  she  was  sure  there  was  no  place  like 
England,  and  could  not  imagine  why  any  man 
that  can  live  in  his  own  country  should  leave  it. 
This  sullen  and  frigid  being  I  found  means, 
however,  to  propitiate  by  frequent  commenda- 
tions of  frugality,  and  perpetual  care  to  avoid 
expense. 

From  the  sailor  was  our  first  and  most  consi- 
derable expectation ;  for  he  was  richer  than  the 
chambermaid,  and  older  than  the  squire.  He 
was  so  awkward  and  bashful  among  women, 
that  we  concluded  him  secure  from  matrimony ; 
and  the  noisy  fondness  with  which  he  used  to 
welcome  me  to  his  house,  made  us  imagine  that 
he  would  look  out  for  no  other  heir,  and  that 
we  had  nothing  to  do  but  wait  patiently  for  his 
death.  But  in  the  midst  of  our  triumph,  my  un- 
cle saluted  us  one  morning  with  a  cry  of  trans- 
port, and  clapping  his  hand  hard  on  my  shoulder, 
told  me,  I  was  a  happy  fellow  to  have  a  friend 
like  him  in  the  world,  for  he  came  to  fit  me  out 
for  a  voyage  with  one  of  his  old  acquaintances. 
I  turned  pale  and  trembled  ;  my  father  told  him 
that  he  believed  my  constitution  not  fitted  to  the 
sea ;  and  my  mother,  bursting  into  tears,  cried 
out  that  her  heart  would  break  if  she  lost  me. 
All  this  had  no  effect;  the  sailor  was  wholly  in- 
susceptive  of  the  softer  passions,  and,  without 
regard  to  tears  or  arguments,  persisted  in  his  re- 
solution to  make  me  a  man. 

We  were  obliged  to  comply  in  appearance,  and 
preparations  were  accordingly  made.  I  took 
leave  of  my  friends  with  great  alacrity,  proclaim- 
ed the  beneficence  of  my  uncle  with  the  highest 
strains  of  gratitude,  and  rejoiced  at  the  opportu- 
nity now  put  into  my  hands  of  gratifying  my  thirst 
of  knowledge.  But  a  week  before  the  day  ap- 
pointed for  my  departure  I  fell  sick  by  my  mo- 
ther's direction,  and  refused  all  food  but  what 
she  privately  brought  me ;  whenever  my  uncle 
visited  me  I  was  lethargic  or  delirious,  but  took 
care  in  my  raving  fits  to  talk  incessantly  of  travel 
and  merchandize.  The  room  was  kept  dark ; 
the  table  was  filled  with  vials  and  gallipots  ;  my 
mother  was  with  difficulty  persuaded  not  to  en- 
danger her  life  with  nocturnal  attendance  ;  my 
"amer  lamented  the  loss  of  the  profits  of  the 
^oyages  ;  and  such  superfluity  of  artifices  was 
imployed,  as  perhaps  might  have  discovered  the 
:heatto  a  man  of  penetration.  But  the  sailor, 
unacquainted  with  subtilties  and  stratagems,  was 
easily  deluded  ;  and  as  the  ship  could  not  stay 
or  my  recovery,  sold  the  cargo,  and  left  me  to  re- 
establish my  health  at  leisure. 

I  was  sent  to  regain  my  flesh  in  a  purer  air,  lest 
t  should  appear  never  to  have  been  wasted,  and 
n  two  months  returned  to  deplore  my  disap- 
iointment.  My  uncle  pitied  my  dejection,  and 
id  me  prepare  myself  against  next  year,  for  no 
and-lubber  should  touch  his  money. 

A  reprieve  however  was  obtained,  and  per- 
aps  some  new  stratagem  might  have  succeeded 
another  spring ;  but  my  uncle  unhappily  made 
amorous  advances  to  my  mother's  maid :  who, 
o  promote  so  advantageous  a  match,  discovered 
he  secret  with  which  only  she  had  been  entrusted. 
3e  stormed,  and  raved,  and  declaring  that  he 


29G 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  199. 


would  have  heirs  of  his  own,  and  not  give  his 
substance  to  cheats  and  cowards,  married  the 
girl  in  two  days,  and  has  now  four  children. 

Cowardice  is  always  scorned,  and  deceit  uni- 
versally detested.  I  found  my  friends,  if  not 
wholly  alienated,  at  least  cooled  in  their  affec- 
tion ;  the  squire,  though  he  did  not  wholly  dis- 
card me,  was  less  fond,  and  often  inquired  when 
I  would  go  to  sea.  I  was  obliged  to  bear  his  in- 
sults, and  endeavoured  to  rekindle  his  kindness 
by  assiduity  and  respect ;  but  all  my  care  was 
vain  ;  he  died  without  a  will,  and  the  estate  de- 
volved to  the  legal  heir. 

Thus  has  the  folly  of  my  parents  condemned 
me  to  spend  in  flattery  and  attendance  those 
years  in  which  I  might  have  been  qualified  to 
place  myself  above  hope  or  fear.  I  am  arrived 
at  manhood  without  any  useful  art  or  generous 
sentiment;  and  if  the  old  woman  should  like- 
wise at  last  deceive  me,  am  in  danger  at  once  of 
beggary  and  ignorance. 

I  am,  &c. 

CAPTATOR. 


No.  199.]     TUESDAY,  FEB.  11,  1752. 

Decolor,  obscurus,  vilis,  non  ille  repexam 
Ctesariem  regum,  Candida  Virginia  ornat 
Co/la,  nee  insigni  splendet  per  cingula  mortu ; 
Sed  nova  si  nigri  videos  miracula  saxi, 
Tune  superatpulchros  cultus,  et  quicquid  Eols 
Indus  littoribus  rubra  scrutatur  in  alga. 

CLAUDIANUS. 

Obscure,  unprized,  and  dark,  the  magnet  lies, 
Nor  lures  the  search  of  avaricious  eyes, 
Nor  binds  the  neck,  nor  sparkles  in  the  hair, 
Nor  dignifies  the  great,  nor  decks  the  fair. 
But  search  the  wonders  of  the  dusky  stone, 
And  own  all  glories  of  the  mine  outdone, 
Each  grace  of  form,  each  ornament  of  state, 
That  decks  the  fair,  or  dignifies  the  great. 


SIR, 


TO  THE  RAMBLER. 


THOUGH  you  have  seldom  digressed  from  moral 
subjects,  I  suppose  you  are  not  so  rigorous  or 
cynical  as  to  deny  the  value  or  usefulness  of  na- 
tural philosophy ;  or  to  have  lived  in  this  age  of 
inquiry  and  experiment,  without  any  attention  to 
the  wonders  every  day  produced  by  the  pokers 
of  magnetism  and  the  wheels  of  electricity.  At 
least,  1  may  be  allowed  to  hope  that,  since  no- 
thing is  more  contrary  to  moral  excellence  than 
envy>  you  will  not  refuse  to  promote  the  happi- 
ness of  others,  merely  because  you  cannot  par- 
take of  their  enjoyments. 

In  confidence,  therefore,  that  your  ignorance 
has  not  made  you  an  enemy  to  knowledge,  I 
offer  you  the  honour  of  introducing  to  the  notice 
of  the  public  an  adept,  who,  having  long  laboured 
for  the  benefit  of  mankind,  is  not  willing,  like  too 
many  of  his  predecessors,  to  conceal  his  secrets 
in  the  grave. 

Many  have  signalized  themselves  my  melting 
their  estates  in  crucibles.  I  was  born  to  no  fortune, 
and  therefore  had  only  my  mind  and  my  body  to 
devote  to  knowledge,  and  the  gratitude  of  pos- 
terity will  attest  that  neither  mind  nor  body  has 
been  spared.  I  have  sat  whole  weeks  without 
sleep  by  the  side  of  an  athanor,  to  watch  the 
movement  of  projection  ;  I  have  made  the  first 
experiment  in  nineteen  diving-engines  of  new 
construction  ;  I  have  fallen  eleven  times  speech- 


less under  the  shock  of  electricity ;  I  have  twice 
dislocated  my  limbs,  and  once  fractured  my 
skull  in  essaying  to  fly,*  and  four  limes  endan- 
gered my  life  by  submitting  to  the  transfusion  of 
blood. 

In  the  first  period  of  my  studies  I  exerted  the 
powers  of  my  body  more  than  those  of  my  mind, 
and  was  not  without  hopes  that  fame  might  be 
purchased  by  a  few  broken  bones  without  the 
toil  of  thinking  ;  but  having  been  shattered  by 
some  violent  experiments  ;  and  constrained  to 
confine  myself  to  my  books,  I  passed  six  and 
thirty  years  in  searching  the  treasures  of  ancient 
wisdom,  but  am  at  last  amply  recompensed  for 
all  my  perseverance. 

The  curiosity  of  the  present  race  of  philoso- 
phers, having  been  long  exercised  upon  electri- 
city, has  been  lately  transformed  to  magnetism  ; 
the  qualities  of  the  loadstone  have  been  investi- 
gated, if  not  with  much  advantage,  yet  with  great 
applause ;  and  as  the  highest  praise  of  art  id  to 
imitate  nature,  I  hope  no  man  will  think  the 
makers  of  artificial  magnets  celebrated  or  rever- 
enced above  their  deserts. 

I  have  for  some  time  employed  myself  in  the 
same  practice,  but  with  deeper  knowledge  and 
more  extensive  views.  While  my  contempora 
ries  were  touching  needles  and  raising  weights, 
or  busying  themselves  with  inclination  and  varia- 
tion, I  have  been  examining  those  qualities  of 
magnetism  which  may  be  applied  to  the  accom- 
modation and  happiness  of  common  life.  I  have 
left  to  inferior  understandings  the  care  of  con- 
ducting the  sailor  through  the  hazards  of  the 
ocean,  and  reserved  to  myself  the  more  difficult 
and  illustrious  province  of  preserving  the  connu- 
bial compact  from  violation,  and  setting  mankind 
free  for  ever  from  the  danger  of  supposititious  chil- 
dren, and  the  torments  of  fruitless  vigilance  and 
anxious  suspicion. 

To  defraud  any  man  of  his  due  praise  is  un 
worthy  of  a  philosopher;  I  shall  therefore  openly 
confess,  that  I  owe  the  first  hint  of  this  inestima- 
ble secret  to  the  rabbi  Abraham  Ben  Hannase, 
who,  in  his  treatise  of  precious  stones,  has  left 
this  account  of  the  magnet:  "  The  calamita,  or 
loadstone  that  attracts  iron,  produces  many  bad 
fantasies  in  man.  Women  fly  from  this  stone. 
If  therefore  any  husband  be  disturbed  with  jea- 
lousy, and  fear  lest  his  wife  converses  with  oilier 
men,  let  him  lay  this  stone  upon  her  while  she  is 
asleep.  If  she  be  pure,  she  will,  when  she 
wakes,  clasp  her  husband  fondly  in  her  arms ; 
but  if  she  be  guilty,  she  will  fall  out  of  bed,  and 
run  away." 

When  I  first  read  this  wonderful  passage,  I 
could  not  easily  conceive  why  it  had  remained 
hitherto  unregarded  in  such  a  zealous  competi- 
tion for  magnetical  fame.  It  would  surely  be 
unjust  to  suspect  that  any  of  the  candidates  are 
strangers  to  the  name  or  works  of  rabbi  Abra- 
ham, or  to  conclude,  from  a  late  edict  of  the 
Royal  Society  in  favour  of  the  English  language, 
that  philosophy  and  literature  are  no  longer  to 
act  in  concert.  Yet,  how  should  a  quality  so 
useful  escape  promulgation,  but  by  the  obscurity 
of  the  language  in  which  it  was  delivered?  Why 
are  footmen  and  chambermaids  paid  on  every 


*  It  is  said  that  Dr.  Johnson  once  lodged  in  the  same 
house  with  a  man  who  broke  his  legs  in  attempting  to 
fly — C. 


JSo.  200.1 


THE  RAMBLER. 


297 


side  for  keeping  secrets,  which  no  caution  nor 
expense  could  secure  from  the  all-penetrating 
magnet?  or,  Why  are  so  many  witnesses  sum- 
moned, and  so  many  artifices  practised,  to  dis- 
cover what  so  easy  an  experiment  would  infal- 
»ibly  reveal  ? 

Full  of  this  perplexity,  I  read  the  lines  of 
Abraham  to  a  friend,  who  advised  me  not  to 
expose  my  life  by  a  mad  indulgence  of  the  love 
of  fame;  he  warned  me,  by  the  fate  of  Orpheus, 
that  knowledge  or  genius  could  give  no  protec- 
tion to  the  invader  of  female  prerogatives ;  as- 
sured me  that  neither  the  armour  of  Achilles,  nor 
the  antidotes  of  Mithridates,  would  be  able  to 
preserve  me  ;  and  counselled  me,  if  I  could  not 
live  without  renown,  to  attempt  the  acquisition 
of  universal  empire,  in  which  the  honour  would 
perhaps  be  equal,  and  the  danger  certainly  be 
less. 

I,  a  solitary  student,  pretend  not  to  much 
knowledge  of  the  world,  but  am  unwilling  to  think 
•t  so  generally  corrupt,  as  that  a  scheme  for  the 
detection  of  incontinence  should  bring  any  dan- 
ger upon  its  inventor.  My  friend  has  indeed 
told  me  that  all  the  women  will  be  my  enemies, 
and  that,  however  I  flatter  myself  with  hopes  of 
defence  from  the  men,  [  shall  certainly  find  my- 
self deserted  in  the  hour  of  danger.  Of  the 
young  men,  said  he,  some  will  be  afraid  of 
sharing  the  disgrace  of  their  mothers,  and  some 
the  danger  of  their  mistresses ;  of  those  who  are 
married,  part  are  already  convinced  of  the  false- 
hood of  their  wives,  and  part  shut  their  eyes  to 
avoid  conviction ;  few  ever  sought  for  virtue  in 
marriage,  and  therefore  few  will  try  whether 
they  have  found  it.  Almost  every  man  is  care- 
less or  timorous  ;  and  to  trust  is  easier  and  safer 
than  to  examine. 

These  observations  discouraged  me,  till  I  be- 

fan  to  consider  what  reception  I  was  likely  to 
nd  among  the  ladies,  whom  I  have  reviewed 
under  the  three  classes  of  maids,  wives  and 
widows,  and  cannot  but  hope  that  I  may  obtain 
some  countenance  among  them.  The  single 
ladies  I  suppose  universally  ready  to  patronize 
my  method,  by  which  connubial  wickedness  may 
be  detected,  since  no  woman  marries  with  a  pre- 
vious design  to  be  unfaithful  to  her  husband. 
And,  to  keep  them  steady  in  my  cause,!  promise 
never  to  sell  one  of  my  magnets  to  a  man  who 
steals  a  girl  from  school,  marries  a  woman  forty 
years  younger  than  himself,  or  employs  the  au- 
thority of  parents  to  obtain  a  wife  without  her 
own  consent 

Among  the  married  ladies,  notwithstanding 
the  insinuations  of  slander,  I  yet  resolve  to  be- 
lieve that  the  greater  part  are  my  friends,  and 
am  at  least  convinced,  that  they  who  demand  the 
test,  and  appear  on  my  side  will  supply  by  their 
spirit  the  deficiency  of  their  numbers,  and  that 
their  enemies  will  shrink  and  quake  at  the  sight 
of  a  magnet,  as  the  slaves  of  Scythia  fled  from 
the  scourge. 

The  widows  will  be  confederated  in  my  favour 
by  their  curiosity,  if  not  by  their  virtue  ;  for  it 
may  be  observed,  that  women  who  have  outlived 
their  husbands  always  think  themselves  entitled 
to  superintend  the  conduct  of  young  wives;  and 
as  they  are  themselves  in  no  danger  from  this 
magnetic  trial,  I  shall  expect  them  to  be  emi- 
nently and  unanimously  zealous  in  recommend- 


With  these  hopes  I  shall,  in  a  short  time,  offer 
to  sale  magnets  armed  with  a  particular  metallic 
composition  which  concentrates  their  virtue,  and 
determines  their  agency.  It  is  known  that  the 
efficacy  of  the  magnet  in  common  operations 
depends  much  upon  its  armature ;  and  it  cannot 
be  imagined,  that  a  stone,  naked,  or  cased  only 
in  the  common  manner,  will  discover  the  virtues 
ascribed  to  it  by  rabbi  Abraham.  The  secret  of 
this  metal  I  shall  carefully  conceal,  and  therefore 
am  not  afraid  of  imitators,  nor  shall  trouble  the 
offices  with  solicitation  for  a  patent 

I  shall  sell  them  of  different  sizes,  and  the  va- 
rious degrees  of  strength.  I  have  some  of  a  bulk 
proper  to  be  hung  at  the  bed's  head,  as  scare- 
crows, and  some  so  small  that  they  may  be  easily 
concealed.  Some  I  have  ground  into  oval  forms 
to  be  hung  at  watches  ;  and  some,  for  the  cu- 
rious, 1  have  set  in  wedding-rings,  that  ladies 
may  never  want  an  attestation  of  their  innocence. 
Some  I  can  produce  so  sluggish  and  inert,  that 
they  will  not  act  before  the  third  failure ;  and 
others  so  vigorous  and  animated,  that  they  exert 
their  influence  against  unlawful  wishes,  if  they 
have  been  willingly  and  deliberately  indulged. 
As  it  is  my  practice  honestly  to  tell  my  cus- 
tomers the  properties  of  my  magnets,  I  can 
judge,  by  their  choice,  of  the  delicacy  of  their 
sentiments.  Many  have  been  contented  to  spare 
cost  by  purchasing  only  the  lowest  degree  of 
efficacy,  and  all  have  started  with  terror  from 
those  which  operate  upon  the  thoughts.  One 
young  lady  only  fitted  on  a  ring  of  the  strongest 
energy,  and  declared  that  she  scorned  to  separate 
her  wishes  from  her  acts,  or  allow  herself  to 
think  what  she  was  forbidden  to  practise. 
I  am,  &c. 

HERMETICUS. 


No.  200.]     SATURDAY,  FEB.  15,  1752. 

Nemo  petit,  modicis  qmc  mittcbantur  amicis 
A  Seneca;  qua,  Piso  bonus,  qua  Cotta  solebat 
Largiri :  namque  et  titulis  elfascibus  olim 
Major  habebatur  donandi gloria  :  solum 
Poscimns,  ut  canes  civiliter.     Hoc  face,  et  esto. 
Esto,  ut  mine  multi,  dives  tibi, pauper  amicis. 

IUT. 

No  man  expects  (for  who  so  much  a  sot  ? 

Who  has  the  times  he  lives  in  so  forgot?) 

What  Seneca,  what  Piso  used  to  send 

To  raise  or  to  support  a  sinking  friend. 

Those  godlike  men,  to  wanting  virtue  kind. 

Bounty  well  placed  preferr'd,  and  well  design'd, 

To  all  their  titles,  all  that  height  of  power 

Which  turns  the  brains  of  fools,  and  fools  alone  adore. 

When  your  poor  client  is  condemn'd  t'  attend, 

"Tis  all  we  ask,  receive  him  as  a  friend : 

Descend  to  this,  and  then  we  ask  no  more 

Rich  to  yourself,  to  all  beside  be  poor.  BOWLES. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER. 

MR.  RAMBLER, 

SUCH  is  the  tenderness  or  infirmity  of  many 
minds,  that,  when  any  affliction  oppresses  them, 
they  have  immediate  recourse  to  lamentation  and 
complaint,  which,  though  it  can  only  be  allowed 
reasonable  when  evils  admit  of  remedy,  and  then 
only  when  addressed  to  those  from  whom  the 
remedy  is  expected,  yet  seems  even  in  hopeless 
and  incurable  distresses  to  be  natural,  since  those 
by  whom  it  is  not  indulged,  imagine  that  they 
give  a  proof  of  extraordinary  fortitude,  by  sup 
pressing  it. 


298 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  200. 


I  am  one  of  those  who,  with  the  Sancho  of 
Cervantes,  leave  to  higher  characters  the  merit 
of  suffering  ill  silence,  and  give  vent  without 
scruple  to  any  sorrow  that  swells  in  my  heart. 
It  is  therefore  to  me  a  severe  aggravation  of  a 
calamity,  when  it  is  such  as  in  the  common 
opinion  will  not  justify  the  acerbity  of  exclama- 
tion, or  support  the  solemnity  of  vocal  grief. 
Yet  many  pains  are  incident  to  a  man  of  deli- 
cacy, which  the  unfeeling  world  cannot  be  per- 
suaded to  pity,  and  which,  when  they  are  sepa- 
rated from  their  peculiar  and  personal  circum- 
stances, will  never  be  considered  as  important 
enough  to  claim  attention,  or  deserve  redress. 

Of  this  kind  will  appear,  to  gross  and  vulgar 
apprehensions,  the  miseries  which  I  endured  in 
a  morning  visit  to  Prospero,  a  man  lately  raised 
to  wealth  by  a  lucky  project,  and  too  much  intox- 
icated by  sudden  elevation,  or  too  little  polished 
by  thought  and  conversation,  to  enjoy  his  present 
fortune  with  elegance  and  decency. 

We  set  out  in  the  world  together;  and  for  a 
long  time  mutually  assisted  each  other  in  our 
exigencies,  as  either  happened  to  have  money 
or  influence  beyond  his  immediate  necessities. 
You  know  that  nothing  generally  endears  man 
so  much  as  participation  of  dangers  and  misfor- 
tunes ;  I  therefore  always  considered  Prospero  as 
united  with  me  in  the  strongest  league  of  kind- 
ness, and  imagined  that  our  friendship  was  only 
to  be  broken  by  the  hand  of  death.  I  felt  at  his 
sudden  shoot  of  success  an  honest  and  disin- 
terested joy;  but,  as  I  want  no  part  of  his  super- 
fluities, am  not  willing  to  descend  from  that 
equality  in  which  we  hitherto  have  lived. 

Our  intimacy  was  regarded  by  me  as  a  dispen- 
sation from  ceremonial  visits ;  and  it  was  so  long 
before  I  saw  him  at  his  new  house,  that  he  gently 
complained  of  my  neglect,  and  obliged  me  to 
come  on  a  day  appointed.  I  kept  my  promise, 
but  found  that  the  impatience  of  my  friend  arose 
not  from  any  desire  to  communicate  his  happi- 
ness, but  to  enjoy  his  superiority. 

When  I  told  my  name  at  the  door,  the  footman 
went  to  see  if  his  master  was  at  home,  and,  by 
the  tardiness  of  his  return,  gave  me  reason  to 
suspect  that  time  was  taken  to  deliberate.  He 
then  informed  me  that  Prospero  desired  my  com- 
pany, and  showed  the  staircase  carefully  secured 
by  mats  from  the  pollution  of  my  feet.  The  best 
apartments  were  ostentatiously  set  open,  that  I 
might  have  a  distant  view  of  the  magnificence 
which  I  was  not  permitted  to  approach ;  and  my 
old  friend,  receiving  me  with  all  the  insolence  of 
condescension  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  conducted 
me  to  a  back  room,  where  he  told  me  he  always 
breakfasted  when  he  had  not  great  company. 

On  the  floor  where  we  sat,  lay  a  carpet  covered 
with  a  cloth,  of  which  Prospero  ordered  his  ser- 
vant to  lift  up  a  corner,  that  I  might  contemplate 
the  brightness  of  the  colours,  and  the  elegance 
of  the  texture,  and  asked  me  whether  I  had  ever 
seen  any  thing  so  fine  before.  I  did  not  gratify 
his  folly  with  any  outcries  of  admiration,  but 
coldly  bade  the  footman  let  down  the  cloth. 

We  then  sat  down,  and  I  began  to  hope  that 
pride  was  glutted  with  persecution,  when  Pros- 
pero desired  that  I  would  give  the  servant  leave 
to  adjust  the  cover  of  my  chair,  which  was  slipped 
a  little  aside,  to  show  the  damask  ;  he  informed 
me  that  he  had  bespoke  ordinary  chairs  for 
common  use,  but  had  been  disappointed  by  his 


tradesman.  I  put  the  chair  aside  with  my  foot, 
and  drew  another  so  hastily,  that  I  was  entreated 
not  to  rumple  the  carpet. 

Breakfast  was  at  last  set ;  and  as  I  was  not 
willing  to  indulge  the  peevishness  that  began  to 
seize  me,  I  commended  the  tea.  Prospero  then 
told  me,  that  another  time  I  should  taste  his 
finest  sort,  but  that  he  had  only  a  very  small 
quantity  remaining,  and  reserved  it  for  those 
whom  he  thought  himself  obliged  to  treat  with 
particular  respect. 

While  we  were  conversing  upon  such  subjects, 
as  imagination  happened  to  suggest  he  fre- 
quently digressed  in  directions  to  the  servant 
that  waited,  or  made  a  slight  inquiry  after  the 
jeweller  or  silversmith ;  and  once,  as  I  was  pur- 
suing an  argument  with  some  degree  of  earnc  Ft- 
ness,  he  started  from  his  posture  of  attention, 
and  ordered  that  if  Lord  Lofty  called  on  him 
that  morning,  he  should  be  shown  into  the  best 
parlour. 

My  patience  was  yet  not  wholly  subdued.  1 
was  willing  to  promote  his  satisfaction,  and 
therefore  observed  that  the  figures  on  the  china 
were  eminently  pretty.  Prospero  had  now  an 
opportunity  of  calling  for  his  Dresden  chinn, 
which,  says  he,  I  always  associate  with  mv 
chased  lea-kettle.  The  cups  were  brought ;  I 
once  resolved  notto  have  looked  upon  them,  but 
my  curiosity  prevailed.  When  I  had  examined 
them  a  little,  Prospero  desired  me  to  set  them 
down,  for  they  who  were  accustomed  only  to 
common  dishes  seldom  handled  china  with  much 
care.  You  will,  I  hope,  commend  my  philoso- 
phy, when  I  tell  you  that  I  did  not  dash  his  bau- 
bles to  the  ground. 

He  was  now  so  much  elevated  with  his  own 
greatness,  that,  he  thought  some  humility  neces- 
sary to  avert  the  glance  of  envy ;  and  therefore 
told  me  with  an  air  of  soft  composure,  that  I  was 
not  to  estimate  life  by  external  appearance,  that 
all  these  shining  acquisitions  had  added  little  to 
his  happiness,  that  he  still  remembered  with  plea- 
sure the  days  in  which  he  and  I  were  upon  the 
level,  and  had  often,  in  the  moment  of  reflection, 
been  doubtful,  whether  he  should  lose  much  by 
changing  his  condition  for  mine. 

I  began  now  to  be  afraid  lest  his  pride  should, 
by  silence  and  submission,  be  emboldened  to  in- 
sults thatcould  not  easily  be  borne,  and  therefore 
coolly  considered  how  1  should  repress  it  with- 
out such  bitterness  of  reproof  as  I  was  yet  unwill- 
ing to  use.  But  he  interrupted  my  meditation, 
by  asking  leave  to  be  dressed,  and  told  me,  that 
he  had  promised  to  attend  some  ladies  in  the 
park,  and,  if  I  was  going  the  same  way,  would 
take  me  in  his  chariot.  I  had  no  inclination  to 
any  other  favours,  and  therefore  left  him  without 
any  intention  of  seeing  him  again,  unless  some 
misfortune  should  restore  his  understanding. 
I  am,  &c.  ASPER. 

Though  I  am  not  wholly  insensible  of  the  pro 
vocations  which  my  correspondent  has  received, 
I  cannot  altogether  commend  the  keenness  of 
his  resentment,  nor  encourage  him  to  persist  in 
his  resolution  of  breaking  off  all  commerce  with 
his  old  acquaintance.  One  of  the  golden  pre- 
cepts of  Pythagoras  directs,  that  a  friend  shoula 
not  be  hated  far  little  faults  :  and  surely  he,  upon 
whom  nothing  worse  can  be  charged,  than  that 
he  mats  his  stairs,  and  covers  his  carpet,  and  sets 


No.  201.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


299 


out  his  finery  to  show  before  those  whom  he  does 
not  admit  to  use  it,  has  yet  committed  nothing 
that  should  exclude  him  from  common  degrees 
of  kindness.  Such  improprieties  often  proceed 
rather  from  stupidity  than  malice.  Those  who 
thus  shine  only  to  dazzle,  are  influenced  merely 
by  custom  and  example,  and  neither  examine, 
nor  are  qualified  to  examine,  the  motives  of  their 
own  practice,  or  to  state  the  nice  limits  between 
elegance  and  ostentation.  They  are  often  inno- 
cent of  the  pain  which  their  vanity  produces,  and 
insult  others  when  they  have  no  worse  purpose 
than  to  please  themselves. 

He  that  too  much  refines  his  delicacy  will  al- 
ways endanger  his  quiet.  Of  those  with  whom 
nature  and  virtue  oblige  us  to  converse,  some  are 
ignorant  of  the  arts  of  pleasing,  and  offend  when 
they  design  to  caress ;  some  are  negligent,  and 
gratify  themselves  without  regard  to  the  quiet  of 
another  ;  some  perhaps  are  malicious,  and  feel 
no  greater  satisfaction  in  prosperity  than  that  of 
raising  envy  and  trampling  inferiority.  But 
whatever  be  the  motive  of  insult,  it  is  always  best 
to  overlook  it ;  for  folly  scarcely  can  deserve  re- 
sentment, and  malice  is  punished  by  neglect.* 


No.  201.]     TUESDAY,  FEB.  18,  1752. 


-Sanctut  haberi, 


Promissique  tenaxfactis  dictisque  mererit  7 
Agnosco  procircm.  JDV. 

Convince  the  world  lhat  you're  devout  and  true  ; 
Be  just  in  all  you  say,  and  all  you  do ; 
Whatever  be  your  birth,  you're  sure  to  be 
A  peer  of  the  first  magnitude  to  me.  STEPNEY. 

BOTLE  has  observed,  that  the  excellency  of  manu- 
factures and  the  facility  of  labour  would  be  much 
promoted,  if  the  various  expedients  and  contriv- 
ances which  lie  concealed  in  private  hands,  were 
by  reciprocal  communications  made  generally- 
known  ;  for  there  are  few  operations  that  are  not 
performed  by  one  or  other  with  some  peculiar  ad- 
vantages, which,  though  singly  of  little  import- 
ance, would,  by  conjunction  and  concurrence, 
open  new  inlets  to  knowledge,  and  give  new 
powers  to  diligence. 

There  are,  in  like  manner,  several  moral  excel- 
lences distributed  among  the  different  classes  of 
a  community.  It  was  said  by  Cujacius,  that  he 
never  read  more  than  one  book  by  which  he  was 
not  instructed  ;  and  he  that  shall  inquire  after 
virtue  with  ardour  and  attention  will  seldom  find 
a  man  by  whose  example  or  sentiments  he  may 
not  be  improved. 

Every  profession  has  some  essential  and  ap- 

Eropriate  virtue,  without  which  there  can  be  no 
ope  of  honour  or  success,  and  which  as  it  is  more 
or  less  cultivated,  confers  within  its  sphere  of  ac- 
tivity different  degrees  of  merit  and  reputation. 
As  the  astrologers  range  the  subdivisions  of 
mankind  under  the  planets  which  they  suppose 
to  influence  their  lives,  the  moralist  may  distri- 
bute them  according  to  the  virtues  which  they 
necessarily  practise,  and  consider  them  as  dis- 
tinguished by  prudence  or  fortitude,  diligence  or 
patience. 


*  The  character  of  Prospero,  it  is  universally  acknow- 
ledged, was  intended  for  Garrick,  who,  says,  Mr.  Boswell, 
«'  never  entirely  forgave  its  pointed  satire."— C. 


So  much  are  the  modes  of  excellence  settled 
by  time  and  place,  that  men  may  be  heard  boast- 
ing in  one  street  of  that  which  they  would  anx- 
iously conceal  in  another.  The  grounds  of  scorn 
and  esteem,  the  topics  of  praise  and  satire  are 
varied  according  to  the  several  virtues  or  vices 
which  the  course  of  life  has  disposed  men  to  ad- 
mire or  abhor ;  but  he  who  is  solicitous  for  his 
own  improvement  must  not  be  limited  by  local 
reputation,  but  select  from  every  tribe  of  mortals 
their  characteristical  virtues,  and  constellate  in 
himself  the  scattered  graces  which  shine  singly 
in  other  men. 

The  chief  praise  to  which  a  trader  aspires  is 
that  of  punctuality,  or  an  exact  and  rigorous  ob- 
servance of  commercial  engagements ;  nor  is 
there  any  vice  of  which  he  so  much  dreads  the  im- 
putation, as  of  negligence  and  instability.  This 
is  a  quality  which  the  interest  of  mankind  re- 
quires to  be  diffused  through  all  the  ranks  of  life, 
but  which  many  seem  to  consider  as  a  vulgar  and 
ignoble  virtue,  below  the  ambition  of  greatness 
or  attention  of  wit,  scarcely  requisite  among  men 
of  gayety  and  spirit,  and  sold  at  its  highest  rate 
when  it  is  sacrificed  to  a  frolic  or  a  jest. 

Every  man  has  daily  occasion  to  remark  what 
vexations  arise  from  this  privilege  of  deceiving 
one  another.  The  active  and  vivacious  have  so 
long  disdained  the  restraints  of  truth,  that  pro- 
mises and  appointments  have  lost  their  cogency, 
and  both  parties  neglect  their  stipulations,  be- 
cause each  concludes  that  they  will  be  broken  by 
the  other. 

Negligence  is  first  admitted  in  small  affairs, 
and  strengthened  by  petty  indulgences.  He  that 
is  not  yet  hardened  by  custom,  ventures  not  on 
the  violation  of  important  engagements,  but 
thinks  himself  bound  by  his  word  in  cases  of  pro- 
perty or  danger,  though  he  allows  himself  to  for- 
get at  what  time  he  is  to  meet  ladies  in  the  park, 
or  at  what  tavern  his  friends  are  expecting  him. 

This  laxity  of  honour  would  be  more  tolerable, 
if  it  could  be  restrained  to  the  play-house,  the 
ball-room,  or  the  card-table ;  yet  even  there  it 
is  sufficiently  troublesome,  and  darkens  those 
moments,  with  expectation,  suspense,  and  re- 
sentment, which  are  set  aside  for  pleasure,  and 
from  which  we  naturally  hope  for  unmingled  en- 
joyment and  total  relaxation.  But  he  that  suffers 
the  slightest  breach  in  his  morality  can  seldom 
tell  what  shall  enter  it,  or  how  wide  it  shall  be 
made ;  when  a  passage  is  open,  the  influx  of  cor- 
ruption is  every  moment  wearing  down  opposi- 
tion, and  by  slow  degrees  deluges  the  heart. 

Aliger  entered  the  world  a  youth  of  lively 
imagination,  extensive  views,  and  untainted 

Erinciples.  His  curiosity  incited  him  to  range 
•om  place  to  place,  and  try  all  the  varieties  of 
conversation ;  his  elegance  of  address  and  ferti- 
lity of  ideas  gained  him  friends  wherever  he  ap- 
peared ;  or  at  least  he  found  the  general  kind- 
ness of  reception  always  shown  to  a  young  man 
whose  birth  and  fortune  give  him  a  claim  to  no- 
tice, and  who  has  neither  by  vice  or  folly  de- 
stroyed his  privileges.  Aliger  was  pleased  with 
this  general  smile  of  mankind,  and  was  industri- 
ous to  preserve  it  by  compliance  and  officious- 
ness,  but  did  not  suffer  his  desire  of  pleasing  to 
vitiate  his  integrity.  It  was  his  established 
maxim,  that  a  promise  is  never  to  be  broken ; 
nor  was  it  without  long  reluctance  that  he  once 
suffered  himself  to  be  drawn  away  from  a  festal 


500 


THE  RAMBLER. 


engagement  by  the  importunity  of  another  corn- 
He  spent  the  evening,  as  is  usual,  in  the  rudi- 
ments of  vice,  in  perturbation  and  imperfect  en- 
joyment, and  met  his  disappointed  friends  in  the 
morning  with  confusion  and  excuses.  His  com- 
panions^ not  accustomed  to  such  scrupulous 
anxiety,  laughed  at  his  uneasiness,  compounded 
the  offence  for  a  bottle,  gave  him  courage  to 
break  his  word  again,  and  again  levied  the  pe- 
nalty. He  ventured  the  same  experiment  upon 
another  society,  and  found  them  equally  ready 
to  consider  it  as  a  venial  fault,  always  incident  to 
a  man  of  quickness  and  gayety ;  till,  by  degrees, 
he  began  to  think  himself  at  liberty  to  follow  the 
last  invitation,  and  was  no  longer  shocked  at  the 
turpitude  of  falsehood.  He  made  no  difficulty  to 
promise  his  presence  at  distant  places  ;  and,  if 
listlessness  happened  to  creep  upon  him,  would 
sit  at  home  with  great  tranquillity,  and  has  often 
sunk  to  sleep  in  a  chair,  while  he  held  ten  tables 
in  continual  expectations  of  his  entrance. 

It  was  so  pleasant  to  live  in  perpetual  vacancy, 
that  he  soon  dismissed  his  attention  as  a  useless 
incumbrance,  and  resigned  himself  to  careless- 
ness and  dissipation,  without  any  regard  to  the 
future  or  the  past,  or  any  other  motive  of  action 
than  the  impulse  of  a  sudden  desire,  or  the  attrac- 
tion of  immediate  pleasure.  The  absent  were 
immediately  forgotten,  and  the  hopes  or  fears  felt 
by  others  had  no  influence  upon  his  conduct.  He 
was  in  speculation  completely  just,  but  never 
kept  his  promise  to  a  creditor ;  he  was  benevo- 
lent, but  always  deceived  thosa friends  whom  he 
undertook  to  patronize  or  assist ;  he  was  pru- 
dent, but  suffered  his  affairs  to  be  embarrassed 
for  want  of  regulating  his  accounts  at  stated 
times.  He  courted  a  young  lady,  and,  when  the 
settlements  were  drawn,  took  a  ramble  into  the 
country  on  the  day  appointed  to  sign  them.  He 
resolved  to  travel,  and  sent  his  chests  on  ship- 
board, but  delayed  to  follow  them  till  he  lost  his 
passage.  He  was  summoned  as  an  evidence  in 
a  cause  of  great  importance,  and  loitered  on  the 
way  till  the  trial  was  past.  It  is  said  that  when 
he  had,  with  great  expense,  formed  an  interest  in 
a  borough,  his  opponent  contrived,  by  some 
agents  who  knew  his  temper,  to  lure  him  away  on 
the  day  of  election. 

His  benevolence  draws  him  into  the  commis- 
bion  of  a  thousand  crimes,  which  others  less  kind 
or  civil  would  escape.  His  courtesy  invites  ap- 
plication ;  his  promise  produces  dependance ;  he 
lias  his  pockets  filled  with  petitions,  which  he 
intends  some  time  to  deliver  and  enforce,  and  his 
table  covered  with  letters  of  request,  with  which 
he  purposes  .to  comply ;  but  time  slips  imper- 
ceptibly away,  while  he  is  either  idle  or  busy  ;  his 
friends  lose  their  opportunities,  and  charge  upon 
him  their  miscarriages  and  calamities. 

This  character,  however  contemptible,  is  not 
peculiar  to  Aliger.  They  whose  activity  of  ima- 
gination is  often  shifting  the  scenes  of  expecta- 
tion, are  frequently  subject  to  such  sallies  of  ca- 
price as  make  all  their  actions  fortuitious,  destroy 
the  value  of  their  friendship,  obstruct  the  efficacy 
of  their  virtues,  and  set  them  below  the  meanest 
of  those  that  persist  in  their  resolutions,  execute 
what  they  design,  and  perform  what  they  have 
promised. 


:NTJ.  202.]      SATURDAY,  FEB.  22,  1752. 

npis  axavra  foiAOs  lariv  b  irivijs  Trpay^iara, 
«(  irarraj  avrou  /cara^ipoi'uv  v-xoAappdvci. 
'  O  Ic  pCTptias  rparruv  irtpiffKtXfoTCpov 
"Airayra  r'  di'xupa,  Aupitiiia,  fplpci. 

CALLIMACHUI. 

From  no  affliction  is  the  poor  exempt; 
He  thinks  each  eye  surveys  him  with  contempt: 
Unmauly  poverty,  subdues  the  heart, 
Cankers  each  wound,  and  sharpens  every  dart. 

F.  LEWIS 

AMONG  those  who  have  endeavoured  to  promote 
learning,  and  rectify  judgment,  it  has  been  long 
customary  to  complain  of  the  abuse  of  words, 
which  are  often  admitted  to  signify  things  so  dif- 
ferent, that,  instead  of  assisting  the  understand- 
ing as  vehicles  of  knowledge,  they  produce  error, 
dissension,  and  perplexity,  because  what  is  af- 
firmed in  one  sense  is  received  in  another. 

If  this  ambiguity  sometimes  embarrasses  the 
most  solemn  controversies,  and  obscures  the  de- 
monstrations of  science,  it  may  well  be  expected 
to  infest  the  pompous  periods  of  declaimers  whose 
purpose  is  often  only  to  amuse  with  fallacies, 
and  change  the  colours  of  truth  and  falsehood  ; 
or  the  musical  compositions  of  poets,  whose  style 
is  professedly  figurative,  and  whose  art  is  ima- 
gined to  consistin  distorting  words  from  their  ori- 
ginal meaning. 

There  are  few  words  of  which  the  reader  be- 
lieves himself  better  to  know  the  import  than  of 
poverty:  yet,  whoever  studies  either  the  poets  01 
philosophers,  will  find  such  an  account  of  the 
condition  expressed  by  that  term  as  his  experience 
or  observation  will  not  easily  discover  to  be  true. 
Instead  of  the  meanness,  distress,  complaint, 
anxiety,  and  dependence,  which  have  hitherto 
been  combined  in  his  ideas  of  poverty,  he  will 
read  of  content,  innocence,  and  cheerfulness,  of 
health  and  safety,  tranquillity,  and  freedom;  of 
pleasures  not  known  but  to  men  unincumbered 
with  possessions ;  and  of  sleep  that  sheds  his 
balsamic  anodynes  only  on  the  cottage.  Such 
are  the  blessings  to  be  obtained  by  the  resigna- 
tion of  riches,  that  kings  might  descend  from 
their  thrones,  and  generals  retire  from  a  triumph, 
only  to  slumber,  undisturbed  in  the  elysium  of 
poverty. 

If  these  authors  do  not  deceive  us,  nothing  can 
be  more  absurd  than  that  perpetual  contest  for 
wealth  which  keeps  the  world  in  commotion  ;  nor 
any  complaints  more  justly  censured  than  those 
which  proceed  from  want  of  the  gifts  of  fortune, 
which  we  are  taught  by  the  great  masters  of  mo- 
ral wisdom  to  consider  as  golden  shackles,  by 
which  the  wearer  is  at  once  disabled  and  adorn- 
ed ;  as  luscious  poisons,  which  may  for  a  time 
please  the  palate,  but  soon  betray  their  malignity 
by  languor  and  by  pain. 

It  is  the  great  privilege  of  poverty  to  be  happy 
unenvied,  to  be  healthful  without  physic,  and  se- 
cure without  a  guard  ;  to  obtain  from  the  bounty 
of  nature  what  the  great  and  wealthy  are  com- 
pelled to  procure  by  the  help  of  artists  and  at- 
tendants, of  flatterers  and  spies. 

But  it  will  be  found,  upon  a  nearer  view,  that 
they  who  extol  the  happiness  of  poverty  do  not 
mean  the  same  state  with  those  who  deplore  its 
miseries.  Poets  have  their  imaginations  filled 
with  ideas  of  magnificence ;  and  being  accustomed 
to  contemplate  the  downfal  of  empires,  or  to  con- 


No.  203.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


301 


trive  forms  of  lamentations  for  monarchs  in  dis- 
tress, rank  all  the  classes  of  mankind  in  a  state 
of  poverty  who  make  no  approaches  to  the  dig- 
nity of  crowns.  To  be  poor  in  the  epic  language 
is  only  not  to  command  the  wealth  of  nations, 
nor  to  have  fleets  and  armies  in  pay. 

Vanity  has  perhaps  contributed  to  this  impro- 
priety of  style.  He  that  wishes  to  become  a  phi- 
losopher at  a  cheap  rate,  easily  gratifies  his  am- 
bition by  submitting  to  poverty  when  he  does  not 
feel  it,  and  by  boasting  his  contempt  of  riches 
when  he  has  already  more  than  he  enjoys.  He 
who  would  show  the  extent  of  his  views,  and 
grandeur  of  his  conceptions,  or  discover  his  ac- 
quaintance with  splendour  and  magnificence, 
may  talk,  like  Cowley,  of  an  humble  station  and 
quiet  obscurity,  of  the  paucity  of  nature's  wants, 
and  the  inconveniences  of  superfluity,  and  at  last, 
like  him,  limit  his  desires  to  rive  hundred  pounds 
a  year ;  a  fortune,  indeed,  not  exuberant,  when 
we  compare  it  with  the  expenses  of  pride  and 
luxury,  but  to  which  it  little  becomes  a  philoso- 
pher to  affix  the  name  of  poverty,  since  no  man 
can,  with  any  propriety,  be  termed  poor,  who 
does  not  see  the  greater  part  of  mankind  richer 
than  himself. 

As  little  is  the  general  condition  of  human  life 
understood  by  the  panegyrists  and  historians, 
who  amuse  us  with  accounts  of  the  poverty  of 
heroes  and  sages.  Riches  are  of  no  value  in 
themselves,  their  use  is  discovered  only  in  that 
which  they  procure.  They  are  not  coveted,  un- 
less  by  narrow  understandings,  which  confound 
the  means  with  the  end,  but  for  the  sake  of  pow- 
er, influence,  and  esteem ;  or,  by  some  of  less 
elevated  and  refined  sentiments,  as  necessary  to 
sensual  enjoyment. 

The  pleasures  of  luxury  many  have,  without 
uncommon  virtue,  been  able  to  despise,  even 
when  affluence  and  idleness  have  concurred  to 
tempt  them  ;  and  therefore  he  who  feels  nothing 
from  indigence  but  the  want  of  gratifications 
which  he  could  not  in  any  other  condition  make 
consistent  with  innocence,  has  given  no  proof  of 
eminent  patience.  Esteem  and  influence  every 
man  desires,  but  they  are  equally  pleasing,  and 
equally  valuable,  by  whatever  means  they  are 
obtained  ;  and  whoever  has  found  the  art  of  se- 
curing them  without  the  help  of  money,  ought,  in 
reality,  to  be  accounted  rich,  since  he  has  all  that 
riches  can  purchase  to  a  wise  man.  Cincinnatus, 
though  he  lived  upon  a  few  acres  cultivated  by 
his  own  hand,  was  sufficiently  removed  from  all 
the  evils  generally  comprehended  under  the  name 
of  poverty,  when  his  reputation  was  such,  that 
the  voice  of  his  country  called  him  from  his  farm 
to  take  absolute  command  into  his  hand ;  nor 
was  Diogenes  much  mortified  by  his  residence  in 
a  tub,  where  he  was  honoured  with  the  visit  of 
Alexander  the  Great. 

The  same  fallacy  has  conciliated  veneration  to 
the  religious  orders.  When  we  behold  a  man 
abdicating  the  hope  of  terrestrial  possessions, 
and  precluding  himself,  by  an  irrevocable  vow, 
from  the  pursuit  and  acquisition  of  all  that  his 
fellow-beings  consider  as  worthy  of  wishes  and 
endeavours,  we  are  immediately  struck  with  the 
purity,  abstraction,  and  firmness  of  his  mind,  and 
regard  him  as  wholly  employed  in  securing  the 
interests  of  futurity,  and  devoid  of  any  other  care 
than  to  gain  at  whatever  price  the  surest  passage 
to  eternal  rest. 


Yet,  what  can  the  votary  be  justly  said  to  have 
lost  of  his  present  happiness  ?  if  he  resides  in  a 
convent,  he  converses  only  with  men  whose  con- 
dition is  the  same  with  his  own ;  he  has,  from 
the  munificence  of  the  founder,  all  the  necessaries 
of  life,  and  is  safe  from  that  destitution,  which 
Hooker  declares  to  be  such  an  impediment  to  vir- 
tue, as,  till  it  be  removed,  sitffereth  not  the  mind  of 
man  to  admit  any  other  care.  All  temptations  to 
envy  and  competition  are  shut  out  from  his  re- 
treat ;  he  is  not  pained  with  the  sight  of  unat- 
tainable dignity,  nor  insulted  with  the  bluster  of 
insolence,  or  the  smile  of  forced  familiarity.  If 
he  wanders  abroad,  the  sanctity  of  his  character 
amply  compensates  ail  other  distinctions ;  he  is 
seldom  seen  but  with  reverence,  nor  heard  but 
with  submission. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  death,  though  often 
defied  in  the  field,  seldom  fails  to  terrify  when  it 
approaches  the  bed  of  sickness  in  its  natural  hor- 
ror ;  so  poverty  may  easily  be  endured  while  as- 
sociated with  dignity  and  reputation,  but  will  al- 
ways be  shunned  and  dreaded  when  it  is  accom- 
panied with  ignominy  and  contempt. 


No.  203.]      TUESDAY,  FEB.  25,  1752. 

Cum  volet  ilia  dies,  qua  nil  nisi  corporis  hvjus 

Jus  habet,  incerti spaiium  mihifniat  tzti.  OVID. 

Come,  soon  or  Inte,  death's  undetermined  day, 

This  mortal  being  only  can  decay.  WELSTED. 

IT  seems  to  be  the  fate  of  man  to  seek  all  his  con 
solations  in  futurity.  The  time  present  is  seldom 
able  to  fill  desire  or  imagination  with  immediate 
enjoyment,  and  we  are  forced  to  supply  its  defi- 
ciencies by  recollection  or  anticipation. 

Every  one  has  so  often  detected  the  fallacious- 
ness of  hope,  and  the  inconvenience  of  teaching 
himself  to  expect  what  a  thousand  accidents  may 
preclude,  that,  when  time  has  abated  the  confi 
dence  with  which  youth  rushes  out  to  take  pos- 
session of  the  world,  we  endeavour,  or  wish,  to 
find  entertainment  in  the  review  of  life,  and  to 
repose  upon  real  facts  and  certain  experience. 
This  is  perhaps  one  reason,  among  many,  why 
age  delights  in  narratives. 

But  so  full  is  the  world  of  calamity,  that  every 
source  of  pleasure  is  polluted,  and  every  retire- 
ment of  tranquillity  disturbed.  When  time  has 
supplied  us  with  events  sufficient  to  employ  our 
thoughts,  it  has  mingled  them  with  so  many  dis- 
asters, that  we  shrink  from  their  remembrance, 
dread  their  intrusion  upon  our  minds,  and  fly 
from  them  as  from  enemies  that  pursue  us  with 
torture. 

No  man  past  the  middle  point  of  life  can  sit 
down  to  feast  upon  the  pleasures  of  youth  with- 
out finding  the  banquet  embittered  by  the  cup  of 
sorrow ;  he  may  revive  lucky  accidents  and 
pleasing  extravagances  ;  many  days  of  harmless 
irolic,  or  nights  of  honest  festivity,  will  perhaps 
recur ;  or,  if  he  has  been  engaged  in  scenes  of 
action  and  acquainted  with  affairs  of  difficulty 
and  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  he  may  enjoy  the  no- 
bler pleasure  of  looking  back  upon  distress  firmly 
supported,  dangers  resolutely  encountered,  and 
opposition  artfully  defeated.  ./Eneas  properly 
comforts  his  companions,  when,  after  the  horrors 
of  a  storm,  they  have  landed  on  an  unknown  and 
desolate  country,  with  the  hope  that  their  miseries 


302 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  204. 


will  be  at  some  distant  time  recounted  with  de- 
light. There  are  few  higher  gratifications  than 
that  of  reflection  on  surmounted  evils,  when  they 
were  not  incurred  nor  protracted  by  our  fault, 
and  neither  reproach  us  with  cowardice  nor  guilt. 

But  this  felicity  is  almost  always  abated  by  the 
reflection,  that  they  with  whom  we  should  be 
most  pleased  to  share  it  are  now  in  the  grave. 
A  few  years  make  such  havoc  in  human  genera- 
tions, that  we  soon  see  ourselves  deprived  of 
those  with  whom  we  entered  the  world,  and 
whom  the  participation  of  pleasures  or  fatigues 
had  endeared  to  our  remembrance.  The  man 
of  enterprise  recounts  his  adventures  and  expe- 
dients, but  is  forced  at  the  close  of  the  relation  to 
pay  a  sigh  to  the  names  of  those  that  contributed 
to  his  success  ;  he  that  passes  his  life  among  the 
gayer  part  of  mankind,  has  his  remembrance 
stored  with  remarks  and  repartees  of  wits,  whose 
sprightliness  and  merriment  are  now  lost  in  per- 
petual silence  ;  the  trader,  whose  industry  has 
supplied  the  want  of  inheritance,  repines  in  soli- 
tary plenty  at  the  absence  of  companions  with 
whom  he  had  planned  out  amusements  for  his 
latter  years ;  and  the  scholar,  whose  merit,  after 
a  long  series  of  efforts,  raises  him  from  obscurity, 
looks  round  in  vain  from  his  exaltation  for  his 
old  friends  or  enemies,  whose  applause  or  mor- 
tification would  heighten  his  triumph. 

Among  Martial's  requisites  to  happiness  is, 
Res  non  parta  labore,  sed  relicta,  An  estate  not 
gained  by  industry,  but  left  by  inheritance.  It  is 
necessary  to  the  completion  of  every  good,  that  it 
be  timely  obtained  for  whatever  comes  at  the 
close  of  life  will  come  too  late  to  give  much  de- 
light. Yet  all  human  happiness  has  its  defects ; 
of  what  we  do  not  gain  for  ourselves  we  have 
only  a  faint  and  imperfect  fruition,  because  we 
cannot  compare  the  difference  between  want  and 
possession,  or  at  least  can  derive  from  it  no  con- 
viction of  our  own  abilities,  nor  any  increase  of 
self-esteem.  What  we  acquire  by  bravery  or 
science,  by  mental  or  corporal  diligence  ;  comes 
at  last  when  we  cannot  communicate,  and  there- 
fore cannot  enjoy  it. 

Thus  every  period  of  life  is  obliged  to  borrow 
its  happiness  from  the  time  to  come.  In  youth 
we  have  nothing  past  to  entertain  us,  and  in  age 
we  derive  little  from  retrospect  but  hopeless  sor- 
row. Yet  the  future  likewise  has  its  limits,  which 
the  imagination  dreads  to  approach,  but  which 
we  see  to  be  not  far  distant.  The  loss  of  our 
friends  and  companions  impresses  hourly  upon 
us  the  necessity  of  our  own  departure  ;  we  know 
that  the  schemes  of  man  are  quickly  at  an  end, 
that  we  must  soon  lie  down  in  the  grave  with  the 
forgotten  multitudes  of  former  ages,  and  yield  our 
place  to  others,  who,  like  us,  shall  be  driven  a 
while,  by  hope  or  fear,  about  the  surface  of  the 
earth,  and  then  like  us  be  lost  in  the  shades  of 
death. 

Beyond  this  termination  of  our  material  exist- 
ence we  are  therefore  obliged  to  extend  our  hopes; 
and  almost  every  man  indulges  his  imagination 
with  something,  which  is  not  to  happen  till  he 
has  changed  his  manner  of  being:  some  amuse 
themselves  with  entails  and  settlements,  provide 
for  the  perpetuation  of  families  and  honours,  or 
contrive  to  obviate  the  dissipation  of  the  fortunes 
which  it  has  been  their  business  to  accumulate  ; 
others,  more  refined  or  exalted,  congratulate 
their  own  hearts  upon  the  future  extent  of  their 


reputation,  the  reverence  of  distant  nations,  and 
the  gratitude  of  unprejudiced  posterity. 

They  whose  souls  are  so  chained  down  to  cof- 
fers and  tenements,  that  they  cannot  conceive  a 
state  in  which  they  shall  look  upon  them  with 
less  solicitude,  are  seldom  attentive  or  flexible  to 
arguments  ;  but  the  votaries  of  fame  are  capable 
of  reflection,  and  therefore  may  be  called  to  re- 
consider the  probability  of  their  expectations. 

Whether  to  be  remembered  in  remote  times  be 
worthy  of  a  wise  man's  wish,  has  not  yet  been 
satisfactorily  decided  ;  and  indeed,  to  be  long  re- 
membered, can  happen  to  so  small  a  number, 
that  the  bulk  of  mankind  has  very  little  interest 
in  the  question.  There  is  never  room  in  the 
world  for  more  than  a  certain  quantity  or  mea- 
sure of  renown.  The  necessary  business  of  life, 
the  immediate  pleasures  or  pains  of  every  condi- 
tion, leave  us  not  leisure  beyond  a  fixed  portion 
for  contemplations  which  do  not  forcibly  influ- 
ence our  present  welfare.  When  this  vacuity  is 
filled,  no  characters  can  be  admitted  into  the  cir- 
culation of  fame,  but  by  occupying  the  place  of 
some  that  must  be  thrust  into  oblivion.  The 
eye  of  the  mind,  like  that  of  the  body,  can  only 
extend  its  view  to  new  objects,  by  losing  sight  of 
those  which  are  now  before  it. 

Reputation  is  therefore  a  meteor,  which  blazes 
awhile  and  disappears  for  ever ;  and,  if  we  ex 
cept  a  few  transcendent  and  invincible  names, 
which  no  revolutions  of  opinion  or  length  of  time 
is  able  to  suppress  ;  all  those  that  engage  our 
thoughts,  or  diversify  our  conversation,  are  every 
moment  hasting  to  obscurity,  aS  new  favourites 
are  adopted  by  faehion. 

It  is  not  therefore  from  this  world  that  any  ray 
of  comfort  can  proceed,  to  cheer  the  gloom  of  the 
last  hour.  But  futurity  has  still  its  prospects  ; 
there  is  yet  happiness  in  reserve,  which,  if  we 
transfer  our  attention  to  it,  will  support  us  in  the 
pains  of  disease,  and  the  languor  of  decay.  This 
happiness  we  may  expect  with  confidence,  be- 
cause it  is  out  of  the  power  of  chance,  and  may 
be  attained  by  all  that  sincerely  desire  and  ear- 
nestly pursue  it.  On  this  therefore  every  mind 
ought  finally  to  rest.  Hope  is  the  chief  blessing 
of  man,  and  that  hope  only  is  rational,  of  which 
we  are  certain  that  it  cannot  deceive  us. 


No.  204.]     SATURDAY,  FEB.  29,  1752. 

Nemo  tamdivos  habuilfaventes, 

Crastinum  tit  possil  sibi  polliceri.  SENECA. 

Of  Heaven's  protection  who  can  be 

So  confident  to  utter  this — ? 

To-morrow  1  will  spend  in  bliss.  F.  LEWIS 

SEGED,  lord  of  Ethiopia,  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
world  :  To  the  sons  of  presumption,  humility  and 
fear ;  and  to  the  daughters  of  sorrow,  content 
and  acquiesence, 

Thus,  in  the  twenty-seventh  year  of  his  reign, 
spoke  Seged,  the  monarch  of  forty  nations,  the 
distributor  of  the  waters  of  the  Nile  :  "At  length, 
Seged,  thy  toils  are  at  an  end;  thou  hast  recon 
ciled  disaffection,  thou  hast  suppressed  rebellion; 
thou  hast  pacified  the  jealousies  of  thy  courtiers, 
thou  hast  chased  war  from  thy  confines,  and 
erected  fortresses  in  the  lands  of  thy  enemies. 
All  who  have  offended  thee  tremble  in  thy  pre- 


No.  204.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


303 


sence,  and  wherever  thy  voice  is  heard  it  is  obey- 
ed. Thy  throne  is  surrounded  by  armies,  nu- 
merous as  the  locusts  of  the  summer,  and  resist- 
less as  the  blasts  of  pestilence.  Thy  magazines 
are  stored  with  ammunition,  thy  treasuries  over- 
flow with  the  tribute  of  conquered  kingdoms. 
Plenty  waves  upon  thy  fields,  and  opulence  glit- 
ters in  thy  cities.  Thy  nod  is  as  the  earthquake 
that  shakes  the  mountains,  and  thy  smile  as  the 
dawn  of  the  vernal  day.  In  thy  hand  is  the 
strength  of  thousands,  and  thy  health  is  the  health 
of  millions.  Thy  palace  is  gladdened  by  the 
song  of  praise,  and  thy  path  perfumed  by  the 
breath  of  benediction.  Thy  subjects  gaze  upon 
thy  greatness,  and  think  of  danger  or  misery  no 
more.  Why,  Seged,  wilt  not  thou  partake  the 
blessings  thou  bestowest  ?  Why  shouldst  thou 
only  forbear  to  rejoice  in  this  general  felicity  ? 
Why  should  thy  face  be  clouded  with  anxiety, 
when  the  meanest  of  those  who  call  thee  sove- 
reign gives  the  day  to  festivity,  and  the  night  to 
peace  ?  At  length,  Seged,  reflect  and  be  wise. 
What  is  the  gift  of  conquest  but  safety  ?  Why 
are  riches  collected  but  to  purchase  happiness  ?" 

Seged  then  ordered  the  house  of  pleasure, 
built  in  an  island  of  the  lake  of  Dambea,  to  be 
prepared  for  his  reception.  "  I  will  retire,"  says 
he,  "  for  ten  days  from  tumult  and  care,  from 
counsels  and  decrees.  Long  quiet  is  not  the  lot 
of  the  governors  of  nations,  but  a  cessation  of 
ten  days  cannot  be  denied  me.  This  short  in- 
terval of  happiness  may  surely  be  secured  from 
the  interruption  of  fear  or  perplexity,  sorrow  or 
disappointment.  I  will  exclude  all  trouble  from 
my  abode,  and  remove  from  my  thoughts  what- 
ever may  confuse  the  harmony  ef  the  concert,  or 
abate  the  sweetness  of  the  banquet.  I  will  fill 
the  whole  capacity  of  my  soul  with  enjoyment, 
and  fry  what  it  is  to  live  without  a  wish  unsa- 
tisfied." 

In  a  few  days  the  orders  were  performed,  and 
Seged  hasted  to  the  palace  of  Dambea,  which 
stood  in  an  island  cultivated  only  for  pleasure, 
planted  with  every  flower  that  spreads  its  colours 
to  the  sun.  and  every  shrub  that  sheds  fragrance 
in  the  air.  In  one  part  of  this  extensive  garden, 
were  open  walks  for  excursions  in  the  morning ; 
in  another,  thick  groves,  and  silent  arbours,  and 
bubbling  fountains,  for  repose  at  noon.  Alt  that 
could  solace  the  sense,  or  flatter  the  fancy,  all 
that  industry  could  extort  from  nature,  or  wealth 
furnish  to  art,  all  that  conquest  could  seize,  or 
beneficence  attract,  was  collected  together,  and 
every  perception  of  delight  was  excited  and  gra- 
tified. 

Into  this  delicious  region  Seged  summoned 
all  the  persons  of  his  court  who  seemed  emi- 
nently qualified  to  receive  or  communicate  plea- 
sure. His  call  was  readily  obeyed  :  the  young, 
the  fair,  the  vivacious,  and  the  witty,  were  all 
in  haste  to  be  sated  with  felicity.  They  sailed 
jocund  over  the  lake,  which  seemed  to  smooth 
its  surface  before  them ;  their  passage  was 
cheered  with  music,  and  their  hearts  dilated  with 
expectation. 

Seged,  landing  herewith  his  band  of  pleasure^ 
determined  from  that  hour  to  break  ofF  all  ac- 
quaintance with  discontent,  to  give  his  heart 
for  ten  days  to  ease  and  jollity,  and  then  fall 
Dack  to  the  common  state  of  man,  and  suffer 
nis  life  to  be  diversified,  as  before,  with  joy  and 
sorrow. 


He  immediately  entered  his  chamber,  to  con. 
sider  where  he  should  begin  his  circle  of  happi- 
ness. He  had  all  the  artists  of  delight  before 
him,  but  knew  not  whom  to  call,  since  he  could 
not  enjoy  one  but  by  delaying  the  performance 
of  another.  He  chose  and  rejected,  he  resolved 
and  changed  his  resolution,  till  his  faculties  were 
harassed,  and  his  thoughts  confused  :  then  re- 
turned to  the  apartment  where  his  presence  was 
expected,  with  languid  eyes  and  clouded  coun- 
tenance, and  spread  the  infection  of  uneasiness 
over  the  whole  assembly.  He  observed  their 
depression,  and  was  offended  ;  for  he  found  his 
vexation  increased  by  those  whom  he  expected 
to  dissipate  and  relieve  it.  He  retired  again  to 
his  private  chamber,  and  sought  for  consolation 
in  his  own  mind  ;  one  thought  flowed  in  upon 
another ;  a  long  succession  of  images  seized  his 
attention ;  the  moments  crept  imperceptibly 
away  through  the  gloom  of  pensiveness,  till, 
having  recovered  his  tranquillity,  he  lifted  up 
his  head,  and  saw  the  lake  brightened  by  the 
setting  sun.  "  Such,"  said  Seged,  sighing,  "  is 
the  longest  day  of  human  existence  :  before  we 
have  learned  to  use  it,  we  find  it  at  an  end." 

The  regret  which  he  felt  for  the  loss  of  so 
great  a  part  of  his  first  day,  took  from  him  all 
disposition  to  enjoy  the  evening ;  and  after  hav- 
ing endeavoured,  for  the  sake  of  his  attendants, 
to  force  an  air  of  gayety,  and  excite  that  mirth 
which  he  could  not  share,  he  resolved  to  defer 
his  hopes  to  the  next  morr?ng,  and  lay  down  to 
partake  with  the  slaves  of  labour  and  poverty  the 
blessing  of  sleep. 

He  rose  early  the  second  morning,  and  re- 
solved now  to  be  happy.  He  therefore  fixed 
upon  the  gate  of  the  palace  an  edict,  importing, 
that  whoever,  during  nine  days,  should  appear 
in  the  presence  of  the  king  with  dejected  coun- 
tenance, or  utter  any  expression  of  discontent  or 
sorrow,  should  be  driven  for  ever  from  the  palace 
of  Dambea. 

This  edict  was  immediately  made  known  in 
every  chamber  of  the  court  and  bower  of  the 
gardens.  Mirth  was  frighted  away ;  and  they 
who  were  before  dancing  in  the  lawns,  or  sing 
ing  in  the  shades,  were  at  once  engaged  in  the 
care  of  regulating  their  looks,  that  Seged  might 
find  his  will  punctually  obeyed,  and  see  none 
among  them  liable  to  banishment. 

Seged  now  met  every  face  settled  in  a  smile  , 
but  a  smile  that  betrayed  solicitude,  timidity, 
and  constraint.  He  accosted  his  favourites  with 
familiarity  and  softness ;  but  they  durst  not 
speak  without  premeditation,  lest  they  should 
be  convicted  of  discontent  or  sorrow.  He  pro- 
posed diversions,  to  which  no  objection  was 
made,  because  objection  would  have  implied  un- 
easiness ;  but  they  were  regarded  with  indiffer- 
ence by  the  courtiers,  who  had  no  other  desire 
than  to  signalize  themselves  by  clamorous  exult- 
ation. He  offered  various  topics  of  conversa- 
tion ;  but  obtained  only  forced  jests  and  labo- 
rious laughter;  and,  after  many  attempts  to  ani- 
mate his  train  to  confidence  and  alacrity,  wag 
obliged  to  confess  to  himself  the  impotence  of 
command,  and  resign  another  day  to  grief  and 
disappointment. 

He  at  last  relieved  his  companions  from  their 
terrors,  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber  to 
ascertain,  by  different  measures,  the  felicity  of 
the  succeeding  days.  At  length  he  threw  him- 


304 


THE  RAMBLER. 


(.No.  2U5 


self  on  tl  e  bed,  and  closed  his  eyes,  but  imagined, 
in  his  sleep,  that  his  palace  and  gardens  were 
overwhelmed  by  an  inundation,  and  waked  with 
all  the  terrors  of  a  man  struggling  in  the  water. 
He  composed  himself  again  to  rest,  but  was  af- 
frighted by  an  imaginary  irruption  into  his 
kingdom ;  and  striving,  as  is  usual  in  dreams, 
without  ability  to  move,  fancied  himself  betrayed 
to  his  enemies,  and  again  started  up  with  horror 
and  indignation. 
It  was  now  day,  and  fear  was  so  strongly  im- 

Eessed  on  his  mind,  that  he  could  sleep  no  more, 
e  rose ;  but  his  thoughts  were  filled  with  the 
deluge  and  invasion,  nor  was  he  able  to  disen- 
gage his  attention,  or  mingle  with  vacancy  and 
ease  in  any  amusement.  At  length  his  perturba- 
tion gave  way  to  reason,  and  he  resolved  no 
longer  to  be  harassed  by  visionary  miseries ;  but 
before  this  resolution  could  be  completed,  half 
the  day  had  elapsed.  He  felt  a  new  conviction 
of  the  uncertainty  of  human  schemes,  and  could 
not  forbear  to  bewail  the  weakness  of  that  being, 
whose  quiet  was  to  be  interrupted  by  vapours  of 
the  fancy.  Having  been  first  disturbed  by  a 
dream,  he  afterwards  grieved  that  a  dream  could 
disturb  him.  He  at  last  discovered  that  his  ter- 
rors and  grief  were  equally  vain,  and  that  to  lose 
the  present  in  lamenting  the  past  was  volunta- 
rily to  protract  a  melancholy  vision.  The  third 
day  was  now  declining,  and  Seged  again  re- 
solved to  be  happy  on  the  morrow. 


No.  205.]      TUESDAY,  MARCH  3,  1752. 


-  Volat 


SENECA. 


r  UUIL  itiiiuf^uiv 

Mobilis  alia  hora,  nee  ulli 
Prtcslat  veloz  fortuna  jidtm. 

On  fickle  wings  the  minutes  haste, 
And  fortune's  favours  never  last. 


ON  the  fourth  morning  Seged  rose  early,  re- 
freshed with  sleep,  vigorous  with  health,  and 
eager  with  expectation.  He  entered  the  garden, 
attended  by  the  princess  and  ladies  of  his  court, 
and,  seeing  nothing  about  but  airy  cheerfulness, 
began  to  say  to  his  heart,  "  This  day  shall  be  a 
day  of  pleasure."  The  sun  played  upon  the 
water,  the  birds  warbled  in  the  groves,  and  the 
gales  quivered  among  the  branches.  He  roved 
from  walk  to  walk  as  chance  directed  him,  and 
sometimes  listened  to  the  songs,  sometimes 
mingled  with  the  dancers,  sometimes  let  loose 
his  imagination  in  flights  of  merriment,  and 
sometimes  uttered  grave  reflections  and  senten- 
tious maxims,  and  feasted  on  the  admiration 
with  which  they  were  received. 

Thus  the  day  rolled  on,  without  any  accident 
of  vexation,  or  intrusion  of  melancholy  thoughts. 
All  that  beheld  him  caught  gladness  from  his 
.ooks,  and  the  sight  of  happiness  conferred  by 
himself  filled  his  heart  with  satisfaction :  but 
having  passed  three  hours  in  this  harmless  lux- 
ury, he  was  alarmed  on  a  sudden  by  a  univer- 
sal scream  among  the  women,  and,  turning  back, 
saw  the  whole  assembly  flying  in  confusion.  A 
young  crocodile  had  risen  out  of  the  lake,  and 
was  ranging  the  garden  in  wantonness  or  hun- 

§er.     Seged  beheld  him  with  indignation,  as  a 
isturber  of  his  felicity,  and  chased  him  back  in- 
.o  flie  lake,  but  could  not  persuade  his  retinue  to 


stay,  or  free  their  hearts  from  the  terror  which 
had  seized  upon  them.  The  princesses  inclosed 
themselves  in  the  palace,  and  could  yet  scarcely 
believe  themselves  in  safety.  Every  attention 
was  fixed  upon  the  late  danger  and  escape,  and 
no  mind  was  any  longer  at  leisure  for  gay  sallies 
or  careless  prattle. 

Seged  had  now  no  other  employment  than  to 
contemplate  the  innumerable  casualties  which 
lie  in  ambush  on  every  side  to  intercept  the  hap- 
piness of  man,  and  break  in  upon  the  hour  of 
delight  and  tranquillity.  He  had,  however,  the 
consolation  of  thinking,  that  he  had  not  been 
now  disappointed  by  his  own  fault,  and  that  the 
accident  which  had  blasted  the  hopes  of  the  day 
might  easily  be  prevented  by  future  caution. 

That  he  might  provide  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
next  morning,  he  resolved  to  repeal  his  penal 
edict,  since  he  had  already  found  that  discontent 
and  melancholy  were  not  to  be  frighted  away  bj 
the  threats  of  authority,  and  that  pleasure  would 
only  reside  where  she  was  exempted  from  con- 
trol. He  therefore  invited  all  the  companions 
of  his  retreat  to  unbounded  pleasantry,  by  pro 
posing  prizes  for  those  who  should,  on  the  fol 
lowing  day,  distinguish  themselves  by  anj 
festive  performances  ;  the  tables  of  the  anti 
chamber  were  covered  with  gold  and  pearls, 
and  robes  and  garlands  decreed  the  rewards  ol 
those  who  could  refine  elegance  or  heighten 
pleasure. 

At  this  display  of  riches  every  eye  immediately 
sparkled,  and  every  tongue  was  busied  in  cele- 
brating the  bounty  and  magnificence  of  the  em- 
peror. But  when  Seged  entered,  in  hopes  of 
uncommon  entertainment  from  universal  emu- 
lation, he  found  that  any  passion  too  strongly 
agitated  puts  an  end  to  that  tranquillity  which  is 
necessary  to  mirth,  and  that  the  mind  that  is  to 
be  moved  by  the  gentle  ventilations  of  gayety 
must  be  first  smoothed  by  a  total  calm.  What- 
ever we  ardently  wish  to  gain,  we  must,  in  the 
same  degree,  be  afraid  to  lose,  and  fear  and 
pleasure  cannot  dwell  together. 

All  was  now  care  and  solicitude.  Nothing 
was  done  or  spoken,  but  with  so  visible  an  en- 
deavour at  perfection,  as  always  failed  to  de- 
lijrht,  though  it  sometimes  forced  admiration: 
and  Seged  could  not  but  observe  with  sorrow, 
that  his  prizes  had  more  influence  than  himself. 
As  the  evening  approached,  the  contest  grew 
more  earnest,  and  those  who  were  forced  to 
allow  themselves  excelled  began  to  discover  the 
malignity  of  defeat,  first  by  angry  glances,  and 
at  last  by  contemptuous  murmurs.  Seged  like- 
wise shared  the  anxiety  of  the  day  ;  for  consider- 
ing himself  as  obliged  to  distribute  with  exact 
justice  the  prizes  which  had  been  so  zealously 
sought,  he  durst  never  remit  his  attention,  but 
passed  his  time  upon  the  rack  of  doubt,  in  ba- 
lancing different  kinds  of  merit,  and  adjusting 
the  claims  of  all  the  competitors. 

At  last,  knowing  that  no  exactness  could 
satisfy  those  whose  hopes  he  should  disappoint, 
and  thinking  that,  on  a  day  set  apart  for  hap- 
piness, it  would  bo  cruel  to  oppress  any  heart 
with  sorrow,  he  declared  that  all  had  pleased 
him  alike,  and  dismissed  all  with  presents  of 
equal  value. 

Seged  soon  saw  that  his  caution  had  not  been 
able  to  avoid  offence.  They  who  had  believed 
themselves  secure  of  the  highest  prizes,  wer« 


THE  RAMBLER 


not  pleased  to  be  levelled  with  the  crowd;  and 
though,  by  the  liberality  of  the  king,  they  re- 
ceived more  than  his  promise  had  entitled  "them 
to  expect,  they  departed  unsatisfied,  because 
they  were  honoured  with  no  distinction,  and  want- 
ed an  opportunity  to  triumph  in  the  mortification 
of  their  opponents.  .  "  Behold  here,"  said  Seged, 
"  the  condition  of  him  who  places  his  happiness 
in  the  happiness  of  others."  He  then  retired 
to  meditate,  and,  while  the  courtiers  were  re- 
pining at  his  distributions,  saw  the  fifth  sun  go 
down  in  discontent. 

The  next  dawn  renewed  his  resolution  to  be 
happy.  But  having  learned  how  little  he  could 
effect  by  settled  schemes  or  preparatory  mea- 
sures, he  thought  it  best  to  give  up  one  day  en- 
tirely to  chance,  and  left  every  one  to  please  and 
be  pleased  his  own  way. 

This  relaxation  of  regularity  diffused  a  general 
Complacence  through  the  whole  court,  and  the 
emperor  imagined  that  he  had  at  last  found  the 
secret  of  obtaining  an  interval  of  felicity.  But 
as  he  was  roving  in  this  careless  assembly  with 
eaual  carelessness,  he  overheard  one  of  his 
courtiers  in  a  close  arbour  murmuring  alone : 
'What  merit  has  Seged  above  us,  that  we 
should  thus  fear  and  obey  him  ?  a  man  whom, 
whatever  he  may  have  formerly  performed,  his 
luxury  now  shows  to  have  the  same  weakness 
with  ourselves  !"  This  charge  affected  him  the 
more,  as  it  was  uttered  by  one  whom  he  had 
always  observed  among  the  most  abject  of  his 
flatterers.  At  first  his  indignation  prompted 
him  to  severity;  but  reflecting,  that  what  was 
spoken  without  intention  to  be  heard  was  to  be 
considered  as  only  thought,  and  was,  perhaps, 
but  the  sudden  burst  of  casual  and  temporary 
vexation,  he  invented  some  decent  pretence  to 
send  him  away,  that  his  retreat  might  not  be 
tainted  with  the  breath  of  envy  ;  and  after  the 
struggle  of  deliberation  was  past,  and  all  desire 
of  revenge  utterly  suppressed,  passed  the  even- 
ing not  only  with  tranquillity,  but  triumph, 
though  none  but  himself  was  conscious  of  the 
victory. 

The  remembrance  of  this  clemency  cheered 
the  beginning  of  the  seventh  day,  and  nothing 
happened  to  disturb  the  pleasure  of  Seged,  till, 
looking  on  the  tree  that  shaded  him,  he  recol- 
lected that  under  a  tree  of  the  same  kind  he  had 
passed  the  night  after  his  defeat  in  the  kingdom 
of  Goiama.  The  reflection  on  his  loss,  his  dis- 
nonour,  and  the  miseries  which  his  subjects  suf- 
fered from  the  invader,  filled  him  with  sadness. 
At  last  he  shook  off  the  weight  of  sorrow,  and 
began  to  solace  himself  with  his  usual  pleasure  ; 
when  his  tranquillity  was  again  disturbed  by 
jealousies  which  the  late  contest  for  the  prizes 
nad  produced,  and  which,  having  in  vain  tried 
to  pacify  them  by  persuasion,  he  was  forced  to 
silence  by  command. 

On  the  eighth  morning  Seged  was  awakened 
early  by  an  unusual  hurry  in  the  apartments, 
and,  inquiring  the  cause,  was  told  that  the 
princess  Balkis  was  seized  with  sickness.  He 
rose,  and,  calling  the  physicians,  found  that 
they  had  little  hope  of  her  recovery.  Here  was 
an  end  of  jollity ;  all  his  thoughts  were  now 
upon  his  daughter,  whose  eyes  he  closed  on  the 
tenth  day. 

Such  were  the  days  which  Seged  of  Ehtiopia 
had  appropriated  to  a  short  respiration  from  the 


fatigues  of  war,  and  the  cares  of  government. 
This  narrative  he  has  bequeathed  to  future  ge- 
nerations, that  no  man  hereafter  may  presume 
to  say,  "  This  day  shall  be  a  day  of  happiness." 


No.  206.]       SATURDAY,  MARCH  7,  1752 

Propositi  nondum  pudet,  atque  eadem  eat  mem, 

Ut  bona  summo.  putts,  aliena  Divert  quadra.         juv. 

But  harden'd  by  affronts,  and  still  the  some, 

Lost  to  all  sense  of  honour  and  of  fame, 

Thou  yet  canst  love  to  haunt  the  great  man's  board, 

And  think  no  supper  good  but  with  a  lord.       BOWLE*. 

WHEN  Diogenes  was  once  asked,  what  kind  of 
wine  he  liked  best,  he  answered,  "  That  which 
is  drunk  at  the  cost  of  others." 

Though  the  character  of  Diogenes  has  never 
excited  any  general  zeal  of  imitation,  there  are 
many  who  resemble  him  in  his  taste  of  wine  ; 
many  who  are  frugal,  though  not  abstemious  ; 
whose  appetites,  though  too  powerful  for  reason, 
are  kept  under  restraint  by  avarice ;  and  to 
whom  all  delicacies  lose  their  flavour,  when 
they  cannot  be  obtained  but  at  their  own  ex 
pense. 

Nothing  produces  more  singularity  of  man 
ners,  and  inconstancy  of  life,  than  the  conflict  of 
opposite  vices  in  the  same  mind.  He  that  uni- 
formly pursues  any  purpose,  whether  good  or 
bad,  has  a  settled  principle  of  action ;  and,  as  he 
may  always  find  associates  who  are  travelling 
the  same  way,  is  countenanced  by  example,  and 
sheltered  in  the  multitude  ;  but  a  man  actuated 
at  once  by  different  desires  must  move  in  a  di 
rection  peculiar  to  himself,  and  suffer  that  re 
proach  which  we  are  naturally  inclined  to  be- 
stow on  those  who  deviate  from  the  rest  of  the 
world,  even  without  inquiring  whether  they  are 
worse  or  better. 

Yet  this  conflict  of  desires  sometimes  produces 
wonderful  efforts.  To  riot  in  far-fetched  dishes, 
or  surfeit  with  unexhausted  variety,  and  yet 
practise  the  most  rigid  economy,  is  surely  an  art 
which  may  justly  draw  the  eyes  of  mankind 
upon  them  whose  industry  or  judgment  has 
enabled  them  to  attain  it.  To  him,  indeed,  who 
is  content  to  break  open  the  chests,  or  mortgage 
the  manors  of  his  ancestors,  that  he  may  hiro 
the  ministers  of  excess  at  the  highest  price,  glut 
tony  is  an  easy  science  ;  yet  we  often  hear  the 
votaries  of  luxury  boasting  of  the  elegance  which 
they  owe  to  the  taste  of  others  ;  relating  with 
rapture  the  succession  of  dishes  with  which  their 
cooks  and  caterers  supply  them  ;  and  expecting 
their  share  of  praise  with  the  discoverers  of  arts, 
and  the  civilizers  of  nations.  But  to  shorten 
the  way  to  convivial  happiness,  by  eating  with- 
out cost,  is  a  secret  hitherto  in  few  hands,  but 
which  certainly  deserves  the  curiosity  of  those 
whose  principal  employment  is  their  dinner,  and 
who  see  the  sun  rise  with  no  other  hope  than 
that  they  shall  fill  their  bellies  before  it  sets. 

Of  them  that  have  within  my  knowledge  at- 
tempted this  scheme  of  happiness,  the  greater 
part  have  been  immediately  obliged  to  desist; 
and  some,  whom  their  first  attempts  flattered 
with  success,  were  reduced  by  degrees  to  a  few 
tables,  from  which  they  were  at  last  chased  to 
make  way  for  others ;  and,  having  long  habitu 
ated  themselves  to  superfluous  plenty,  growled 


30G 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  >:07 


away  their  latter  years  in   discontented  compe- 
tence. 

None  enter  the  regions  of  luxury  with  higher 
expectations  than  men  of  wit,  who  imagine  that 
they  shall  never  want  a  welcome  to  that  com- 
pany whose  ideas  they  can  enlarge,  or  whose 
imaginations  they  can  elevate,  and  bdieve  them- 
selves able  to  pay  for  their  wine  with  the  mirth 
which  it  qualifies  them  to  produce.  Full  of  this 
opinion,  tney  crowd  with  little  invitation  where- 
ever  the  smell  of  a  feast  allures  them,  but  are 
seldom  encouraged  to  repeat  their  visits,  being 
dreaded  by  the  pert  as  rivals,  and  hated  by  the 
dull  as  disturbers  of  the  company. 

No  man  has  been  so  happy  in  gaining  and 
keeping  the  privilege  of  living  at  luxurious 
houses  as  Gulosulus,  who,  after  thirty  years  of 
continual  revelry,  has  now  established,  by  un- 
controverted  prescription,  his  claim  to  partake 
of  every  entertainment,  and  whose  presence 
they  who  aspire  to  the  praise  of  a  sumptuous 
table  are  careful  to  procure  on  a  day  of  import- 
ance, by  sending  the  invitation  a  fortnight  be- 
fore. 

Gulosulus  entered  the  world  without  any 
eminent  degree  of  merit ;  but  was  careful  to 
frequent  houses  where  persons  of  rank  resorted. 
By  being  often  seen,  he  became  in  time  known  ; 
and,  from  sitting  in  the  same  room,  was  suffered 
to  mix  in  idle  conversation,  or  assisted  to  fill 
up  a  vacant  hour,  when  better  amusement  was 
not  readily  to  be  had.  From  the  coffee-house  he 
was  sometimes  taken  away  to  dinner  ;  and,  as 
no  man  refuses  the  acquaintance  of  him  whom 
he  sees  admitted  to  familiarity  by  others  of  equal 
dignity,  when  he  had  been  met  at  a  few  tables, 
he  with  less  difficulty  found  the  way  to  more,  till 
at  last  he  was  regularly  expected  to  appear 
wherever  preparations  are  made  for  a  feast, 
within  the  circuit  of  his  acquaintance. 

When  he  was  thus  by  accident  initiated  in 
luxury,  he  felt  in  himself  no  inclination  to  re- 
tire from  a  life  of  so  much  pleasure,  and  there- 
fore very  seriously  considered  how  he  might 
continue  it.  Great  qualities  or  uncommon  ac- 
complishments he  did  not  find  necessary  ;  for 
he  had  already  seen  that  merit  rather  enforces 
respect  than  attracts  fondness ;  and  as  he  thought 
no  folly  greater  than  that  of  losing  a  dinner  for 
any  other  gratification,  he  often  congratulated 
himself,  that  he  had  none  of  that  disgusting  ex- 
cellence which  impresses  awe  upon  greatness, 
and  condemns  its  possessors  to  the  society  of 
those  who  are  wise  or  brave,  and  indigent  as 
themselves. 

Gulosulus,  having  never  allotted  much  of  his 
time  to  books  or  meditation,  had  no  opinion  in 
philosophy  or  politics,  and  was  not  in  danger  of 
injuring  his  interest  by  dogmatical  positions,  or 
violent  contradiction.  If  a  dispute  arose,  he  took 
care  to  listen  with  earnest  attention  ;  and,  when 
either  speaker  grew  vehement  and  loud,  turned 
towards  him  with  eager  quickness,  and  uttered 
a  short  phrase  of  admiration,  as  if  surprised  by 
such  cogency  of  argumentas  he  had  never  known 
before.  By  this  silent  concession,  he  generally 
preserved  in  either  controvertist  such  a  convic- 
tion of  his  own  superiority,  as  inclined  him  ra- 
ther to  pity  than  irritate  his  adversary,  and  pre- 
vented those  outrages  which  are  sometimes 
produced  by  the  rage  of  defeat  or  petulance  of 
triumph. 


Gulosulus  was  never  embarrassed  but  when 
he  was  required  to  declare  his  sentiments  before 
he  had  been  able  to  discover  to  which  side  the 
master  of  the  house  inclined  ;  for  it  was  his  in- 
variable rule  to  adopt  the  notions  of  those  that 
invited  him. 

It  will  sometimes  happen  that  the  insolence  of 
wealth  breaks  into  contemptuousncss,  or  the 
turbulence  of  wine  requires  a  vent ;  and  Gulo- 
sulus seldom  fails  of  being  singled  out  on  such 
emergencies,  as  one  on  whom  any  experiment 
of  ribaldry  may  be  safely  tried.  Sometimes  his 
lordship  finds  himself  inclined  to  exhibit  a 
specimen  of  raillery,  for  the  diversion  of  his 
guests,  and  Gulosulus  always  supplies  him 
with  a  subject  of  merriment.  But  he  has 
learned  to  consider  rudeness  and  indignities  as 
familiarities  that  entitle  him  to  greater  free- 
dom :  he  comforts  himself  that  those  who  treat 
and  insult  him  pay  for  their  laughter,  and 
that  he  keeps  his  money  while  they  enjoy  their 
jest 

His  chief  policy  consists  in  selecting  some 
dish  from  every  course,  and  recommending  it 
to  the  company,  with  an  air  so  decisive,  that 
no  one  ventures  to  contradict  him.  By  this 
practice  he  acquires  at  a  feast  a  kind  of  dic- 
tatorial authority  ;  his  taste  becomes  the  stand- 
ard of  pickles  and  seasoning,  and  he  is  vene- 
rated by  the  professors  of  epicurism,  as  the  only 
man  who  understands  the  niceties  of  cookery. 

Whenever  a  new  sauce  is  imported,  or  any 
innovation  made  in  the  culinary  system,  he  pro- 
cures the  earliest  intelligence,  and  the  most  au- 
thentic receipt ;  and,  by  communicating  his 
knowledge  under  proper  injunctions  of  secrecy, 
gains  a  right  of  tasting  his  own  dish  whenever 
it  is  prepared,  that  he  may  tell  whether  his  di- 
rections have  been  fully  understood. 

By  this  method  of  life  Gulosulus  has  so  im 
pressed  on  his  imagination  the  dignity  of  feast- 
ing, that  he  has  no  other  topic  of  talk  or  sub- 
ject of  meditation.  His  calendar  is  a  bill  oi 
fare ;  he  measures  the  year  by  successive 
dainties.  The  only  common  places  of  his  me 
mory  are  his  meals ;  and  if  you  ask  him  at 
what  time  an  event  happened,  he  considers 
whether  he  heard  it  after  a  dinner  of  turbot  or 
venison.  He  knows,  indeed,  that  those  who 
value  themselves  upon  sense,  learning,  or  piety, 
speak  of  him  with  contempt ;  but  he  considers 
them  as  wretches,  envious  or  ignorant,  who  do 
not  know  his  happiness,  or  wish  to  supplant 
him  ;  and  declares  to  his  friends,  that  he  is  fully 
satisfied  with  his  own  conduct,  since  he  has  fed 
every  day  on  twenty  dishes,  and  yet  doubled  his 
estate. 


No.  207.]     TUESDAY,  MARCH  10,  1752. 

Solve  senescentem  mature  sanus  equvm ,  ne 

Peccet  ad  extremum  ridendus.  HOR. 

The  voice  of  reason  cries  with  winning  force, 

Loose  from  the  rapid  car  your  aged  horse, 

Lest,  in  the  race  derided,  left  behind, 

He  drag  his  jaded  limbs  and  burst  his  wind.     FRANCIS 

SUCH  is  the  emptiness  of  human  enjoyment, 
that  we  are  always  impatient  of  the  present. 
Attainment  is  followed  by  neglect,  and  posses- 
sion by  disgust ;  and  the  malicious  remark  oi 


No.  207.J 


THE  RAMBLER. 


307 


the  Greek  epigrammatist  on  marriage  may  be 
applied  to  every  other  course  of  life,  that  its 
two  days  of  happiness  are  the  first  and  the  last 
Few  moments  are  more  pleasing  than  those 
In  which  the  mind  is  concerting  measures  for  a 
new  undertaking.  From  the  first  hint  tha 
wakens  the  fancy  till  the  hour  of  actual  execu- 
tion, all  is  improvement  and  progress,  triumph 
and  felicity.  Every  hour  brings  additions  to 
the  original  scheme,  suggests  some  new  expedi- 
ent to  secure  success,  or  discovers  consequentia 
advantages  not  hitherto  foreseen.  While  pre- 
parations are  made,  and  materials  accumulated, 
day  glides  after  day  through  elysian  prospects, 
and  the  heart  dances  to  the  song  of  hope. 

Such  is  the  pleasure  of  projecting,  that  many 
content  themselves  with  a  succession  of  vision- 
ary schemes,  and  wear  out  their  allotted  time  in 
the  calm  amusement  of  contriving  what  they 
never  attempt  or  hope  to  execute. 

Others,  not  able  to  feast  their  imagination 
with  pure  ideas,  advance  somewhat  nearer  to 
the  grossness  of  action,  with  great  diligence 
collect  whatever  it*  requisite  to  their  design,  and, 
after  a  thousand  researches  and  consultations, 
are  snatched  away  by  death,  as  they  stand  in 
procinctu  waiting  for  a  proper  opportunity  to 
begin. 

If  there  were  no  other  end  of  life,  than  to  find 
some  adequate  solace  for  every  day,  I  know  not 
whether  any  condition  could  be  preferred  to  that 
of  the  man  who  involves  himself  in  his  own 
thoughts,  and  never  suffers  experience  to  show 
him  the  vanity  of  speculation ;  for  no  sooner  are 
notions  reduced  to  practice,  than  tranquillity  and 
confidence  forsake  the  breast ;  every  day  brings 
its  task,  and  often  without  bringing  abilities  to 
perform  it;  difficulties  embarrass,  uncertainty 
perplexes,  opposition  retards,  censure  exaspe- 
rates, 01  neglect  depresses.  We  proceed  be- 
cause we  have  begun  ;  we  complete  our  design 
that  the  labour  already  spent  may  not  be  vain ; 
but,  as  expectation  gradually  dies  away,  the  gay 
emile  of  alacrity  disappears,  we  are  compelled 
to  implore  severer  powers,  and  trust  the  event  to 
patience  and  constancy. 

When  once  our  labour  has  begun,  the  comfort 
that  enables  us  to  endure  it  is  the  prospect  of  its 
end  ;  for  though  in  every  long  work  there  are 
some  joyous  intervals  of  self-applause,  when  the 
attention  is  recreated  by  unexpected  facility,  and 
the  imagination  soothed  by  incidental  excel- 
lences; yet  the  toil  with  which  performance 
struggles  after  idea  is  so  irksome  and  disgusting, 
and  so  frequent  is  the  necessity  of  resting  below 
that  perfection  which  we  imagined  within  our 
reach,  that  seldom  any  man  obtains  more 
from  his  endeavours  than  a  painful  conviction 
of  his  defects,  and  a  continual  resuscitation 
of  desires  which  he  feels  himself  unable  to 
gratify. 

So  certainly  is  weariness  the  concomitant 
of  our  undertakings,  that  every  man,  in  what- 
ever he  is  engaged,  consoles  himself  with  the 
hope  of  change  ;  if  he  has  made  his  way  by  as- 
siduity to  public  employment,  he  talks  among 
his  friends  of  the  delight  of  retreat ;  if,  by  the 
necessity  of  solitary  application,  he  is  secluded 
from  the  world,  he  listens  with  a  beating  heart 
to  distant  noises,  longs  to  mingle  with  living 
beings,  and  resolves  to  take  hereafter  his  fill  of 
diversions,  or  display  his  abilities  on  the  univer- 


sal theatre,  and  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  distinction 
and  applause. 

Every  desire,  however  innocent,  grows  dan- 
gerous, as  by  long  indulgence  it  becomes  ascend- 
ant in  the  mind.  When  we  have  been  much 
accustomed  to  consider  any  thing  as  capable  of 
giving  happiness,  it  is  not  easy  to  restrain  our 
ardour,  or  to  forbear  some  precipitation  in  our 
advances,  and  irregularity  in  our  pursuits.  He 
that  has  cultivated  the  tree,  watched  the  swell- 
ing bud  and  opening  blossom,  and  pleased  him- 
self with  computing  how  much  every  sun  and 
shower  add  to  its  growth,  scarcely  stays  till 
the  fruit  has  obtained  its  maturity,  but  defeats 
his  own  cares  by  eagerness  to  reward  them. 
When  we  have  diligently  laboured  for  any  pur 
pose,  we  are  willing  to  believe  that  we  have  at- 
tained it,  and  because  we  have  already  done 
much,  too  suddenly  conclude  that  no  more  is  to 
be  done. 

All  attraction  is  increased  by  the  approach  of 
the  attracting  body.  We  never  find  ourselves 
so  desirous  to  finish,  as  in  the  latter  part  of  our 
work,  or  so  impatient  of  delay,  as  when  we 
know  that  delay  cannot  be  long.  This  unseason- 
able importunity  of  discontent  may  be  partly 
imputed  to  languor  and  weariness,  which  must 
always  oppress  those  more  whose  toil  has  been 
longer  continued  ;  but  the  greater  part  usually 
proceeds  from  frequent  contemplation  of  that 
ease  which  is  now  considered  as  within  reach, 
and  which,  when  it  has  once  flattered  our  hopes, 
we  cannot  suffer  to  be  withheld. 

In  some  of  the  noblest  compositions  of  wit, 
the  conclusion  falls  below  the  vigour  and  spirit 
of  the  first  books  ;  and  as  a  genius  is  not  to  be 
degraded  by  the  imputation  of  human  failings, 
the  cause  of  this  declension  is  commonly  sought 
in  the  structure  of  the  work,  and  plausible  rea- 
sons are  given  why  in  the  defective  part  less  or- 
nament was  necessary,  or  less  could  be  admit- 
ted. But,  perhaps,  the  author  would  have  con- 
fessed, that  his  fancy  was  tired,  and  his  perse 
verance  broken  ;  that  he  knew  his  design  to  be 
unfinished,  but  that,  when  he  saw  the  end  so 
near,  he  could  no  longer  refuse  to  be  at  rest. 

Against  the  instillations  of  this  frigid  opiate, 
the  heart  should  be  secured  by  all  the  considera- 
tions which  once  concurred  to  kindle  the  ardour 
of  enterprise.  Whatever  motive  first  incited 
action,  has  still  greater  force  to  stimulate  per- 
severance ;  since  he  that  might  have  lain  still  at 
irst  in  blameless  obscurity,  cannot  afterwards 
desist  but  with  infamy  and  reproach.  He  whom 
a  doubtful  promise  of  distant  good  could  en- 
:ourage  to  set  difficulties  at  defiance,  ought  not 
:o  remit  his  vigour  when  he  has  almost  obtained 
his  recompense.  To  faint  or  loiter,  when  only 
;he  last  efforts  are  required,  is  to  steer  the  ship 
hrough  tempests,  and  abandon  it  to  the  winds 
n  sight  of  land  ;  it  is  to  break  the  ground  and 
scatter  the  seed,  and  at  last  to  neglect  the  har 
vest 

The  masters  of  rhetoric  direct,  that  the  most 
brcible  arguments  be  produced  in  the  latter  part 
of  an  oration,  lest  they  should  be  effaced  or  per- 
>lexed  by  supervenient  images.  This  precept 
nay  be  justly  extended  to  the  series  of  life  :  no- 
hing  is  ended  with  honour,  which  does  not 
onclude  better  than  it  began.  It  is  not  suffi- 
.ient  to  maintain  the  first  vigour ;  for  excellence 
oses  its  effect  upon  the  mind  by  custom,  as  light 


yos 


THE  RAMBLER. 


[No.  208 


after  a  time  ceases  to  dazzle.  Admiration  must 
be  continued  by  that  novelty  which  first  pro- 
duced it,  and  how  much  soever  is  given,  there 
must  always  be  reason  to  imagine  that  more  re- 
mains. 

We  not  only  are  most  sensible  of  the  last  im- 
pressions ;  but  such  is  the  unwillingness  of  man- 
kind to  admit  transcendant  merit,  that  though  it 
be  difficult  to  obliterate  the  reproach  of  miscar- 
riages by  any  subsequent  achievement,  however 
illustrious, yet  the  reputation  raised  by  along 
train  of  success  may  be  finally  ruined  by  a  single 
failure ;  for  weakness  or  error  will  be  always  re- 
membered by  that  malice  and  envy  which  it  gra- 
tifies. 

For  the  prevention  of  that  disgrace,  which 
lassitude  and  negligence  may  bring  at  last  upon 
the  greatest  performances,  it  is  necessary  to  pro- 
portion carefully  our  labour  to  our  strength.  If 
the  design  comprises  many  parts,  equally  essen- 
tial, and  therefore  not  to  be  separated,  the  only 
time  for  caution  is  before  we  engage  ;  the  powers 
of  the  mind  must  be  then  impartially  estimated, 
and  it  must  be  remembered,  that  not  to  complete 
the  plan  is  not  to  have  begun  it ;  and  that  nothing 
is  done,  while  any  thing  is  omitted. 

But  if  the  task  consists  in  the  repetition  of 
single  acts,  no  one  of  which  derives  its  efficacy 
from  the  rest,  it  may  be  attempted  with  less 
scruple,  because  there  is  always  opportunity  to 
retreat  with  honour.  The  danger  is  only,  lest 
we  expect  from  the  world  the  indulgence  with 
which  most  are  disposed  to  treat  themselves ; 
and  in  the  hour  of  listlessness  imagine  that  the 
diligence  of  one  day  will  atone  for  the  idleness  of 
another,  and  that  applause  begun  by  approbation 
will  be  continued  by  habit. 

He  that  is  himself  weary  will  soon  weary  the 
public.  Let  him  therefore  lay  down  his  employ- 
ment, whatever  it  be,  who  can  no  longer  exert 
his  former  activity  or  attention ;  let  him  not  en- 
deavour to  struggle  with  censure,  or  obstinately 
infest  the  stage  till  a  general  hiss  commands  him 
to  depart. 


No.  20S.]     SATURDAY,  MARCH  14,  1752. 

'  HpdxAecros  cyia'  ri  [t£  G>  KO.TU>  C\KCT'  afiovaot; 

O&x'  fijiiv  c-rr6vovv,  rots  ie  p'  farirrap/tfltf 
ETj  tftol  avQptinro;  Tpi<r/*6pioi'  ot  6'  AvaaiQjtoi. 

O6Ws°  TOUT1  nvcia  Kat  irapa  Hef>Gt<j>6vri. 

DIOG.  LAERT. 

Begone,  yc  blockheads,  Heraclitus  cries, 
And  leave  my  labours  to  the  learn'd  and  wi«e  ; 
By  wit,  by  knowledge,  studious  to  be  read, 
I  scorn  the  multitude,  alive  and  dead. 

TIME,  which  puts  an  end  to  all  human  plea- 
sures and  sorrows,  has  likewise  concluded  the 
labours  of  the  Rambler.  Having  supported,  for 
two  years,  the  anxious  employment  of  a  period- 
ical writer,  and  multiplied  my  essays  to  upwards 
of  two  hundred,  I  have  now  determined  to 
desist. 

The  reasons  of  this  resolution  it  is  of  little 
importance  to  declare,  since  justification  is  un- 
necessary when  no  objection  is  made.  I  am 
far  from  supposing  that  the  cessation  of  my  per- 
formances will  raise  any  inquiry,  for  I  have 
never  been  much  a  favourite  of  the  public,  nor 
can  boast  that,  in  the  progress  of  my  undertak- 
ing I  have  been  animated  by  the  rewards  of  the 


liberal,  the  caresses  of  the  great,  or  the  praises 
of  the  eminent. 

But  I  have  no  design  to  gratify  pride  by  sub- 
mission, or  malice  by  lamentation  ;  nor  think  it 
reasonable  to  complain  of  neglect  from  those 
whose  regard  I  never  solicited.  If  I  have  not 
been  distinguished  by  the  distributors  of  literary 
honours,  I  have  seldom  descended  to  the  arts  by 
which  favour  is  obtained.  I  have  seen  the  me 
teors  of  fashion  rise  and  fall,  without  any  at- 
tempt to  add  a  moment  to  their  duration.  I  have 
never  complied  with  temporary  curiosity,  nor 
enabled  my  readers  to  discuss  the  topic  of  the 
day ;  I  have  rarely  exemplified  my  assertions  by 
living  characters :  in  my  papers,  no  man  could 
look  for  censures  of  his  enemies,  or  praises  ol 
himself;  and  they  only  were  expected  to  peruse 
them,  whose  passions  left  them  leisure  for  ab- 
stracted truth,  and  whom  virtue  could  please  by 
its  naked  dignity. 

To  some,  however,  I  am  indebted  for  encou- 
ragement, and  to  others  for  assistance.  The 
number  of  my  friends  was  never  great,  but  they 
have  been  such  as  would  not  suffer  me  to  think 
that  I  was  writing  in  vain,  and  I  did  not  feel 
much  dejection  from  the  want  of  popularity. 

My  obligations  having  not  been  frequent,  my 
acknowledgments  may  be  soon  despatched.  I 
can  restore  to  all  my  correspondents  their  pro- 
ductions, with  little  diminution  of  the  bulk  of 
my  volumes,  though  not  without  the  loss  of 
some  pieces  to  which  particular  honours  have 
been  paid. 

The  parts  from  which  I  claim  no  other  praise 
than  that  of  having  given  them  an  opportunity 
of  appearing,  are  the  four  billets  in  the  tenth 
paper,  the  second  letter  in  the  fifteenth,  the 
thirtieth,  the  forty-fourth,  the  ninety-seventh, 
and  the  hundredth  papers,  and  the  second  lettei 
in  the  hundred  and  seventh. 

Having  thus  deprived  myself  of  many  excuses 
which  candour  might  have  admitted  for  the  in- 
equality of  my  compositions,  being  no  longer 
able  to  allege  the  necessity  of  gratifying  corre- 
spondents, the  importunity  with  which  publica- 
tion was  solicited,  or  obstinacy  with  which  cor- 
rection was  rejected,  I  must  remain  accountable 
for  all  my  faults,  and  submit,  without  subter- 
fuge, to  the  censures  of  criticism,  which,  how- 
ever, I  shall  not  endeavour  to  soften  by  a  formal 
deprecation,  or  to  overbear  by  the  influence  of  a 
patron.  The  supplications  of  an  author  never 
yet  reprieved  him  a  moment  from  oblivion  ;  and, 
though  greatness  has  sometimes  sheltered  guilt, 
it  can  afford  no  protection  to  ignorance  or  dul- 
ness.  Having  hitherto  attempted  only  the  pro- 
pagation of  truth,  I  will  not  at  last  violate  it  by 
the  confession  of  terrors  which  I  do  not  feel; 
having  laboured  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  vir- 
tue, I  will  not  now  degrade  it  by  the  meanness 
of  dedication. 

The  seeming  vanity  with  which  I  have  some- 
times spoken  of  myself,  would  perhaps  require 
an  apology,  were  it  not  extenuated  by  the  exam- 
ple of  those  who  have  published  essays  before 
me,  and  by  the  privilege  which  every  nameless 
writer  has  been  hitherto  allowed.  "  A  mask," 
says  Castiglione,  "  confers  a  right  of  acting  and 
speaking  with  less  restraint,  even  when  the 
wearer  happens  to  be  known."  He  that  is  dis 
covered  without  his  own  consent,  may  claim 
some  indulgence,  and  cannott>e  rigorously  called 


No.  208.] 


THE  RAMBLER. 


309 


to  justify  those  sanies  or  frolics  which  his  dis- 
guise must  prove  him  desirous  to  conceal. 

But  I  have  been  cautious  lest  this  offence 
should  be  frequently  or  grossly  committed  ;  for, 
as  one  of  the  philosophers  directs  us  to  live  with 
a  friend,  as  with  one  that  is  some  time  to  become 
an  enemy.  I  have  always  thought  it  the  duty  of 
an  anonymous  author  to  write,  as  if  he  expected 
to  be  hereafter  known. 

I  am  willing  to  flatter  myself  with  hopes  that, 
by  collecting  these  papers  I  am  not  preparing, 
for  my  future  life,  either  shame  or  repentance. 
That  all  are  happily  imagined,  or  accurately 
polished,  that  the  same  sentiments  have  not 
sometimes  recurred,  or  the  same  expressions 
been  too  frequently  repeated,  I  have  not  confi- 
dence in  my  abilities  sufficient  to  warrant.  He 
that  condemns  himself  to  compose  on  a  stated 
day,  will  often  bring  to  his  task  an  attention 
dissipated,  a  memory  embarrassed,  an  imagina- 
tion overwhelmed,  a  mind  distracted  with 
anxieties,  a  body  languishing  with  disease :  he 
will  labour  on  a  barren  topic,  till  it  is  too  late  to 
chance  it ;  or,  in  the  ardour  of  invention,  dif- 
fuse his  thoughts  into  wild  exuberance,  which 
the  pressing  hour  of  publication  cannot  suffer 
judgment  to  examine  or  reduce. 

Whatever  shall  be  the  final  sentence  of  man- 
kind, I  have  at  least  endeavoured  to  deserve 
their  kindness.  I  have  laboured  to  refine  our 
language  to  grammatical  purity,  and  to  clear  it 
from  colloquial  barbarisms,  licentious  idioms, 
and  irregular  combinations.  Something,  per- 
haps, I  have  added  to  the  elegance  of  its  con- 
struction, and  something  to  the  harmony  of  its 
cadence.  When  common  words  were  less 
pleasing  to  the  ear,  or  less  distinct  in  their  signi- 
fication, I  have  familiarised  the  terms  of  philo- 
sophy, by  applying  them  to  popular  ideas,  but 
have  rarely  admitted  any  word  not  authorised 
by  former  writers ;  for  I  believe  that  whoever 
knows  the  English  tongue  in  its  present  extent, 
will  be  able  to  express  his  thoughts  without  far- 
ther help  from  other  nations. 

As  it  has  been  my  principal  design  to  inculcate 
wisdom  or  piety,  I  have  allotted  a  few  papers  to 
the  idle  sports  of  imagination.  Some,  perhaps, 


may  be  found,  of  which  the  highest  excellence  is 
harmless  merriment,  but  scarcely  any  man  is 
so  steadily  serious  as  not  to  complain,  that  the 
severity  of  dictatorial  instruction  has  been  too 
seldom  relieved,  and  that  he  is  driven  by  the 
sternness  of  the  Rambler's  philosophy  to  more 
cheerful  and  airy  companions. 

Next  to  the  excursions  of  fancy  are  the  disqui- 
sitions of  criticism,  which,  in  my  opinion,  is  only 
to  be  ranked  among  the  subordinate  and  instru- 
mental arts.  Arbitrary  decision  and  general 
exclamation  I  have  carefully  avoided,  by  assert- 
ing nothing  without  a  reason,  and  establishing 
all  my  principles  of  judgment  on  unalterable  and 
evident  truth. 

In  the  pictures  of  life  I  have  never  been  so 
studious  of  novelty  or  surprise,  as  to  depart 
wholly  from  all  resemblance ;  a  fault  which 
writers  deservedly  celebrated  frequently  commit, 
that  they  may  raise,  as  the  occasion  requires, 
either  mirth  or  abhorrence.  Some  enlargement 
may  be  allowed  to  declamation,  and  some  exag- 
geration to  burlesque  ;  but  as  they  deviate  fur- 
ther from  reality,  they  become  less  useful,  be- 
cause their  lessons  will  fail  of  application.  The 
mind  of  the  reader  is  carried  away  from  the 
contemplation  of  his  own  manners  ;  he  finds  in 
himself  no  likeness  to  the  phantom  before  him  ; 
and,  though  he  laughs  or  rages,  is  not  reformed. 

The  essays  professedly  serious,  if  I  have  been 
able  to  execute  my  own  intentions,  will  be  found 
exactly  conformable  to  the  precepts  of  Christian 
ity,  without  any  accommodation  to  the  licen- 
tiousness and  levity  of  the  present  age.  I  there- 
fore look  back  on  this  part  of  my  work  with 
pleasure,  which  no  blame  or  praise  of  man  can 
diminish  or  augment.  I  shall  never  envy  the 
honours  which  wit  and  learning  obtain  in  any 
other  cause,  if  I  can  be  numbered  among  the 
writers,  who  have  given  ardour  to  virtue,  and 
confidence  to  truth. 

AlrGtv  tK  paKapw  <ivra£ioj  ttij  aiiotfiij. 

Celestial  powers  ;  that  piety  regard, 
From  you  my  labours  wait  their  last  reward 


END  OF  THE  RAMBLER. 


PAPERS  IN  THE  ADVENTURER. 


No.  34.]    SATURDAY,  MARCH  3,  1753. 

Has  toties  optata  exegit  gloria  panas.       Jov. 
Such  fate  pursues  the  votaries  of  praise. 

TO  THE  ADVENTURER. 


SIR, 


Fleet  Prison,  Feb.  24. 


To  a  benevolent  disposition,  every  state  of  life 
will  afford  some  opportunities  of  contributing  to 
the  welfare  of  mankind.  Opulence  and  splen- 
dour are  enabled  to  dispel  the  cloud  of  adversity, 
to  dry  up  the  tears  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan, 
and  to  increase  the  felicity  of  all  around  them  ; 
their  example  will  animate  virtue,  and  retard 
the  progress  of  vice.  And  even  indigence  and 
obscurity,  though  without  power  to  confer  hap- 
piness, may  at  least  prevent  misery,  and  apprize 
those  who  are  blinded  by  their  passions,  that 
they  are  on  the  brink  of  irremediable  calamity. 

Pleased,  therefore,  with  the  thought  of  reco- 
vering others  from  that  folly  which  has  embit- 
tered my  own  days,  I  have  presumed  to  address 
the  Adventurer  from  the  dreary  mansions  of 
wretchedness  and  despair,  of  which  the  gates  are 
BO  wonderfully  constructed  as  to  fly  open  for  the 
reception  of  strangers,  though  they  are  imper- 
vious as  a  rock  of  adamant  to  such  as  are  within 
them: 

Facilis  descensui  Averni ; 

Nodes  atque  dies  patet  alrijanua  Ditix ; 

Sr.d  recocare  gradum,  superasque  evadere  ad  auras, 

Woe  opus,  hie  labor  ett.  VIRG. 

The  gates  of  Hell  are  open  night  and  day  ; 

Smooth  the  descent,  and  easy  is  the  way  : 

But  to  return  and  view  the  cheerful  skies  ; 

In  this  the  task  and  mighty  labour  lies.        DRYDEN. 

Suffer  me  to  acquaint  you,  Sir,  that  I  have 
glittered  at  the  ball,  and  sparkled  in  the  circle ; 
that  I  have  had  the  happiness  to  be  the  unknown 
favourite  of  an  unknown  lady  at  the  masquerade, 
have  been  the  delight  of  tables  of  the  first 
fashion,  and  envy  of  my  brother  beaux  ;  and  to 
descend  a  little  lower,  it  is,  I  believe,  still  remem- 
bered, that  Messrs.  Velours  and  d'Espagne  stand 
indebted  for  a  great  part  of  their  present  influ- 
ence at  Guildhall,  to  the  elegance  of  my  shape, 
and  the  graceful  freedom  of  my  carriage. 

Sfd  quit  praclara  et  prospera  tanti, 

Ut  rebus  latis  par  sit  mensura  malorum  !        juv. 

See  the  wild  purchase  of  the  bold  and  vain, 
Where  every  bliee  is  bought  with  equal  pain  ! 


As  I  entered  into  the  world  very  young,  with 
an  elegant  person  and  a  large  estate,  it  was  not 
long  before  I  disentangled  myself  from  the 
shackles  of  religion;  for  I  was  determined  to  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  which,  according  to  my  no- 
tions, consisted  in  the  unrestrained  and  unlimit- 
ed gratifications  of  every  passion  and  every  ap 
petite;  and  as  this  could  not  be  obtained  under 
the  frowns  of  a  perpetual  dictator,  I  considered 
religion  as  my  enemy ;  and  proceeding  to  treat 
her  with  contempt  and  derision,  was  not  a  little 
delighted,  that  the  unfashionableness  of  her  ap- 
pearance, and  the  unanimated  uniformity  of  her 
motions,  afforded  frequent  opportunities  for  the 
sallies  of  my  imagination. 

Conceiving  now  that  I  was  sufficiently  quali- 
fied to  laugh  away  scruples,  I  imparted  my  re- 
marks to  those  among  my  female  favourites, 
whose  virtue  I  intended  to  attack  ;  for  1  was 
well  assured,  that  pride  would  be  able  to  make 
but  a  weak  defence,  when  religion  was  subvert- 
ed ;  nor  was  my  success  below  my  expectation  : 
the  love  of  pleasure  is  too  strongly  implanted  in 
the  female  breast,  to  suffer  them  scrupulously  to 
examine  the  validity  of  arguments  designed  to 
weaken  restraint ;  all  are  easily  led  to  believe, 
that  whatever  thwarts  their  inclination  must  be 
wrong ;  little  more,  therefore,  was  required, 
than  by  the  addition  of  some  circumstances,  and 
the  exaggeration  of  others,  to  make  merriment 
supply  the  place  of  demonstration ;  nor  was  I  so 
senseless  as  to  offer  arguments  to  such  as  could 
not  attend  to  them,  and  with  whom  a  repartee 
or  catch  would  more  effectually  answer  the  same 
purpose.  This  being  effected,  there  remained 
only  "  the  dread  of  the  world ;"  but  Roxana 
soared  too  high,  to  think  the  opinion  of  others 
worthy  her  notice  ;  Lffititia  seemed  to  think  of 
it  only  to  declare,  that  "  if  all  her  hairs  were 
worlds,"  she  should  reckon  them  "  well  lost  for 
love  ;"  and  Pastorella  fondly  conceived,  that  she 
could  dwell  for  ever  by  the  side  of  a  bubbling 
fountain,  content  with  her  swain  and  fleecy 
care  ;  without  considering  that  stillness  and  so- 
litude can  afford  satisfaction  only  to  innocence. 

It  is  not  the  desire  of  new  acquisitions,  but 
the  glory  of  conquests,  that  fires  the  soldier's 
breast ;  as  indeed  the  town  is  seldom  worth 
much,  when  it  has  suffered  the  devastations  of  a 
siege  ;  so  that  though  I  did  not  openly  declare 
the  effects  of  my  own  prowess,  which  is  forbid- 
den by  the  laws  of  honour,  it  cannot  be  supposed 
that  I  was  very  solicitous  to  bury  rny  reputa- 
tion, or  to  hinder  accidental  discoveries.  To 
have  gained  one  victory,  is  an  inducement  to 


.  34] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


311 


hazard  a  second  engagement :  and  though  the 
auccess  of  the  general  should  be  a  reason  for  in- 
creasing the  strength  of  the  fortification,  it  be- 
eomes,  with  many  a  pretence  for  an  immediate 
surrender,  under  the  notion  that  no  power  is 
able  to  withstand  so  formidable  an  adversary  ; 
while  others  brave  the  danger,  and  think  it 
mean  to  surrender,  and  dastardly  to  fly.  Me- 
lissa, indeed,  knew  better;  and  though  she  could 
not  boast  the  apathy,  steadiness,  and  inflexibi- 
lity of  a  Cato,  wanted  not  the  more  prudent 
virtue  of  Scipio,  and  gained  the  victory  by  de- 
clining the  contest. 

You  must  not,  however,  imagine,  that  I  was, 
during  this  state  of  abandoned  libertinism,  so 
fully  convinced  of  the  fitness  of  my  own  con- 
duct, as  to  be  free  from  uneasiness.  I  knew 
very  well,  that  I  might  justly  be  deemed  the 
pest  of  society,  and  that  such  proceedings  must 
terminate  in  the  destruction  of  my  health  and 
fortune ;  but  to  admit  thoughts  of  this  kind  was 
to  live  upon  the  rack :  I  fled,  therefore,  to  the 
regions  of  mirth  and  jollity  as  they  are  called, 
and  endeavoured  with  burgundy,  and  a  continual 
rotation  of  company,  to  free  myself  from  the 
pangs  of  reflection.  From  these  orgies  we  fre- 
quently sallied  forth  in  quest  of  adventures,  to 
the  no  small  terror  and  consternation  of  all  the 
sober  stragglers  that  came  in  our  way :  and 
though  we  never  injured,  like  our  illustrious 
progenitors,  the  Mohocks,  either  life  or  limbs ; 
yet  we  have  in  the  midst  of  Covent  Garden 
buried  a  tailor,  who  had  been  troublesome  to 
some  of  our  fine  gentlemen,  beneath  a  heap  of 
cabbage-leaves  and  stalks,  with  this  conceit, 

Satia  te  caule  quern  semper  eupisti. 

Glut  yourself  with  cnbbage,  of  which  you  have  always 
been  greedy. 

There  can  be  no  reason  for  mentioning  the 
common  exploits  of  breaking  windows  and  bruis- 
ing the  watch  ;  unless  it  be  to  tell  you  of  the 
device  of  producing  before  the  justice  broken 
lanthorns,  which  have  been  paid  for  a  hundred 
times :  or  their  appearances  with  patches  on  their 
heads,  under  pretence  of  being  cut  by  the  sword 
that  was  never  drawn  :  nor  need  I  say  any  thing 
of  the  more  formidable  attack  of  sturdy  chair- 
men, armed  with  poles ;  by  a  slight  stroke  of 
which,  the  pride  of  Ned  Revel's  face  was  at 
once  laid  flat,  and  that  effected  in  an  instant, 
which  its  most  mortal  foe  had  for  years  assayed 
in  vain.  I  shall  pass  over  the  accidents  that  at- 
tended attempts  to  scale  windows,  and  endea- 
vours to  dislodge  signs  from  their  hooks  ;  there 
are  many  "  hair  breadth  'scapes,"  besides  those 
in  the  "  imminent  deadly  breach ;"  but  the 
rake's  life,  though  it  be  equally  hazardous  with 
that  of  the  soldier,  is  neither  accompanied  with 
present  honour  nor  with  pleasing  retrospect ; 
such  is,  and  such  ought  to  be,  the  difference 
between  the  enemy  and  the  preserver  of  his 
country. 

Amidst  such  giddy  and  thoughtless  extrava- 
gance, it  will  not  seem  strange,  that  I  was  often 
the  dupe  of  coarse  flattery.  When  Mons. 
L' Allonge  assured  me  that  I  thrust  quart  over 
arm  better  than  any  man  in  England,  what  could 
1  less  than  present  him  with  a  sword  that  cost 
me  thirty  pieces  ?  I  was  bound  for  a  hundred 
pounds  for  Tom  Trippet,  because  he  had  de- 


clared that  he  would  dance  a  minuet  with  any 
man  in  the  three  kingdoms  except  myself.  But 
I  often  parted  with  money  against'  my  incli- 
nation, either  because  I  wanted  the  resolution  to 
refuse,  or  dreaded  the  appellation  of  a  niggardly 
fellow  ;  and  I  may  be  truly  said  to  have'squan- 
dered  my  estate,  without  honour,  without 
friends,  and  without  pleasure.  The  last  may, 
perhaps,  appear  strange  to  men  unacquainted 
with  the  masquerade  of  life  :  I  deceived  others, 
and  I  endeavoured  to  deceive  myself;  and  have 
worn  the  face  of  pleasantry  and  gayety,  while 
my  heart  suffered  the  most  exquisite  torture. 

By  the  instigation  and  encouragement  of  my 
friends,  I  became  at  length  ambitious  of  a  seat 
in  parliament ;  and  accordingly  set  out  for  the 
town  of  Wallop  in  the  west,  where  my  arrival 
was  welcomed  by  a  thousand  throats,  and  I  was 
in  three  days  sure  of  a  majority ;  but  after  drink- 
ing out  one  hundred  and  fifty  hogsheads  of  wine, 
and  bribing  two-thirds  of  the  corporation  twice 
over,  I  had  the  mortification  to  find  that  the  bo- 
rough had  been  before  sold  to  Mr.  Courtly. 

In  a  life  of  this  kind,  my  fortune,  though  con- 
siderable, was  presently  dissipated  ;  and  as  the 
attraction  grows  more  strong  the  nearer  any  body 
approaches  the  earth,  when  once  a  man  begins 
to  sink  into  poverty,  he  falls  with  velocity  always 
increasing  ;  every  supply  is  purchased  at  a  higher 
and  higher  price,  and  every  office  of  kindness 
obtained  with  greater  and  greater  difficulty. 
Having  now  acquainted  you  with  my  state  of 
elevation,  I  shall,  if  you  encourage  the  continu- 
ance of  my  correspondence,  show  you  by  what 
steps  I  descended  from  a  first  floor  in  Pail-Mall 
to  my  present  habitation.  I  am,  Sir,  your 
humble  servant, 

MISARGTRUS. 


No.  39.]     TUESDAY,  MARCH  20,  1753. 

OSvcrcv;  <j>v\\oiat  Ka\viparo,  ria  &'  ap'  Adrjvr; 
'  Yirvov  CTT'  oujtaat  jfcv',  Iva  fiiv  iravccte  ra^i 


— Pallas  pour'd  sweet  slumbers  on  his  soul ; 
And  balmy  dreams,  the  gift  of  f  oft  repose, 
Calm'd  all  his  pains,  and  banish  d  all  Ins  woes. 


IF  every  day  did  not  produce  fresh  instances  of 
the  ingratitude  of  mankind,  we  might,  perhaps, 
be  at  a  loss  why  so  liberal  and  impartial  a  bene- 
factor as  Sleep  should  meet  with  so  few  histo 
rians  or  panegyrists.  Writers  are  so  totally  ab- 
sorbed by  the  business  of  the  day,  as  never  to 
turn  their  attention  to  that  power,  whose  of- 
ficious hand  so  seasonably  suspends  the  burden 
of  life :  and  without  whose  interposition  man 
would  not  be  able  to  endure  the  fatigue  of  la- 
bour, however  rewarded,  or  the  struggle  with 
opposition,  however  successful. 

Night,  though  she  divides  to  many  the  longest 
part  of  life,  anil  to  almost  all  the  most  innocent 
and  happy,  is  yet  unthankfully  neglected,  except 
by  those  who  pervert  her  gifts. 

The  astronomers,  indeed,  expect  her  with  im- 
patience, and  felicitate  themselves  upon  her  ar 
rival :  Fontenelle  has  not  failed  to  celebrate  het 
praises ;  and  to  chide  the  sun  for  hiding  from  his 
view  the  worlds,  which  he  imagines  to  appear  in 


312 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  39 


every  constellation.  Nor  have  the  poets  been 
always  deficient  in  her  praises ;  Milton  has  ob- 
served of  the  Ni/jht,  that  it  is  "  the  pleasant  time, 
the  cool,  the  silent." 

These  men  may,  indeed,  well  be  expected  to 
pav  particular  lioinage  to  Night,  since  they  are 
indebted  to  her,  not  only  for  cessation  of  pain, 
but  increase  of  pleasure ;  not  only  for  slumber, 
but  for  knowledge.  But  the  greater  part  of  her 
avowed  votaries)  are  the  sons  of  luxury :  who  ap- 
propriate to  festivity  the  hours  designed  for  rest ; 
who  consider  the  reign  of  pleasure  as  commenc- 
ing when  day  begins  to  withdraw  her  busy  mul- 
titudes, and  ceases  to  dissipate  attention  by  in- 
trusive and  unwelcome  variety  ;  who  begin  to 
awake  to  joy  when  the  rest  of  the  world  sinks 
into  insensibility  ;  and  revel  in  the  soft  affluence 
of  flattering  and  artificial  lights,  which  "  more 
shadowy  set  off"  the  face  of  things." 

Without  touching  upon  the  fatal  consequences 
of  a  custom,  which,  as  Ramazzini  observes,  will 
be  for  ever  condemned,  and  for  ever  retained  ; 
it  may  be  observed,  that  however  Sleep  may  be 
put  off  from  time  to  time,  yet  the  demand  is  of 
so  importunate  a  nature,  as  not  to  remain  long 
unsatisfied  :  and  if,  as  some  have  done,  we  con- 
sider it  as  the  tax  of  life,  we  cannot  but  observe 
it  as  a  tax  that  must  be  paid,  unless  we  could 
cease  to  be  men  ;  for  Alexander  declared,  that 
nothing  convinced  him  that  he  was  not  a  di- 
vinity, but  his  not  being  able  to  live  without 
sleep. 

To  live  without  sleep  in  our  present  fluctuat- 
ing state,  however  desirable  it  might  seem  to  the 
lady  in  Clelia,  can  surely  be  the  wish  only  of 
the  young  or  the  ignorant ;  to  every  one  else, 
a  perpetual  vigil  will  appear  to  be  a  state  of 
wretchedness,  second  only  to  that  of  the  miser- 
able beings  whom  Swift  has  in  his  travels  so 
elegantly  described,  as  "  supremely  cursed  with 
immortality." 

Sleep  is  necessary  to  the  happy  to  prevent  sa- 
tiety, and  to  endear  life  by  a  short  absence  ;  and 
to  the  miserable,  to  relieve  them  by  intervals  of 
quiet.  Life  is  to  most,  such  as  could  not  be  en- 
dured without  frequent  intermission  of  exist- 
ence :  Homer,  therefore,  has  thought  it  an  of- 
fice worthy  of  the  goddess  of  wisdom,  to  lay 
Ulysses  asleep  when  landed  on  Phaeacia. 

It  is  related  of  Barretier,  whose  early  ad- 
vances in  literature  scarce  any  human  mind  has 
equalled,  that  he  spent  twelve  hours  of  the  four 
and  twenty  in  sleep  :  yet  this  appears  from  the 
bad  state  of  his  health,  and  the  shortness  of  his 
life,  to  have  been  too  small  a  respite  for  a  mind 
so  vigorously  and  intensely  employed  :  it  is  to 
be  regretted,  therefore,  that  he  did  not  exercise 
his  mind  less,  and  his  body  more  :  since  by 
this  means  it  is  highly  probable,  that  though  he 
would  not  then  have  astonished  with  the  blaze 
of  a  comet,  he  would  yet  have  shone  with  the 
permanent  radiance  of  a  fixed  star. 

Nor  should  it  be  objected,  that  there  have  been 
many  men  who  daily  spend  fifteen  or  sixteen 
hours  in  study :  for  by  some  of  whom  this  is  re- 
ported it  has  never  been  done:  others  have  done 
it  for  a  short  time  only ;  and  of  the  rest  it  ap- 
pears, that  they  employed  their  minds  in  such 
operations  as  required  neither  celerity  nor 
strength,  in  the  low  drudgery  of  collating  copies, 
comparing  authorities,  digesting  dictionaries,  or 

accumulating  compilations. 
* 


Men  of  study  and  imagination  are  frequently 
upbraided  by  the  industrious  and  plodding  sons 
of  care,  with  passing  too  great  a  part  of  their 
life  in  a  state  of  inaction.  But  these  defiers  of 
sleep  seem  not  to  remember,  that  though  it  must 
be  granted  them  that  they  are  crawling  about 
before  the  break  of  day,  it  can  seldom  be  said 
that  they  are  perfectly  awake  ;  they  exhaust  no 
spirits,  and  require  no  repairs  ;  but  lie  torpid  as 
a  toad  in  marble,  or  at  least  are  known  to  live 
only  by  an  inert  and  sluggish  locomotive  facul- 
ty, and  may  be  said,  like  a  wounded  snake,  to 
"  drag  their  slow  length  along." 

Man  has  been  long  known  among  philoso- 
phers by  the  appellation  of  the  microcosm,  or 
epitome  of  the  world  :  the  resemblance  between 
the  great  and  little  world  might,  by  a  rational 
observer,  be  detailed  to  many  particulars  ;  and 
to  many  more  by  a  fanciful  speculatist.  I  know 
not  in  which  of  these  two  classes  I  shall  be 
ranged  for  observing,  that  as  the  total  quantity 
of  light  and  darkness  allotted  in  the  course  of 
the  year  to  every  region  of  the  earth  is  the 
same,  though  distributed  at  various  times  and  in 
different  portions  ;  so,  perhaps,  to  each  indivi- 
dual of  the  human  species,  nature  has  ordained 
the  same  quantity  of  wakefulness  and  sleep  ; 
though  divided  by  some  into  a  total  quiescence 
and  vigorous  exertion  of  their  faculties,  and 
blended  by  others  in  a  kind  of  twilight  of  exist- 
ence, in  a  state  between  dreaming  and  reason- 
ing, in  which  they  either  think  without  action, 
or  act  without  thought. 

The  poets  are  generally  well  affected  to  sleep : 
as  men  who  think  with  vigour,  they  require  re- 
spite from  thought;  and  gladly  resign  them- 
selves to  that  gentle  power,  who  not  only  be- 
stows rest,  but  frequently  leads  them  to  happier 
regions,  where  patrons  are  always  kind,  and 
audiences  are  always  candid,  where  they  are 
feasted  in  the  bowers  of  imagination,  and 
crowned  with  flowers  divested  of  their  prickles, 
and  laurels  of  unfading  verdure. 

The  more  refined  and  penetrating  part  of 
mankind,  who  take  wide  surveys  of  the  wilds  of 
life,  who  see  the  innumerable  terrors  and  die- 
tresses  that  are  perpetually  preying  on  the  heart 
of  man,  and  discern  with  unhappy  perspicuity, 
calamities  yet  latent  in  their  causes,  are  glad  to 
close  their  eyes  upon  the  gloomy  prospect,  and 
lose  in  a  short  insensibility  the  remembrance  of 
others'  miseries  and  their  own.  The  hero  has  no 
higher  hope,  than  that,  after  having  routed  le- 
gions after  legions,  and  added  kingdom  to  king- 
dom, he  shall  retire  to  milder  happiness,"  and 
close  his  days  in  social  festivity.  The  wit  or  the 
sage  can  expect  no  greater  happiness,  than  that, 
after  having  harassed  his  reason  in  deep  re- 
searches, and  fatigued  his  fancy  in  boundless 
excursions,  he  shall  sink  at  night  in  the  tran- 
quillity of  sleep. 

The  poets,  among  all  those  that  enjoy  the 
blessings  of  sleep,  have  been  least  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  their  benefactor.  How  much 
Statius  considered  the  evils  of  life  as  assuaged 
and  softened  by  the  balm  of  slumber,  we  may 
discover  by  that  pathetic  invocation,  which  he 
poured  out  in  his  waking  nights  :  and  that  Cow- 
ley  among  the  other  felicities  of  his  darling  so- 
litude, did  not  forget  to  number  the  privilege  of 
sleeping  without  disturbance,  we  may  learn  from 
the  rank  that  he  assigns  among  the  gifts  of  na- 


No.  41.J 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


ture  to  the  poppy,  "  which  is  scattered,"  says 
he,  "  over  the  fields  of  corn,  that  all  the  needs  of 
man  may  be  easily  satisfied,  and  that  bread  and 
sleep  may  be  found  together." 

Si  quit  invisum  Cereri  benigntt 
Meputat  germen,  vehementer  errat ; 
[lla  me  in  portent  recipit  libentcr 

Fertilia  agri. 

Mequefrumcntumque  simulper  omnes 
Consulens  mando  Dta  spargit  oral ; 
Crescite,  O  .'  dizit,  duo  magna  susten- 
tacula  vita. 

Carpe,  mortalis,  mea  dona  lectus, 
Carpe,  nee plantas  alias  require, 
Scd  sattir panis,  satur  etsoporif, 

Ctztera  sperne. 

He  wildly  errs  who  tliinks  I  yield 
Precedence  in  the  well-cloth'd  field, 

Though  mix'd  with  wheat  I  grow: 
Indulgent  Ceres  knew  my  worth, 
And  to  adorn  the  teeming  earth, 

She  bade  the  poppy  blow. 

Nor  vainly  gay  the  fright  to  please, 

But  bli-ss'd  with  power  mankind  to  ease, 

The  goddess  saw  me  rise  : 
"  Thrive  with  the  life-supporting  grain," 
She  cried,  "the  solace  of  the  swain, 

The  cordial  of  his  eyes. 

'•  Seize,  happy  mortal,  seize  the  good, 
My  hand  supplies  thy  sleep  and  food, 

And  makes  thee  truly  blest : 
'With  plenteous  meals  enjoy  the  day, 
In  slumbers  pass  the  night  away, 

And  leave  to  fate  the  rest."  c.  B. 

Sleep,  therefore,  as  the  chief  of  ail  earthly 
blessings,  is  justly  appropriated  to  industry  and 
temperance  ;  the  refreshing  rest,  and  the  peace- 
ful night,  are  the  portion  only  of  him  who  lies 
down  weary  with  honest  labour,  and  free  from 
the  fumes  of  indigested  luxury ;  it  is  the  just 
doom  of  laziness  and  gluttony,  to  be  inactive 
without  ease,  and  drowsy  without  tranquillity. 

Sleep  has  been  often  mentioned  as  the  image  of 
death ;  "  so  like  it,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Brown, 
"  that  I  dare  not  trust  it  without  my  prayers  ;" 
their  resemblance  is,  indeed,  apparent  and  strik- 
ing ;  they  both,  when  they  seize  the  body,  leave 
the  soul  at  liberty  ;  and  wise  is  he  that  remem- 
bers of  both,  that  they  can  be  safe  and  happy 
only  by  virtue. 


No.  41.]      TUESDAY,  MARCH  27,  1753. 

Si  mutabile  pectta 

Est  tibi,  consiliis,  nan  curribus,  iitere  nostrit, 
Dumpotcs,  el  solidis  etiamnum  sedibus  adstas . 
Dumque  male  optatos  nondum  premis  inscius  aits. 

ovi  D. 


•  Th'  attempt  forsake, 


And  not  my  chariot  but  my  counsel  take  ; 
While  yet  securely  on  the  earth  you  stand  ; 
Nor  touch  the  horses  with  too  rash  a  hand. 


TO  THE  ADVENTURER. 


SIR, 


Fleet,  March  24th. 


I  NOW  send  you  the  sequel  of  my  story  ;  which 
had  not  been  so  long  delayed,  if  I  could  have 
brought  myself  to  imagine,  that  any  real  impa- 
tience was  felt  for  the  fate  of  Misargyrus  ;  who 
has  travelled  no  unbeaten  track  to  misery,  and 
2P 


consequently  can  present  the  reader  only  with 
such  incidents  as  occur  in  daily  life. 

You  have  seen  me,  Sir,  in  the  zenith  of  my 
glory,  not  dispensing  the  kindly  warmth  of  an 
all-cheering  sun;  but  like  another  Phaeton, 
scorching  and  blasting  every  thing  round  me. 
[  shall  proceed,  therefore,  to  finish  my  career, 
and  pass  as  rapidly  as  possible  through  the  re- 
maining vicissitudes  of  my  life. 

When  I  first  began  to  be  in  want  of  money,  I 
made  no  doubt  of  an  immediate  supply.  The 
newspapers  were  perpetually  offering  directions 
to  men,  who  seemed  to  have  no  other  business 
than  to  gather  heaps  of  gold  for  those  who  place 
their  supreme  felicity  in  scattering  it.  I  posted 
away,  therefore,  to  one  of  these  advertisers,  who 
by  his  proposals  seemed  to  deal  in  thousands  : 
and  was  not  a  little  chagrined  to  find,  that  this 
general  benefactor  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  any  larger  sum  than  thirty  pounds,  nor 
would  venture  that  without  a  joint  note  from 
myself  and  a  reputable  housekeeper,  or  for  a 
longer  time  than  three  months. 

It  was  not  yet  so  bad  with  me,  as  that  1 
needed  to  solicit  surety  for  thirty  pounds  :  yet 
partly  from  the  greediness  that  extravagance  al- 
ways produces,  and  partly  from  a  desire  of  see- 
ing the  humour  of  a  petty  usurer,  a  character  of 
which  I  had  hitherto  lived  in  ignorance,  I  con- 
descended to  listen  to  his  terms.  He  proceeded 
to  inform  me  of  my  great  felicity  in  not  falling 
into  the  hands  of  an  extortioner ;  and  assured 
me,  that  I  should  find  him  extremely  moderate 
in  his  demands:  he  was  not,  indeed,  certain 
that  he  could  furnish  me  with  the  whole  sum, 
for  people  were  at  this  particular  time  extremely 

Eressing  and  importunate  for  money :  yet,  as  I 
ad  the  appearance  of  a  gentleman,  he  would 
try  what  he  could  do,  and  give  'me  his  answer 
in  three  days. 

At  the  expiration  of  the  time,  I  called  upon 
him  again  ;  and  was  again  informed  of  the  great 
demand  for  money,  and  that  "  money  was  money 
now :"  he  then  advised  me  to  be  punctual  in  my 
payment,  as  that  might  induce  him  to  befriend 
me  hereafter ;  and  delivered  me  the  money,  de- 
ducting at  the  rate  of  five  and  thirty  per  cent., 
with  another  panegyric  upon  his  own  modera- 
tion. 

I  will  not  tire  you  with  the  various  practices 
of  usurious  oppression  ;  but  cannot  omit  my 
transaction  with  Squeeze  on  Tower-hill,  who, 
finding  me  a  young  man  of  considerable  ex- 
pectations, employed  an  agent  to  persuade  me  to 
borrow  five  hundred  pounds,  to  be  refunded  by 
an  annual  payment  of  twenty  per  cent,  during 
the  joint  lives  of  his  daughter  Nancy  Squeeze 
and  myself.  The  negociator  came  prepared  to 
enforce  his  proposal  with  all  his  art ;  but  finding 
that  I  caught  his  offer  with  the  eagerness  of 
necessity,  he  grew  cold  and  languid  ;  "  he  had 
mentioned  it  out  of  kindness  ;  he  would  try  to 
serve  me :  Mr.  Squeeze  was  an  honest  man,  but 
extremely  cautious."  In  three  days  he  came  to 
tell  me,  that  his  endeavours  had  been  ineffectual, 
Mr.  Squeeze  having  no  good  opinion  of  my  life  ; 
but  that  there  was  one  expedient  remaining : 
Mrs.  Squeeze  could  influence  her  husband,  and 
her  good  will  might  be  gained  by  a  compliment 
I  waited  that  afternoon  on  Mrs.  Squeeze,  and 
poured  out  before  her  the  flatteries  which  usually 
gain  access  to  rank  and  beauty ;  I  did  not  then 


314 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  45. 


know,  that  there  arc  places  in  which  the  only 
compliment  is  a  bribe.  Having  yet  credit  with 
a  jeweller,  I  afterwards  procured  a  ring  of 
thirty  guineas,  which  I  humbly  presented,  and 
was  soon  admitted  to  a  treaty  with  Mr.  Squeeze. 
He  appeared  peevish  and  backward,  and  my  old 
friend  whispered  me,  that  he  would  never  make 
a  dry  bargain  :  I  therefore  invited  him  to  a  ta- 
vern. Nine  times  we  met  on  the  affair ;  nine 
times  I  paid  four  pounds  for  the  supper  and  cla- 
ret ;  and  nine  guineas  I  gave  the  agent  for  good 
offices.  I  then  obtained  the  money,  paying  ten 
per  cent,  advance ;  and  at  the  tenth  meeting  gave 
another  supper,  and  disbursed  fifteen  pounds  for 
the  writings. 

Others  who  styled  themselves  brokers,  would 
only  trust  their  money  upon  goods :  that  I  might, 
therefore,  try  every  art  of  expensive  folly,  I  took 
a  house  and  furnished  it.  I  amused  myself  with 
despoiling  my  moveables  of  their  glossy  appear- 
ance, for  fear  of  alarming  the  lender  with  sus- 
picions ;  and  in  this  I  succeeded  so  well,  that  he 
favoured  me  with  one  hundred  and  sixty  pounds 
upon  that  which  was  rated  at  seven  hundred.  I 
then  found  that  I  was  to  maintain  a  guardian 
about  me  to  prevent  the  goods  from  being  broken 
or  removed.  This  was,  indeed,  an  unexpected 
tax  ;  but  it  was  too  late  to  recede  :  and  I  com- 
forted myself,  that  I  might  prevent  a  creditor,  of 
whom  I  had  some  apprehensions,  from  seizing, 
by  having  a  prior  execution  always  in  the  house. 

By  such  means  I  had  so  embarrassed  myself, 
that  my  whole  attention  was  engaged  in  contriv- 
ing excuses,  and  raising  small  sums  to  quiet  such 
as  words  would  no  longer  mollify.  It  cost  me 
eighty  pounds  in  presents  to  Mr.  Leech,  the  at- 
torney, for  his  forbearance  of  one  hundred, 
which  he  solicited  me  to  take  when  I  had  no 
need.  I  was  perpetually  harassed  with  impor- 
tunate demands,  and  insulted  by  wretches,  who 
a  few  months  before  would  not  have  dared  to 
raise  their  eyes  from  the  dust  before  me.  I  lived 
in  continual  terror,  frighted  by  every  noise  at  the 
door,  and  terrified  at  the  approach  of  every  step 
quicker  than  common.  I  never  retired  to  rest 
without  feeling  the  justness  of  the  Spanish  pro- 
verb, "  Let  him  who  sleeps  too  much,  borrow 
the  pillow  of  a  debtor:"  my  solicitude  and  vexa- 
tion kept  me  long  waking;  and  when  I  had 
closed  my  eyes,  I  was  pursued  or  insulted  by 
visionary  bailiffs. 

When  I  reflected  upon  the  meanness  of  the 
shifts  I  had  reduced  myself  to,  I  could  not  but 
curse  the  folly  and  extravagance  that  had  over- 
whelmed me  in  a  sea  of  troubles,  from  which  it 
was  highly  improbable  that  I  should  ever 
emerge.  I  had  some  time  lived  in  hopes  of  an 
estate,  at  the  death  of  my  uncle  ;  but  he  disap- 
pointed me  by  marrying  his  housekeeper  ;  and, 
catching  an  opportunity  soon  after  of  quarrelling 
with  me,  for  settling  twenty  pounds  a  year  upon 
a  girl  whom  I  had  seduced,  told  me  that  he 
would  take  care  to  prevent  his  fortune  from  be- 
ing squandered  upon  prostitutes. 

Nothing  now  remained,  but  the  chance  ol  ex- 
tricating myself  by  marriage  ;  a  scheme  which,  I 
flattered  myself,  nothing  but  my  present  distress 
would  have  made  me  think  on  with  patience.  I 
determined,  therefore,  to  look  out  for  a  tender 
novice,  with  a  large  fortune  at  her  own  disposal ; 
and  accordingly  fixed  my  eyes  upon  Miss  Biddy 
Simper.  I  had  now  paid  her  six  or  seven  visits ; 


and  so  fully  convinced  her  of  my  being  a  gentle- 
man and  a  rake,  that  I  made  no  doubt  that  both 
her  person  and  fortune  would  soon  be  mine. 

At  this  critical  time,  Miss  Gripe  called  upon 
me,  in  a  chariot  bought  with  my  money,  and 
loaded  with  trinkets  that  I  had  in  my  days  of 
affluence  lavished  on  her.  Those  days  were  now 
over ;  and  there  was  little  hope  that  they  would 
ever  return.  She  was  not  able  to  withstand  the 
temptation  of  ten  pounds  that  Talon  the  bailiff 
offered  her,  but  brought  him  into  my  apartment 
disguised  in  a  livery;  and  taking  my  sword  to 
the  window,  under  pretence  of  admiring  the 
workmanship,  beckoned  him  to  seize  me. 

Delay  would  have  been  expensive  without  use, 
as  the  debt  was  too  considerable  for  payment  or 
bail:  I  therefore  suffered  myself  to  be  immedi- 
ately conducted  to  jail. 

Vestibulum  ante  ipsumprimisque  infaitcibui  Orel, 
Lucius  et  ultricesposuere  cubilia  cur<c ; 
Pallentesgue  habitant  morbi,  tristisque  scnectui, 
Et  metus,  et  malcsuada  fames,  et  tvrpis  cgesias. 

VIRG. 

Just  in  the  gate  and  in  the  jaws  of  hell, 
Revengeful  cares  and  sullen  sorrows  dwell 
And  pale  diseases,  and  repining  age  ; 
Want,  fear,  and  famine's  unresisted  rage. 

DRYDEN. 

Confinement  of  any  kind  is  dreadful :  a  prison 
is  sometimes  able  to  shock  those,  who  endure  it 
in  a  good  cause :  let  your  imagination,  therefore, 
acquaint  you  with  what  I  have  not  words  to 
express,  and  conceive,  if  possible,  the  horrors  of 
imprisonment  attended  with  reproach  and  igno- 
miny, of  involuntary  association  with  the  refuse 
of  mankind,  with  wretches  who  were  before  too 
abandoned  for  society,  but  being  now  freed  from 
shame  or  fear,  are  hourly  improving  their  vices 
by  consorting  with  each  other. 

There  are,  however,  a  few  whom,  like  myself, 
imprisonment  has  rather  mortified  than  har- 
dened :  with  these  only  I  converse ;  and  of  these 
you  may  perhaps  hereafter  receive  some  account 
from  your  humble  servant, 

MlSAEGTRUS. 


No.  45.]     TUESDAY,  APRIL  10,  1753. 

flulla  fides  regni  sociis.  omnisque  potestas 
Impatiens  consortis  erit.  LUCAN 

No  faith  of  partnership  dominion  owns  : 
Still  discord  hovers  o'er  divided  tlirone.s. 

IT  is  well  known,  that  many  things  appear  plau- 
sible in  speculation,  which  can  never  be  reduced 
to  practice  ;  and  that  of  the  numberless  projects 
that  have  flattered  mankind  with  theoretical  spe- 
ciousness,  few  have  served  any  other  purpose 
than  to  show  the  ingenuity  of  their  contrivers. 
A  voyage  to  the  moon,  however  romantic  and 
absurd  the  scheme  may  now  appear,  since  the 
properties  of  air  have  been  better  understood, 
seemed  highly  probable  to  many  of  the  aspiring 
wits  in  the  last  century,  who  began  to  doat  upon 
their  glossy  plumes,  and  fluttered  with  impa- 
tience for  the  hour  of  their  departure : 

Pereunt  vestiga  mille 

Antefuffam,  abientemgue  ferit  gravis  ungula  campum 

Hills,  vales,  and  floods  appear  already  crost . 

And,  ere  he  starts,  a  thousand  steps  are  lost.        POPB 


No.  45.1 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


315 


Among  the  fallacies  which  only  experience 
can  detect,  there  are  dome  of  which  scarcely  ex- 
perience itself  can  destroy  the  influence;  some 
which,  by  a  captivating  show  of  indubitable  cer- 
tainty, are  perpetually  gaining  upon  the  human 
mind  ;  and  which,  though  every  trial  ends  in 
disappointment,  obtain  new  credit  as  the  sense 
of  miscarriage  wears  gradually  away,  persuade 
us  to  try  again  what  we  have  tried  already, 
and  expose  us  by  the  same  failure  to  double 
vexation. 

Of  this  tempting,  this  delusive  kind,  is  the 
expectation  of  great  performances  by  confede- 
rated strength.  The  speculatist,  when  he  has 
carefully  observed  how  much  may  be  performed 
by  a  single  hand,  calculates  by  a  very  easy  ope- 
ration the  force  of  thousands,  and  goes  on  accu- 
mulating power  till  resistance  vanishes  before 
it ;  then  rejoices  in  the  success  of  his  new 
scheme,  and  wonders  at  the  folly  or  idleness  of 
former  ages,  who  have  lived  in  want  of  what 
might  so  readily  be  procured,  and  suffered  them- 
selves to  be  debarred  from  happiness  by  obstacles 
which  one  united  effort  would  have  so  easily 
surmounted. 

But  this  gigantic  phantom  of  collective  power 
vanishes  at  once  into  air  and  emptiness,  at  the 
first  attempt  to  put  it  into  action.  The  different 
apprehensions,  the  discordant  passions,  the  jar- 
ring interests  of  men,  will  scarcely  permit  that 
many  should  unite  in  one  undertaking. 

Of  a  great  and  complicated  design  some  will 
never  be  brought  to  discern  the  end  ;  and  of  the 
several  means  by  which  it  maybe  accomplished, 
the  choice  will  be  a  perpetual  subject  of  debate, 
a?i  every  man  is  swayed  in  his  determination  by 
hist  own  knowledge  or  convenience.  In  a  long 
series  of  action  some  will  languish  with  fatigue, 
and  some  be  drawn  off  by  present  gratifications: 
jome  will  loiter  because  others  labour,  and  some 
will  cease  to  labour  because  others  loiter:  and  if 
once  they  come  within  prospect  of  success  and 
profit,  some  will  be  greedy  and  others  envious  ; 
some  will  undertake  more  than  they  can  per- 
form, to  enlarge  their  claims  of  advantage ;  some 
will  perform  less  than  they  undertake,  lest  their 
labours  should  chiefly  turn  to  the  benefit  of 
others. 

The  history  of  mankind  informs  us  that  a 
single  power  is  very  seldom  broken  by  a  confe- 
deracy. States  of  different  interests,  and  aspects 
malevolent  to  each  other,  may  be  united  for  a 
time  by  common  distress  ;  and  in  the  ardour  of 
self  preservation  fall  unanimously  upon  an  ene- 
my, by  whom  they  are  all  equally  endangered. 
But  if  their  first  attack  can  be  withstood,  time 
will  never  fail  to  dissolve  their  union  :  success 
and  miscarriage  will  be  equally  destructive  : 
after  the  conquest  of  a  province,  they  will 
quarrel  in  the  division  ;  after  the  loss  of  a  battle, 
all  will  be  endeavouring  to  secure  themselves  by 
abandoning  the  rest. 

From  the  impossibility  of  confining  numbers 
to  the  constant  and  uniform  prosecution  of  a 
common  interest,  arises  the  difficulty  of  securing 
subjects  against  the  encroachment  of  governors. 
Power  is  always  gradually  stealing  away  from 
the  many  to  the  few,  because  the  few  are  more 
vigilant  and  consistent ;  it  still  contracts  to  a 
smaller  number,  till  in  time  it  centres  in  a  single 
person. 

Thus  all  the  forms  of  governments  instituted 


among  mankind,  perpetually  tend  towards  mo- 
narchy ;  and  power,  however  diffused  through 
the  whole  community,  is  by  negligence  or  cor- 
ruption, commotion  or  distress,  reposed  at  last 
in  the  chief  magistrate. 

"  There  never  appear,"  says  Swift,  "  more 
than  five  or  six  men  of  genius  in  an  age  ;  but  if 
they  were  united,  the  world  could  not  stand  be- 
fore them."  It  is  happy,  therefore,  for  man- 
kind, that  of  this  union  there  is  no  probability. 
As  men  take  in  a  wider  compass  of  intellectual 
survey,  they  are  more  likely  to  choose  different 
objects  of  pursuit :  as  they  see  more  ways  to  the 
same  end,  they  will  be  less  easily  persuaded  to 
travel  together;  as  each  is  better  qualified  to 
form  an  independent  scheme  of  private  great- 
ness, he  will  reject  with  greater  obstinacy  the 
project  of  another ;  as  each  is  more  able  to  distin- 
guish himself  as  the  head  of  a  party,  he  will  less 
readily  be  made  a  follower  or  an  associate. 

The  reigning  philosophy  informs  us,  that  the 
vast  bodies  which  constitute  the  universe,  are 
regulated  in  their  progress  through  the  ethereal 
spaces,  by  the  perpetual  agency  of  contrary 
forces  ;  by  one  of  which  they  are  restrained 
from  deserting  their  orbits,  and  losing  them- 
selves in  the  immensity  of  heaven  ;  and  held 
off  by  the  other  from  rushing  together,  and 
clustering  round  their  centre  with  everlasting 
cohesion. 

The  same  contrariety  of  impulse  may  be  per- 
haps discovered  in  the  motions  of  men  :  we  are 
formed  for  society,  not  for  combination  :  we  are 
equally  unqualified  to  live  in  a  close  connexion 
with  our  fellow-beings,  and  in  total  separation 
from  them  ;  we  are  attracted  towards  each  other 
by  general  sympathy,  but  kept  back  from  con- 
tact by  private  interests. 

Some  philosophers  have  been  foolish  enough 
to  imagine,  that  improvements  might  be  made 
in  the  system  of  the  universe,  by  a  different  ar- 
rangement of  the  orbs  of  heaven  ;  and  politicians, 
equally  ignorant  and  equally  presumptuous,  may 
easily  be  led  to  suppose  that  the  happiness  of  our 
world  would  be  promoted  by  a  different  tendency 
of  the  human  mind.  It  appears,  indeed,  to  a 
slight  and  superficial  observer,  that  many  things 
impracticable  in  our  present  state,  might  be 
easily  effected,  if  mankind  were  better  disposed 
to  union  and  co-operation  :  but  a  little  reflection 
will  discover,  that  if  confederacies  were  easily 
formed,  they  would  lose  their  efficacy,  since 
numbers  would  be  opposed  to  numbers,  and 
unanimity  to  unanimity:  and  instead  of  the 
present  petty  competitions  of  individuals  or 
single  families,  multitudes  would  be  supplanting 
multitudes,  and  thousands  plotting  against 
thousands. 

There  is  no  class  of  the  human  species,  of 
which  the  union  seems  to  have  been  more  ex- 
pected, than  of  the  learned  :  the  rest  of  the  world 
have  almost  always  agreed  to  shut  scholars  up 
together  in  colleges  and  cloisters;  surely  not 
without  hope,  that  they  would  look  for  that  hap- 
piness in  concord,  which  they  were  debarred  from 
finding  in  variety  ;  and  that  such  conjunctions 
of  intellect  would  recompense  the  munificence 
of  founders  and  patrons,  by  performances  above 
the  reach  of  any  single  mind. 

But  Discord,  who  found  means  to  roll  her  apple 
into  the  banquetting  chamber  of  the  goddesses, 
has  had  the  address  to  scatter  her  laurels  in  the 


316 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


seminaries  of  learning.  The  friendship  of  stu- 
dents and  of  beauties  is  for  the  most  part  equally 
sincere  and  equally  durable :  as  both  depend  for 
happiness  on  the  regard  of  others,  on  that  of 
which  the  value  arises  merely  from  comparison, 
they  are  both  exposed  to  perpetual  jealousies, 
and  both  incessantly  employed  in  schemes  to  in- 
tercept the  praises  of  each  other. 

I  am,  however,  far  from  intending  to  inculcate 
that  this  confinement  of  the  studious  to  studious 
companions,  has  been  wholly  without  advantage 
to  the  public:  neighbourhood,  where  it  do*e  not 
conciliate  friendship,  incites  competition  ;  and 
he  that  would  contentedly  rest  in  a  lower  degree 
of  excellence,  where  he  had  no  rival  to  dread, 
will  be  urged  by  his  impatience  of  inferiority  to 
incessant  endeavours  after  great  attainments. 

These  stimulations  of  honest  rivalry  are,  per- 
haps, the  chief  effects  of  academies  and  societies ; 
for  whatever  be  the  bulk  of  their  joint  labours, 
every  single  piece  is  always  the  production  of 
an  individual,  that  owes  nothing  to  his  colleagues 
but  the  contagion  of  diligence,  a  resolution  to 
write,  because  the  rest  are  writing,  and  the  scorn 
of  obscurity  while  the  rest  arc  illustrious. 


No.  50.]     SATURDAY,  APRIL  28,  1753. 

Qv.icv.nque  turpi  frauds  scmelinnotuit, 

Ktiamsi  -cerum  dicit,  amittitjidem.  PHJED. 

The  wretch  that  often  has  deceived, 
Though  truth  he  speaks,  is  ne'er  believed. 

WHEN  Aristotle  was  once  asked,  what  a  man 
could  gain  by  uttering  falsehoods  ?  he  replied, 
"Not  to  be  credited  when  he  shall  tell  tb.Q 
truth." 

The  character  of  a  liar  is  at  once  so  hateful 
and  contemptible,  that  even  of  those  who  have 
lost  their  virtue  it  might  be  expected  that  from 
the  violation  of  truth  they  should  be  restrained 
by  their  pride.  Almost  every  other  vice  that 
disgraces  human  nature,  may  be  kept  in  counte- 
nance by  applause  and  association  ;  the  corrupter 
of  virgin  innocence  sees  himself  envied  by  the 
men,  and  at  least  not  detested  by  the  women  ; 
the  drunkard  may  easily  unite  with  beings,  de- 
voted like  himself  to  noisy  merriments  or  silent 
insensibility,  who  will  celebrate  his  victories  over 
the  novices  of  intemperance,  boast  themselves 
the  companions  of  his  prowess,  and  tell  with 
rapture  of  the  multitudes  whom  unsuccessful 
emulation  has  hurried  to  the  grave  ;  even  the 
robber  and  the  cut-throat  have  their  followers, 
who  admire  their  address  and  intrepidity,  their 
stratagems  of  rapine,  and  their  fidelity  to  the  gang. 

The  liar,  and  only  the  liar,  is  invariably  and 
universally  despised,  abandoned,  and  disowned  ; 
he  has  no  domestic  consolations  which  he  can 
oppose  to  the  censure  of  mankind  ;  he  can  retire 
to  no  fraternity,  where  his  crimes  my  stand  in 
the  place  of  virtues :  but  is  given  up  to  the  hisses 
of  the  multitude,  without  friend  and  without 
apologist.  It  is  the  peculiar  condition  of  false- 
hood, to  be  equally  detested  by  the  good  and  bad  : 
"  The  devils,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  "  do 
not  tell  lies  to  one  another ;  for  truth  is  necessary 
to  all  societies  :  nor  can  the  society  of  hell  sub- 
sist without  it." 

It  is  natural  to  expect,  that  a  crime  thus  general- 
y  detected,  should  be  generally  avoided ;  at  least 


that  none  should  expose  himself  to  unabated 
and  unpitied  infamy,  without  an  adequate  tempt- 
ation ;  and  that  to  guilt  so  easily  detected,  and 
so  severely  punished,  an  adequate  temptation 
would  not  readily  be  found. 

Yet  so  it  is  in  defiance  of  censure  and  con- 
tempt, truth  is  frequently  violated  :  and  scarcely 
the  most  vigilant  and  unremitted  circumspection 
will  secure  him  that  mixes  with  mankind,  from 
being  hourly  deceived  by  men  of  whom  it  can 
scarcely  be  imagined,  that  they  mean  any  injury 
to  him  or  profit  to  themselves :  even  where  the 
subject  of  conversation  could  not  have  been  ex- 
pected to  put  the  passions  in  motion,  or  to  have 
excited  either  hope  or  fear,  or  zeal  or  malignity, 
sufficient  to  induce  any  man  to  put  his  reputation 
in  hazard,  however  little  he  might  value  it,  01 
to  overpower  the  love  of  truth,  however  weak 
might  be  its  influence. 

The  casuists  have  very  diligently  distinguish 
ed  lies  into  their  several  classes,  according  t« 
their  various  degrees  of  malignity  ;  but  they 
have,  I  think,  generally  omitted  that  which  is 
most  common,  and,  perhaps,  not  least  mischiev- 
ous: which,  since  the  moralists  have  not  given  it 
a  name,  I  shall  distinguish  as  the  lie  of  vanity. 

To  vanity  may  justly  be  imputed  most  of  the 
falsehoods  which  every  man  perceives  hourly 
playing  upon  his  ear,  and,  perhaps,  most  of 
those  that  are  propagated  with  success.  To  the 
lie  of  commerce,  and  the  lie  of  malice,  the  motive 
is  so  apparent,  that  they  are  seldom  negligently 
or  implicitly  received  ;  suspicion  is  always  watch- 
ful over  the  practices  of  interest;  and  whatever 
the  hope  of  gain,  or  desire  of  mischief,  can  prompt 
one  man  to  assert,  another  is  by  reasons  equally 
cogent  incited  to  refute.  But  vanity  pleases  her- 
self with  such  slight  gratifications,  and  looks  for- 
ward to  pleasure  so  remotely  consequential,  that 
her  practices  raise  no  alarm,  and  her  stratagems 
are  not  easily  discovered. 

Vanity  is,  indeed,  often  suffered  to  pass  un 
pursued  by  suspicion,  because  he  that  would 
watch  her  motions,  can  never  be  at  rest ;  fraud 
and  malice  are  bounded  in  their  influence ; 
some  opportunity  of  time  and  place  is  necessary 
to  their  agency  ;  but  scarce  any  man  is  abstract- 
ed one  moment  from  his  vanity  ;  and  he,  to 
whom  truth  affords  no  gratifications,  is  generally 
inclined  to  seek  them  in  falsehoods. 

It  is  remarked  by  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  "  That 
every  man  has  a  desire  to  appear  superior  to 
others,  though  it  were  only  in  having  seen  what 
they  have  not  seen.''  Such  an  accidental  advan- 
tage, since  it  neither  implies  merit,  nor  confers 
dignity,  one  would  think  should  not  be  desired 
so  much  as  to  be  counterfeited  :  yet  even  this 
vanity,  trifling  as  it  is,  produces  innumerable 
narratives,  all  equally  false  ;  but  more  or  less 
credible  in  proportion  to  the  skill  or  confidence 
of  the  relater.  How  many  may  a  man  of  diffu- 
sive conversation  count  among  his  acquaint- 
ances, whose  lives  have  been  signalized  by 
numberless  escapes ;  who  never  cro?s  the  rivci 
but  in  a  storm,  or  take  a  journey  in  the  country 
without  more  adventures  than  befell  the  knights- 
errant  of  ancient  times  in  pathless  forests  or  en- 
chanted castles !  How  many  must  he  know,  to 
whom  portents  and  prodigies  are  of  daily  occur- 
rence ;  and  for  whom  nature  is  hourly  working 
wonders  invisible  to  every  other  eye,  only  to  sup- 
ply them  with  subjects  of  conversation  ? 


No.  53.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


317 


Others  there  are  that  amuse  themselves  with 
the  dissemination  of  falsehood,  at  greater  hazard 
of  detection  and  disgrace  ;  men  marked  out  by 
pome  lucky  planet  for  universal  confidence  and 
friendship,  who  have  been  consulted  in  every 
difficulty,  intrusted  with  every  secret,  and  sum- 
moned to  every  transaction  ;  it  is  the  supreme 
felicity  of  these  men,  to  stun  all  companies  with 
noisy  information  ;  to  still  doubt,  and  overbear 
opposition,  with  certain  knowledge  or  authentic 
intelligence.  A  liar  of  this  kind  with  a  strong 
memory  or  brisk  imagination,  is  often  the  oracle 
of  an  obscure  club,  and,  till  time  discovers  his 
impostures,  dictates  to  his  hearers  with  uncon- 
trolled authority ;  for  if  a  public  question  be 
started,  he  was  present  at  the  debate  ;  if  a  new 
fashion  be  mentioned,  he  was  at  court  the  first 
day  of  its  appearance  ;  if  a  new  performance  of 
literature  draws  the  attention  of  the  public,  he 
has  patronized  the  author,  and  seen  his  work 
in  manuscript;  if  a  criminal  of  eminence  be 
condemned  to  die,  he  often  predicted  his  fate, 
and  endeavoured  his  reformation  :  and  who  that 
lives  at  a  distance  from  the  scene  of  action,  will 
.fare  to  contradict  a  man  who  reports  from  his 
•  jwn  eyes  and  ears,  and  to  whom  all  persons  and 
affairs  are  thus  intimately  known  ? 

This  kind  of  falsehood  is  generally  successful 
for  a  time,  because  it  is  practised  at  first  with  ti- 
midity and  caution  ;  but  the  prosperity  of  the 
liar  is  of  short  duration  ;  the  reception  of  one 
story  is  always  an  incitement  to  the  forgery  of 
another  less  probable ;  and  he  goes  on  to  tri- 
umph over  tacit  credulity,  till  pride  or  reason 
rise  upragainst  him,  and  his  companions  will  no 
longer  endure  to  see  him  wiser  than  themselves. 

Jt  is  apparent,  that  the  inventors  of  all  these 
fictions  intend  some  exaltation  of  themselves, 
and  are  led  off  by  the  pursuit  of  honour  from 
their  attendance  upon  truth  :  their  narratives 
always  imply  some  consequence  in  favour  of 
their  courage,  their  sagacity,  or  their  activity, 
their  familiarity  with  the  learned,  or  their  recep- 
tion among  the  great  ;  they  are  always  bribed 
by  the  present  pleasure  of  seeing  themselves  su- 
perior to  those  that  surround  them,  and  receiv- 
ing the  homage  of  silent  attention,  and  envious 
admiration. 

But  vanity  is  sometimes  excited  to  fiction  by 
less  visible  gratifications;  the  present  age  abounds 
with  a  race  of  liars  who  are  content  with  the 
consciousness  of  falsehood,  and  whose  pride  is 
to  deceive  others  without  any  gain  or  glory  to 
themselves.  Of  this  tribe  it  is  the  supreme 
pleasure  to  remark  a  lady  in  the  play-house  or 
the  park,  and  to  publish,  under  the  character  of  a 
man  suddenly  enamoured,  an  advertisement  in 
the  news  of  the  next  day,  containing  a  minute 
description  of  her  person  and  her  dress.  From 
this  artifice,  however,  no  other  effect  can  be  ex- 
pected than  perturbations  which  the  writer  can 
never  see,  and  conjectures  of  which  he  never  can 
be  informed  ;  some  mischief,  however,  he  hopes 
he  has  done  ;  and  to  have  done  mischief  is  of 
some  importance.  He  sets  his  invention  to 
work  again,  and  produces  a  narrative  of  a  robbe- 
ry or  a  murder,  with  all  the  circumstances  of 
time  and  place  accurately  adjusted.  This  is  a 
jest  of  greater  effect,  and  longer  duration  :  if  he 
fixes  his  scene  at  a  proper  distance,  he  may  for 
several  days  keep  a  wife  in  terror  for  her  hus- 
band, or  a  mother  for  her  son  ;  and  please  him- 


self with  reflecting,  that  by  his  abilities  and  ad- 
dress some  additionis  made  to  the  miseries  of  life. 
There  is,  1  think,  an  ancient  law  of  Scotland, 
by  which  leasing-making  was  capitallv  punished. 
I  am,  indeed,  far  from  desiring  to  increase  in  this 
kingdom  the  number  of  executions  ;  yet  I  can- 
not but  think,  that  they  who  destroy  the  confi- 
dence of  society,  weaken  the  credit  of  intelligence, 
and  interrupt  the  security  of  life ;  harass  the 
delicate  with  shame,  and  perplex  the  timorous 
with  alarms  ;  might  very  properly  be  awakened 
to  a  sense  of  their  crimes,  by  denunciations  of  a 
whipping-post  or  pillory  :  since  many  are  so  in- 
sensible of  right  and  wrong,  that  they  have  no 
standard  of  action  but  the  law ;  nor  feel  guilt, 
but  as  they  dread  punishment. 


No.  53.J       TUESDAY  MAY  8,  1753 

Quisque  suospalimur  manet.  VIRG. 

Each  has  his  lot,  and  bears  the  fate  he  drew, 

Fleet,  May  6. 
SIR, 
IN  consequence  of  my  engagements,  I  address 

frou  once  more  from  the  habitations  of  misery. — 
n  this  place,  from  which  business  and  pleasure 
are  equally  excluded,  and  in  which  our  only  em- 
ployment and  diversion  is  to  hear  the  narratives 
of  each  other,  I  might  much  sooner  have  gathered 
materials  fora  letter,  had  I  not  hoped  to  have  been 
reminded  of  my  promise  :  but  since  1  find  myself 
placed  in  the  regions  of  oblivion,  where  I  am  no 
less  neglected  by  you  than  by  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, I  resolved  no  longer  to  wait  for  solicitation, 
but  stole  early  this  evening  from  between  gloomy 
sullenriess,  and  riotous  merriment,  to  give  you 
an  account  of  part  of  my  companions. 

One  of  the  most  eminent  members  of  our 
club  is  Mr.  Edward  Scamper,  a  man  of  whose 
name  the  Olympic  heroes  would  not  have  been 
ashamed.  Ned  was  born  to  a  small  estate,  which 
he  determined  to  improve ;  and  therefore  as 
soon  as  he  became  of  age,  mortgaged  part  of 
his  land  to  buy  a  mare  and  stallion,  and  bred 
horses  for  the  course.  He  was  at  first  very  suc- 
cessful, and  gained  several  of  the  king's  plates, 
as  he  is  now  every  day  boasting,  at  the  expense 
of  very  little  more  than  ten  times  their  value. — 
At  last,  however,  he  discovered,  that  victory 
brought  him  more  honour  than  profit :  resolving, 
therefore,  to  be  rich  as  well  as  illustrious,  he  re- 
plenished his  pockets  by  another  mortgage,  be- 
came on  a  sudden  a  daring  better,  and  resolving 
not  to  trust  a  jockey  with  his  fortune,  rode  bis 
horse  himself,  distanced  two  of  his  competitors 
the  first  heat,  and  at  last  won  the  race  by  forc- 
ing his  horse  on  a  descent  to  full  speed  at  the 
hazard  of  his  neck.  His  estate  was  thus  re- 
paired, and  some  friends  that  had  no  souls  ad- 
vised him  to  give  over  ;  but  Ned  now  knew  the 
way  to  riches,  and  therefore  without  caution  in 
creased  his  expenses.  From  this  hour  he  talked 
and  dreamed  of  nothing  but  a  horse-race  ;  and 
rising  soon  to  the  summit  of  equestrian  reputa- 
tion, he  was  constantly  expected  on  every  course, 
divided  all  his  time  between  lords  and  jockeys, 
and,  as  the  unexperienced  regulated  their  bets 
by  his  example,  gained  a  great  deal  of  money  by 
laying  openly  on  one  horse,  and  secretly  on 
the  other.  Ned  was  now  so  sure  of  growing 


318 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  58. 


rich,  that  he  involved  his  estate  in  a  third  mort- 
gage, borrowed  money  of  all  his  friends,  and 
risked  his  whole  fortune  upon  Bay  Lincoln.  He 
mounted  with  beating  heart,  started  fair,  and 
won  the  first  heat :  but  in  the  second,  as  he  was 
pushing  against  the  foremost  of  his  rivals,  his 
girth  broke,  his  shoulder  was  dislocated,  and  be- 
fore he  was  dismissed  by  the  surgeon,  two  bai- 
liffs fastened  upon  him,  and  he  saw  Newmarket 
no  more.  His  daily  amusement  for  four  years 
has  been  to  blow  the  signal  for  starting,  to  make 
imaginary  matches,  to  repeat  the  pedigree  of  Bay 
Lincoln,  and  to  form  resolutions  against  trusting 
another  groom  with  the  choice  of  his  girth. 

The  next  in  seniority  is  Mr.  Timothy  Snug,  a 
man  of  deep  contrivance,  and  impenetrable  se- 
crecy. His  father  died  with  the  reputation  of 
more  wealth  than  he  possessed ;  Tim,  therefore, 
entered  the  world  with  a  reputed  fortune  of  ten 
thousand  pounds.  Of  this  he  very  well  knew 
that  eight  thousand  was  imaginary  ;  but  being  a 
man  of  refined  policy,  and  knowing  how  much 
honour  is  annexed  to  riches,  he  resolved  never  to 
detect  his  own  poverty ;  but  furnished  his  house 
with  elegance,  scattered  his  money  with  profu- 
sion, encouraged  every  scheme  of  costly  plea- 
sure, spoke  of  petty  losses  with  negligence, 
and  on  the  day  before  an  execution  entered  his 
doors,  had  proclaimed  at  a  public  table  his  reso- 
lution to  be  jolted  no  longer  in  a  hackney  coach. 

Another  of  my  companions  is  the  magnani- 
mous Jack  Scatter,  the  son  of  a  country  gentle- 
man, who,  having  no  other  care  than  to  leave 
him  rich,  considered  that  literature  could  not  be 
had  without  expense  ;  masters  would  not  teach 
for  nothing;  and  when  a  book  was  bought  and 
read,  it  would  sell  for  little.  Jack  was,  therefore, 
taught  to  read  and  write  by  the  butler;  and  when 
this  acquisition  was  made,  was  left  to  pass  his 
days  in  the  kitchen  and  the  stable,  where  he 
heard  no  crime  censured  but  covetousness  and 
distrust  of  poor  honest  servants,  and  where  all 
the  praise  was  bestowed  on  good  house-keeping, 
and  a  free  heart.  At  the  death  of  his  father, 
Jack  set  himself  to  retrieve  the  honour  of  his 
family :  he  abandoned  his  cellar  to  the  butler, 
ordered  his  groom  to  provide  hay  and  corn  at 
discretion,  took  his  housekeeper's  word  for  the 
expenses  of  the  kitchen,  allowed  all  his  servants 
to  do  their  work  by  deputies,  permitted  his  do- 
mestics to  keep  his  house  open  to  their  relations 
and  acquaintance,  and  in  ten  years  was  convey- 
ed hither,  without  having  purchased  by  the  loss 
of  his  patrimony  either  honour  or  pleasure,  or 
obtained  any  other  gratification  than  that  of  hav- 
ing corrupted  the  neighbouring  villagers  by  luxu- 
ry and  idleness. 

Dick  Serge  was  a  draper  in  Cornhill,  and 
passed  eight  years  in  prosperous  diligence,  with- 
out any  care  but  to  keep  his  books,  or  any  ambi- 
tion but  to  be  in  time  an  alderman  :  but  then,  by 
some  unaccountable  revolution  in  his  under- 
standing, he  became  enamoured  of  wit  and  hu- 
mour, despised  the  conversation  of  pedlars  and 
stock-jobbers,  and  rambled  every  night  to  the  re- 
gions of  gayety,  in  quest  of  company  suited  to 
his  taste.  The  wits  at  first  flocked  about  him 
for  sport,  and  afterwards  for  interest ;  some 
found  their  way  into  his  books,  and  some  into 
his  pockets  ;  the  man  of  adventure  was  equip- 
ped from  his  shop  for  the  pursuit  of  a  fortune ; 
ind  he  had  sometimes  the  honour  to  have  hie  se- 


curity accepted  when  his  friends  were  in  dis- 
tress. Elated  with  these  associations,  he  soon 
learned  to  neglect  his  shop  ;  and  having  drawn 
his  money  out  of  the  funds,  to  avoid  the  neces- 
sity of  teasing  men  of  honour  for  trifling  debts, 
he  has  been  forced  at  last  to  retire  hither,  till  his 
friends  can  procure  him  a  post  at  court. 

Another  that  joins  in  the  same  mess  is  Bob 
Cornice,  whose  life  has  been  spent  in  fitting  up 
a  house.  About  ten  years  ago,  Bob  purchased 
the  country  habitation  of  a  bankrupt :  the  mere 
shell  of  a  building  Bob  holds  no  great  matter  ; 
the  inside  is  the  test  of  elegance.  Uf  this  house 
he  was  no  sooner  master,  than  he  summoned 
twenty  workmen  to  his  assistance,  tore  up  the 
floors  and  laid  them  anew,  stripped  off  the  wain- 
scot, drew  the  windows  from  their  frames,  alter- 
ed the  disposition  of  doors  and  fire-places,  and 
cast  the  whole  fabric  into  a  new  form :  his  next 
care  was  to  have  his  ceilings  painted,  his  pan- 
nels  gilt,  and  his  chimney-pieces  carved  :  every 
thing  was  executed  by  the  ablest  hands :  Bob's 
business  was  to  follow  the  workmen  with  a  mi- 
croscope, and  call  upon  them  to  retouch  their 
performances,  and  heighten  excellence  to  perfec- 
tion. The  reputation  of  his  house  now  brings 
round  him  a  daily  confluence  of  visitants,  and 
every  one  tells  him  of  some  elegance  which  he 
has  hitherto  overlooked,  some  convenience  not 
yet  procured,  or  some  new  mode  in  ornament  or 
furniture.  Bob,  who  had  no  wish  but  to  be  ad- 
mired, nor  any  guide  but  the  fashion,  thought 
every  thing  beautiful  in  proportion  as  it  was  new, 
and  considered  his  work  as  unfinished  while  any 
observer  could  suggest  an  addition ;  some  altera- 
tion was  therefore  every  day  made,  without  any 
other  motive  than  the  charms  of  novelty.  A  tra- 
veller at  last  suggested  to  him  the  convenience 
of  a  grotto;  Bob  immediately  ordered  the  mount 
of  his  garden  to  be  excavated :  and  having  laid 
out  a  large  sum  in  shells  and  minerals,  was  busy 
in  regulating  the  disposition  of  the  colours  and 
lustres,  when  two  gentlemen,  who  had  asked 
permission  to  see  his  gardens,  presented  him  a 
writ,  and  led  him  off  to  less  elegant  apartments. 

1  know  not,  Sir,  whether  among  this  fraternity 
of  sorrow,  you  will  think  any  much  to  be  pitied  ; 
nor  indeed  do  many  of  them  appear  to  solicit 
compassion,  for  they  generally  applaud  their  own 
conduct,  and  despise  those  whom  want  of  taste 
or  spirit  suffers  to  grow  rich.  It  were  happy  if 
the  prisons  of  the  kingdom  were  filled  only  with 
characters  like  these,  men  whom  prosperity  could 
not  make  useful,  and  whom  ruin  cannot  mak«j 
wise :  but  there  are  among  us  many  who  raise 
different  sensations,  many  that  owe  their  present 
misery  to  the  seductions  of  treachery,  the  strokes 
of  casualty,  or  the  tenderness  of  pity  ;  many 
whose  sufferings  disgrace  society,  and  whose 
virtues  would  adorn  it:  of  these,  when  familiar- 
ity shall  have  enabled  me  to  recount  their  stories 
without  horror,  you  may  expect  another  narra 
tive  from,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

MISARGTRUS. 


No.  58.]        SATURDAY,  MAT  25,  1753. 

Damnant  quod  non  intdligunt.  Crc. 

They  condemn  what  they  do  not  understand. 

EURIPIDES  having  presented  Socrates  with  the 
writings  of  Herachtup,  a  philosopher  famed  for 


No.  58.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


310 


involution  and  obscurity,  inquired  afterwards  his 
opinion  of  their  merit.  ""What  I  understand," 
said  Socrates, "  I  find  to  be  excellent ;  and,  there- 
fore, believe  that  to  be  of  equal  value  which  I 
cannot  understand." 

The  reflection  of  every  man  who  reads  this 
passage  will  suggest  to  him  the  difference  be- 
tween the  practice  of  Socrates,  and  that  of  mo- 
dern critics ;  Socrates,  who  had,  by  long  observa- 
tion upon  himself  and  others,  discovered  the 
weakness  of  the  strongest,  and  the  dimness  of 
the  most  enlightened  intellect,  was  afraid  to  de- 
cide hastily  in  his  own  favour,  or  to  conclude  that 
an  author  had  written  without  meaning,  because 
he  could  not  immediately  catch  his  ideas ;  he 
knew  that  the  faults  of  books  are  often  more 
justly  imputable  to  the  reader,  who  sometimes 
wants  attention,  and  sometimes  penetration  ; 
whose  understanding  is  often  obstructed  by  pre- 
judice, and  often  dissipated  by  remissness :  who 
comes  sometimes  to  a  new  study,  unfurnished 
with  knowledge  previously  necessary;  and  finds 
difficulties  insuperable,  for  want  of  ardour  suffi- 
cient to  encounter  them. 

Obscurity  and  clearness  are  relative  terms  :  to 
some  readers  scarce  any  book  is  easy,  to  others 
not  many  are  difficult:  and  surely  they,  whom 
neither  any  exuberant  praise  bestowed  by  others, 
nor  any  eminent  conquests  over  stubborn  pro- 
blems, have  entitled  to  exalt  themselves  above 
the  common  orders  of  mankind,  might  conde- 
scend to  imitate  the  candour  of  Socrates  ;  and 
where  they  find  incontestable  proofs  of  superior 
genius,  be  content  to  think  that  there  is  justness 
in  the  connexion  which  they  cannot  trace,  and 
cogency  in  the  reason  ing  which  they  cannot  com- 
prehend. 

This  diffidence  is  never  more  reasonable  than 
in  the  perusal  of  the  authors  of  antiquity ;  of 
those  whose  works  have  been  the  delight  of  ages, 
and  transmitted  as  the  great  inheritance  of  man- 
kind from  one  generation  to  another :  surely,  no 
man  can,  without  the  utmost  arrogance,  imagine 
that  he  brings  any  superiority  of  understanding 
to  the  perusal  of  these  books  which  have  been 
preserved  in  the  devastation  of  cities,  and  snatch- 
ed up  from  the  wreck  of  nations  ;  which  those 
who  fled  before  barbarians  have  been  careful  to 
carry  off"  in  the  hurry  of  migration,  and  of  which 
barbarians  have  repented  the  destruction.  If  in 
books  thus  made  venerable  by  the  uniform  attes- 
tation of  successive  ages,  any  passages  shall  ap- 
pear unworthy  of  that  praise  which  they  have 
formerly  received,  let  us  not  immediately  deter- 
mine, that  they  owed  their  reputation  to  dulness 
or  bigotry  ;  but  suspect  at  least  that  our  ances- 
tors had  some  reasons  for  their  opinions,  and 
that  our  ignorance  of  those  reasons  makes  us 
differ  from  them. 

It  often  happens  that  an  author's  reputation 
is  endangered  in  succeeding  times,  by  that  which 
raised  the  loudest  applause  among  his  contem- 
poraries :  nothing  is  read  with  greater  pleasure 
than  allusions  to  recent  facts,  reigning  opinions, 
or  present  controversies ;  but  when  facts  are  for- 
gotten, and  controversies  extinguished,  these  fa- 
vourite touches  lose  all  their  graces ;  and  the  au- 
thor in  his  descent  to  posterity  must  be  left  to  the 
mercy  of  chance,  without  any  power  of  ascer- 
taining the  memory  of  those  things,  to  which  he 
owed  his  luckiest  thoughts  and  his  kindest  re- 
ception. 


On  such  occasions,  every  reader  should  re- 
member the  diffidence  of  Socrates,  and  repair  by 
his  candour  the  injuries  of  time  :  he  should  im- 
pute the  seeming  defects  of  his  author  to  some 
chasm  of  intelligence,  and  suppose  that  the  sense 
which  is  now  weak  was  once  forcible,  and  th" 
expression  which  is  now  dubious  formerly  de- 
terminate. 

How  much  the  mutilation  of  ancient  history 
has  taken  away  from  the  beauty  of  poetical  per- 
formances, may  be  conjectured  from  the  light 
which  a  lucky  commentator  sometimes  effuses, 
by  the  recovery  of  an  incident  that  had  been 
long  forgotten  :  thus,  in  the  third  book  of  Ho- 
race, Juno's  denunciations  against  thoso  that 
should  presume  to  raise  again  the  walls  of  Troy, 
could  for  many  ages  please  only  by  splendid 
images  and  swelling  language,  of  which  no  man 
discovered  the  use  or  propriety,  till  Le  Fevie,  by 
showing  on  what  occasion  the  Ode  was  written, 
changed  wonder  to  rational  delight.  Many  pas- 
sages yet  undoubtedly  remain  in  the  same  au- 
thor, which  an  exacter  knowledge  of  the  inci- 
dents of  his  time  would  clear  from  objections. 
Among  these  I  have  always  numbered  the  fol- 
lowing lines : 

Aurum  per  medios  ire  satellites, 
Et  perrumjiere  amat  saxa,  potentiiu 
Ictu  fulmineo.     Concidit  Avgitrit 

Argivi  domus  ob  lucrum 
Demersa  excidiu.    Dijjidit  urbium 
Porlas  vir  Macedo,  et  submit  temulot 
Regcs  muneribiis.    Munera  navium 
Sieves  illaqueant  cluces. 

Stronger  than  thunder's  winged  force, 
All-powerful  gold  can  spread  its  course, 
Through  watchful  guards  its  passage  make. 
And  loves  through  solid  walls  to  break  •- 
From  gold  the  overwhelming  woes 
That  crush'd  the  Grecian  augur  rose 
Philip  with  gold  through  cities  broke, 
And  rival  monarchs  felt  his  yoke  ; 
Captains  of  ships  to  gold  arc  slaves, 
Though  fierce  as  their  own  winds  and  wave*. 
FRANCIS 

The  close  of  this  passage,  by  which  every  rea- 
der is  now  disappointed  and  offended,  was  pro- 
bably the  delight  of  the  Roman  Court :  it  cannot 
be  imagined,  that  Horace,  after  having  given  to 
golJ  the  force  of  thunder,  and  told  of  its  power  to 
storm  cities  and  to  conquer  kings,  would  have 
concluded  his  account  of  its  efficacy  with  its  in- 
fluence over  naval  commanders,  had  he  not  al- 
luded to  some  fact  then  current  in  the  mouths  of 
men,  and  therefore  more  interesting  for  a  time 
than  the  conquests  of  Philip.  Of  the  like  kind 
may  be  reckoned  another  stanza  in  the  same 
book : 


-Jussa  coram  non  sine  conscio 


Surgit  marilo,  seu  vocat  institor 
Sen  navis  Hispanaemagister 

Dedecorum  pretiosus  emptor 

The  conscious  husband  bills  her  rise, 

When  some  rich  factor  courts  her  charm*, 

Who  calls  the  wanton  to  his  arms, 

And,  prodieal  of  wealth  and  fame, 

Profusely  buys  the  costly  shame.  FRANCW. 

He  has  little  knowledge  of  Horace  who  imagines 
that  the  jactor,  or  the  Spanish  merchant,  are  men- 
tioned by  chance  :  there  was  undoubtedly  some 
popular  story  of  an  intrigue,  which  those  name« 
recalled  to  the  memory  of  his  reader. 


320 


TJii-1  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  62. 


The  flame  of  his  genius  in  other  parts,  though 
somewhat  dimmed  by  lime,  is  not  totally  eclipsed; 
his  address  and  judgment  yet  appear,  though 
much  of  the  spirit  and  vigour  of  his  sentiment  is 
lost :  this  has  happened  to  the  twentieth  Ode 
of  the  first  book  ; 

Vile  potabis  modicis  Sabinnm 
Cantliaris,  Grteca  quod  ego  ipse  testa 
Conditum  levi ;  datus  in  theatro 

Cum  tibi  plausus, 

Chare  Mecccnas  eques.     Ut  pater  >ti 
Fluminis  riptc,  simul  et  jocosa 
Redderet  laudes  tibi  f^aticani 

Montis  imago. 

A  poet's  beverage  humbly  cheap, 

(Should  great  Msecenas  be  ray  guest) 
The  vintage  of  the  t'abine  grape. 

But  yet  in  sober  cups  shall  crown  the  feast : 
Twas  rack'd  into  a  Grecian  cask, 

Its  rougher  juice  to  melt  away  : 
I  seal'd  it  too — a  pleasing  task  ! 

With  annual  joy  to  mark  the  glorious  day, 
When  in  applausive  shouts  thy  name 

Spread  from  the  theatre  around, 
Floating  on  thy  own  Tiber's  stream, 

And  Echo,  playful  nymph,  return'd  the  sound. 

FRANCIS. 

We  here  easily  remark  the  intertexture  of  a 
happy  compliment  with  an  humble  invitation  ; 
but  certainly  are  less  delighted  than  those,  to 
whom  the  mention  of  the  applause  bestowed 
upon  Maecenas  gave  occasion  to  recount  the 
actions  or  words  that  produced  it. 

Two  lines  which  have  exercised  the  ingenuity 
of  modern  critics,  may,  I  think,  be  reconciled  to 
the  judgment,  by  an  easy  supposition :  Horace 
thus  addresses  Agrippa  : 

Scriberis  Variofortis,  et  hostium 
fictor,  Mzonii  car-minis  alite. 

Varius   a  swan  of  Homer's  wing,     • 
Shall  brave  Agrippa's  conquests  sing. 

That  Varius  should  be  called  "  A  bird  of  Ho- 
meric song,"  appears  so  ..harsh  to  modern  ears, 
that  an  emendation  of  the  texthasbeen  proposed; 
but  surely  the  learning  of  the  ancients  had  been 
long  ago  obliterated,  had  every  man  thought  him- 
self at  liberty  to  corrupt  the  lines  which  he  did 
not  understand.  Tf  we  imagine  that  Varius  had 
been  by  any  of  his  cotemporaries  celebrated 
under  the  appellation  of  Musarum  Jlles,  the  swan 
of  the  Muses,  the  language  of  Horace  becomes 
graceful  and  familiar ;  and  that  such  a  compli- 
ment was  at  least  possible,  we  know  from  the 
transformation  feigned  by  Horace  of  himself. 

The  most  elegant  compliment  that  was  paid 
to  Addison,  is  of  this  obscure  and  perishable 
kind: 

When  panting  Virtue  her  last  efforts  made. 
You  brought  your  Clio  to  the  virgin's  aid. 

These  lines  must  please  as  long  as  they  are  un- 
derstood ;  but  can  be  understood  only  by  those 
that  have  observed  Addison's  signatures  in  the 
Spectator. 

The  nicety  of  these  minute  allusions  I  shall 
exemplify  by  another  instance,  which  I  take  this 
occasion  to  mention,  because,  as  I  am  told, 
the.  commentators  have  omitted  it.  Tibullus 
addresses  Cynthia  in  this  manner  : 

Te  tpectum,  suprema  mihi  cum  venerit  hora 
Te  teneam  moriens  def.ciente  manu. 


Before  my  closing  eyes  dear  Cynthia  stand, 
Held  weakly  by  my  fainting  trembling  hand 

To  these  lines  Ovid  thus  refers  in  his  elegy  on 
the  death  of  Tibullus  : 

Cynthia  dectdens,felicius,  intjuit,  amata 
Sum  tibi ;  vizisti  dum  tuns  ignis  cram. 

Cui  Nemesis,  quid,  ait,  tibi  sunt  men.  damna  dolori 
Me  tenuit  moriens  deficiente  manu. 

Blest  was  my  reign,  retiring  Cynthia  cried  ; 
Nor  till  he  left  my  breast,  Tibullus  died. 
Forbear,  said  Nemesis,  my  loss  to  moan. 
The  fainting  trembling  hand  was  mine  alone. 

The  beauty  of  this  passage,  which  consists  in 
the  appropriation  made  by  Nemesis  of  the  line 
originally  directed  to  Cynthia,  had  been  wholly 
imperceptible  to  succeeding  ages,  had  chance, 
which  has  destroyed  so  many  greater  volumes, 
deprived  us  likewise  of  the  poems  of  Tibullus. 


No  62.]      SATURDAY,  JUNE.  9,  1753 

O  fortunu  viris  invidajortibus, 
Quam  non  aqua  bonis  prtcmia  dividit. 

Capricious  Fortune  ever  joys, 
With  partial  band  to  deal  the  prize, 
To  crush  the  brave,  and  cheat  the  wise 


TO  THE  ADVENTURER 


SIR, 


Fleet,  June  6. 


To  the  account  of  such  of  my  companions  as 
are  imprisoned  without  being  miserable,  or  are 
miserable  without  any  claim  to  compassion  ;  I 
promised  to  add  the  histories  of  those,  whose 
virtue  has  made  them  unhappy,  or  whose  mis- 
fortunes are  at  least  without  a  crime.  That  this 
catalogue  should  be  very  numerous,  neither  you 
nor  your  readers  ought  to  expect:  "  rari  quippe 
front;"  "  the  good  men  are  few."  Virtue  is  un- 
common in  all  the  classes  of  humanity  ;  and  I 
suppose  it  will  scarcely  be  imagined  more  ire 
quent  in  a  prison  than  in  other  places. 

Yet  in  these  gloomy  regions  is  to  be  found  the 
tenderness,  the  generosity,  the  philanthropy  of 
Serenus,  who  might  have  lived  in  competence 
and  ease,  if  he  could  have  looked  without  emo- 
tion on  the  miseries  of  another.  Serenus  was 
one  of  those  exalted  minds,  whom  knowledge 
and  sagacity  could  not  make  suspicious  ;  who 
poured  out  his  soul  in  boundless  intimacy,  and 
thought  community  of  possessions  the  law  of 
friendship.  The  friend  of  Serenus  was  arrested 
for  debt,  and  after  many  endeavours  to  soften  his 
creditor,  sent  his  wife  to  solicit  that  assistance 
which  never  was  refused.  The  tears  and  impor- 
tunity of  female  distress  were  more  than  was 
necessary  to  move  the  heart  of  Serenus  ;  he 
hasted  immediately  away,  and  conferring  a  long 
time  with  his  friend,  found  him  confident  that  if 
the  present  pressure  was  taken  off,  he  should 
soon  be  able  to  re-establish  his  affairs.  Serenus, 
accustomed  to  believe,  and  afraid  to  aggravate 
distress,  did  not  attempt  to  detect  the  fallacies  of 
hope,  nor  reflect  that  every  man  overwhelmed 
with  calamity,  believes,  that  if  that  was  removed 
he  shall  immediately  be  happy ;  he,  therefore, 
with  little  hesitation  offered  himself  as  surety. 

In  the  first  raptures  of  escape  all  was  joy,  gra 


Xo.  G2.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


titude,  and  confidence ;  the  t'riend  of  Serenas 
displayed  his  prospects,  and  counted  over  the 
sums  of  which  he  should  infallibly  be  master 
before  the  day  of  payment.  Serenus  in  a  short 
time  began  to  find  his  danger,  but  could  not  pre- 
vail with  himself  to  repent  of  beneficence:  and 
therefore  suffered  himself  still  to  be  amused  with 
projects  which  he  durst  not  consider,  for  fear  of 
finding  them  impracticable.  The  debtor,  after 
he  had  tried  every  method  of  raising  money 
vyhich  art  or  indigence  could  prompt,  wanted 
either  fidelity  or  resolution  to  surrender  himself 
to  prison,  and  left  Serenus  to  take  his  place. 

Serenus  has  often  proposed  to  the  creditor,  to 
pay  him  whatever  he  shall  appear  to  have  lost  by 
the  flight  of  his  friend  :  but  however  reasonable 
this  proposal  may  be  thought,  avarice  and  bru- 
tality have  been  hitherto  inexorable,  and  Sere- 
nus still  continues  to  languish  in  prison. 

In  this  place,  however,  where  want  makes 
almost  every  man  selfish,  or  desperation  gloomy, 
it  is  the  good  fortune  of  Serenus  not  to  live  with- 
out a  friend  ;  he  passes  most  of  his  hours  in  the 
conversation  of  Candidus,  a  man  whom  the 
same  virtuous  ductility  has,  with  some  difference 
of  circumstances,  made  equally  unhappy.  Candi- 
dus, when  he  was  young,  helpless,  and  ignorant, 
found  a  patron  that  educated,  protected,  and 
supported  him  :  his  patron  being  more  vigilant 
for  others  than  himself,  left  at  his  death  an  only 
son,  destitute  and  friendless.  Candidus  was 
eager  to  repay  the  benefits  he  had  received  ;  and 
having  maintained  the  youth  for  a  few  years  at 
his  own  house,  afterwards  placed  him  with  a 
merchant  of  eminence,  and  gave  bonds  to  a 
great  value  as  a  security  for  his  conduct. 

The  young  man,  removed  too  early  from  the 
only  eye  of  which  he  dreaded  the  observation, 
and  deprived  of  the  only  instruction  which  he 
heard  with  reverence,  soon  learned  to  consider 
virtue  as  restraint,  and  restraint  as  oppression ; 
and  to  look  with  a  longing  eye  at  every  expense 
to  which  he  could  not  reach,  and  every  pleasure 
which  he  could  not  partake  :  by  degrees  he  de- 
viated from  his  first  regularity,  and  unhappily 
mingling  among  young  men  busy  in  dissipating 
the  gains  of  their  father's  industry,  he  forgot 
the  precepts  of  Candidus,  spent  the  evening  in 
parties  of  pleasure,  and  the  morning  in  expedi- 
ents to  support  his  riots.  He  was,  however, 
dexterous  and  active  in  business  ;  and  his  mas- 
ter, being  secured  against  any  consequences  of 
dishonesty,  was  very  little  solicitous  to  inspect 
his  manners,  or  to  inquire  how  he  passed  those 
hours,  which  were  not  immediately  devoted  to 
the  business  of  his  profession  :  when  he  was  in- 
formed of  the  young  man's  extravagance  or  de- 
bauchery, "  let  his  bondsman  look  to  that,"  said 
he,  "  I  have  taken  care  of  myself." 

Thus  the  unhappy  spendthrift  proceeded  from 
folly  to  folly,  and  from  vice  to  vice,  with  the  con- 
nivance if  not  the  encouragement  of  his  master  ; 
till  in  the  heat  of  a  nocturnal  revel  he  committed 
such  violences  in  the  street  as  drew  upon  him  a 
criminal  prosecution.  Guilty  ami  unexperienced, 
he  knew  not  what  course  to  take  ;  to  confess  his 
crime  to  Candidus,  and  solicit  his  interposition, 
was  little  less  dreadful  than  to  stand  before  the 
frown  of  a  court  of  justice.  Having,  therefore, 
passed  the  day  with  anguish  in  his  heart,  and 
distraction  in  his  looks,  he  seized  at  night  a  very 
large  sum  of  money  in  the  compting  house,  and 
2Q. 


setting  out  he  knew  not  whither,  was  heard  of  no 
more. 

The  consequence'of  his  flight  was  the  ruin  of 
Candidus  :  ruin  surely  undeserved  and  irre- 
proachable, and  such  as  the  laws  of  a  just 
government  ought  either  to  prevent  or  repair ; 
nothing  is  more  inequitable  than  that  one  man 
should  suffer  for  the  crimes  of  another,  for  crimes 
which  he  neither  prompted  nor  permitted,  which 
he  could  neither  foresee  nor  prevent.  When  we 
consider  the  weakness  of  human  resolutions  and 
the  inconsistency  of  human  conduct,  it  must  ap- 
pear absurd  that  one  man  shall  engage  for  ano- 
ther, that  he  will  not  change  his  opinions  or  alter 
his  conduct. 

It  is,  I  think,  worthy  of  consideration,  whe- 
ther, since  no  wager  is  binding  without  a  pos- 
sibility of  Joss  on  each  side,  it  is  not  equally 
reasonable,  that  no  contract  should  be  valid  with- 
out reciprocal  stipulations ;  but  in  this  case,  and 
others  of  the  same  kind,  what  is  stipulated  on 
his  side  to  whom  the  bond  is  given  ?  he  takes 
advantage  of  the  security,  neglects  his  affairs, 
omits  his  duty,  suffers  timorous  wickedness  to 
grow  daring  by  degrees,  permits  appetite  to  call 
for  new  gratifications,  and,  perhaps,  secretly 
longs  for  the  time  in  which  he  shall  have  power 
to  seize  the  forfeiture  ;  and  if  virtue  or  gratitude 
should  prove  too  strong  for  temptation,  and  a 
young  man  persist  in  honesty,  however  instigat- 
ed by  his  passions,  what  can  secure  him  at  last 
against  a  false  accusation  ?  I  for  my  part  always 
shall  suspect,  that  he  who  can  by  such  methods 
secure  his  property,  will  go  one  step  farther  to 
increase  it ;  nor  can  1  think  that  man  safely 
trusted  with  the  means  of  mischief,  who  by  his 
desire  to  have  them  in  his  hands,  gives  an  evi- 
dent proof  how  much  less  he  values  his  neigh  • 
hour's  happiness  than  his  own. 

Another  of  our  companions  is  Lentulus,  a  man 
whose  dignity  of  birth  was  very  ill  supported  by 
his  fortune.  As  some  of  the  first  offices  in  the 
kingdom  were  filled  by  his  relations,  he  was 
early  invited  to  court,  and  encouraged  by  caresses 
and  promises  to  attendance  and  solicitation :  a 
constant  appearance  in  splendid  company,  ne- 
cessarily required  magnificence  of  dress ;  and  a 
frequent  participation  of  fashionable  amusements 
forced  him  into  expense :  but  these  measures 
were  requisite  to  his  success  :  since  every  body 
knows,  that  to  be  lost  to  sight  is  to  be  lost  to 
remembrance,  and  that  he  who  desires  to  fill  a 
vacancy,  must  be  always  at  hand,  lest  some 
man  of  greater  vigilance  should  step  in  before 
him. 

By  this  course  of  life  his  little  fortune  was 
everyday  made  less:  but  he  received  so  many 
distinctions  in  public,  and  was  known  to  resort 
so  familiarly  to  the  houses  of  the  great,  that 
every  man  looked  on  his  preferment  as  certain, 
and  believed  that  its  value  would  compensate  for 
its  slowness :  he,  therefore,  found  no  difficulty 
in  obtaining  credit  for  all  that  his  rank  or  his 
vanity  made  necessary :  and,  as  ready  payment 
was  not  expected,  the  bills  were  proportionably 
enlarged,  and  the  value  of  the  hazard  or  delay 
were  adjusted  solely  by  the  equity  of  the  credit- 
or. At  length  death  deprived  Lentulus  of  one 
of  his  patrons,  and  a  revolution  in  the  ministry 
of  another  ;  so  that  all  his  prospects  vanished  at 
once,  and  those  that  had  before  encouraged  hia 
expenses,  began  to  perceive  that  their  money 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  67. 


was,in  danger ;  tliere  was  now  no  other  conten- 
tion but  who  should  first  seize  upon  his  person, 
and  by  forcing  immediate  payment,  deliver  him  up 
naked  to  the  vengeance  of  the  rest.  In  pursu- 
ance of  this  scheme,  one  of  them  invited  him  to 
a  tavern,  and  procured  him  to  be  arrested  at  the 
door;  but  Lentulus,  instead  of  endeavouring 
secretly  to  pacify  .him  by  payment,  gave  notice 
to  the  rest,  and  offered  to  divide  amongst  them 
the  remnant  of  his  fortune:  they  feasted  six 
hours  at  his  expense,  to  deliberate  on  his  proposal: 
and  at  last  determined  that  as  he  could  not  offer 
more  than  five  shillings  in  the  pound,  it  would  be 
more  prudent  to  keep  him  in  prison,  till  he  could 
procure  from  his  relations  the  payment  of  his 
debts. 

Lentulus  is  not  the  only  man  confined  within 
these  walls,  on  the  same  account ;  the  like  pro- 
cedure, upon  the  like  motives,  is  common  among 
men  whom  yet  the  law  allows  to  partake  the  use 
of  fire  and  water  with  the  compassionate  and  the 
just ;  who  frequent  the  assemblies  of  commerce 
in  open  day,  and  talk  with  detestation  and  con- 
tempt of  highwaymen  or  housebreakers :  but, 
surely,  that  man  must  be  confessedly  robbed, 
who  is  compelled,  by  whatever  means,  to  pay 
the  debts  which  he  does  not  owe :  nor  can  I  look 
with  equal  hatred  upon  him,  who,  at  the  hazard 
of  his  life,  holds  out  his  pistol  and  demands  my 
purse,  as  on  him  who  plunders  under  shelter  of 
the  law,  and  by  detaining  my  son  or  my  friend 
in  prison,  extorts  from  me  the  price  of  their 
liberty.  No  man  can  be  more  an  enemy  to  soci- 
ety than  he,  by  whose  machinations  our  virtues 
are  turned  to  our  disadvantage ;  he  is  less  de- 
structive to  mankind  that  plunders  cowardice, 
than  he  that  preys  upon  compassion. 

I  believe,  Mr.  Adventurer,  you  will  readily 
confess,  that  though  not  one  of  these,  if  tried  be- 
fore a  commercial  judicature,  can  be  wholly 
acquitted  from  imprudence  or  temerity  ;  yet 
that,  in  the  eye  of  all  who  can  consider  virtue  as 
distinct  from  wealth,  the  fault  of  two  of  them,  at 
least,  is  outweighed  by  the  merit ;  and  that  of  the 
third  is  so  much  extenuated  by  the  circumstances 
of  his  life,  as  not  to  deserve  a  perpetual  prison  : 
yet  must  these,  with  multitudes  equally  blame- 
less, languish  in  confinement,  till  malevolence 
shall  relent,  or  the  law  be  changed.  I  am,  Sir, 
your  humble  servant 

MISARGYRUS. 


No.  67.]      TUESDAY,  JUNE  26,  1753. 

Intentas — vitam  excoluere  per  artet.  VIRG. 

They  polish  life  by  useful  arts. 

THAT  familiarity  produces  neglect,  has  been  long 
observed.  The  effect  of  all  external  objects, 
however  great  or  splendid,  ceases  with  their  no- 
velty ;  the  courtier  stands  without  emotion  in  the 
royal  presence;  the  rustic  tramples  under  his 
foot  the  beauties  of  the  spring  with  little  atten- 
tion to  their  colours  or  their  fragrance ;  and  the 
inhabitant  of  the  coast  darts  his  eye  upon  the 
immense  diffusion  of  waters,  without  awe,  won- 
der, or  terror. 

Those  who  have  passed  much  of  their  lives 
In  this  great  city,  look  upon  its  opulence  and  its 
multitudes,  its  extent  and  variety,  with  cold  in- 


difference ;  but  an  inhabitant  of  the  remoter 
parts  of  the  kingdom  is  immediately  distinguish- 
ed by  a  kind  of  dissipated  curiosity,  a  busy  en- 
deavour to  divide  his  atteulion  amongst  a  thou- 
sand objects,  and  a  wild  confusion  of  astonish- 
ment and  alarm. 

The  attention  of  a  new  comer  is  generally 
first  struck  by  the  multiplicity  of  cries  that  stun 
him  in  the  streets,  and  the  variety  of  merchan- 
dise and  manufactures  which  the  shopkeepers 
expose  on  every  hand ;  and  he  is  apt,  by  unwary 
bursts  of  admiration,  to  excite  the  merriment 
and  contempt  of  those  who  mistake  the  use  of 
their  eyes  for  effects  of  their  understanding, 
and  confound  accidental  knowledge  with  just 
reasoning. 

But,  surely,  these  are  subjects  on  which  any 
man  may  without  reproach  employ  his  medita 
tions  :  the  innumerable  occupations,  among 
which  the  thousands  that  swarm  in  the  streets 
of  London  are  distributed,  may  furnish  employ- 
ment to  minds  of  every  cast,  and  capacities  o. 
every  degree.  He  that  contemplates  the  extent 
of  this  wonderful  city,  finds  it  difficult  to  con- 
ceive, by  what  method  plenty  is  maintained  in 
our  markets,  and  how  the  inhabitants  are  regu- 
larly supplied  with  the  necessaries  of  life  ;  but 
when  he  examines  the  shops  and  warehouses, 
sees  the  immense  stores  of  every  kind  of  mer 
chandise  piled  up  for  sale,  and  runs  over  all  the 
manufactures  of  art  and  products  of  nature, 
which  are  every  where  attracting  his  eye  and 
soliciting  his  purse,  he  will  be  inclined  to  con- 
clude, that  such  quantities  cannot  easily  be  ex- 
hausted, and  that  part  of  mankind  mu^t  soon 
stand  still  for  want  of  employment,  till  the  wares 
already  provided  shall  be  worn  out  and  destroyed. 

As  Socrates  was  passing  through  the  fair  at 
Athens,  and  casting  his  eyes  over  the  shops  and 
customers  "  haw  many  things  are  here,"  says 
he,  "that  I  do  not  want!"  The  same  senti- 
ment is  every  moment  rising  in  the  mind  of  him 
that  walks  the  streets  of  London,  however  infe- 
rior in  philosophy  to  Socrates  ;  he  beholds  a 
thousand  shops  crowded  with  goods,  of  which 
he  can  scarcely  tell  the  use,  and  which,  therefore, 
he  is  apt  to  consider  as  of  no  value :  and,  indeed, 
many  of  the  arts  by  which  families  are  support- 
ed, and  wealth  is  heaped  together,  ai  e  of  that 
minute  and  superfluous  kind,  which  nothing  but 
experience  could  evince  possible  to  be  prosecuted 
with  advantage,  and  which,  as  the  world  might 
easily  want,  it  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  en- 
courage. 

But  so  it  is,  that  custom,  curiosity,  or  wanton- 
ness, supplies  every  art  with  patrons,  and  finds 
purchasers  for  every  manufacture  ;  the  world  is 
so  adjusted,  that  not  only  bread,  but  riches  may 
be  obtained  without  great  abilities  or  arduous 
performances  ;  the  most  unskilful  hand  and  un- 
enlightened mind  have  sufficient  incitements 
to  industry  ;  for  he  that  is  resolutely  busy  can 
scarcely  be  in  want.  There  is,  indeed,  no  em- 
ployment, however  despicable,  from  which  a 
man  may  not  promise  himself  more  than  com- 
petence, when  he  sees  thousands  and  myriads 
raised  to  dignity,  by  no  other  merit  than  that  of 
contributing  to  supply  their  neighbours  with  the 
means  of  sucking  smoke  through  a  tube  of  clay ; 
and  others  raising  contributions  upon  those, 
whose  elegance  disdains  the  grossness  of  smoky 
lujury,  by  grinding  the  same  materials  into  a 


N'o.  67.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


323 


powder  that  may  at  once  gratify  and  impair  the 
•mell. 

Not  only  by  these  popular  and  modish  trifles, 
but  by  a  thousand  unheeded  and  evanescent 
kinds  of  business,  are  the  multitudes  of  this  city, 
preserved  from  idleness,  and  consequently  from 
want.  In  the  endless  variety  of  tastes  and  cir- 
cumstances that  diversify  mankind,  nothing  is  so 
superfluous,  but  that  some  one  desires  it :  or  so 
common,  but  that  some  one  is  compelled  to  buy 
it.  As  nothing  is  useless  but  because  it  is  in 
improper  hands,  what  is  thrown  away  by  one  is 
gathered  up  by  another  :  and  the  refuse  of  part 
of  mankind  furnishes  a  subordinate  class  with 
the  materials  necessary  to  their  support. 

When  I  look  round  upon  those  who  are  thus 
variously  exerting  their  qualifications,  I  cannot 
but  admire  the  secret  concatenation  of  society 
that  links  together  the  great  and  the  mean,  the 
illustrious  and  the  obscure  ;  and  consider  with 
benevolent  satisfaction,  that  no  man,  unless  his 
body  or  mind  be  totally  disabled,  has  need  to 
suffer  the  mortification  of  seeing  himself  useless 
or  burdensome  to  the  community:  he  that  will  dili- 
gently labour,  in  whatever  occupation,  will  de- 
serve the  sustenance  which  he  obtains,  and  the 
protection  which  he  enjoys  :  and  may  lie  down 
every  night  with  the  pleasing  consciousness  of 
having  contributed  something  to  the  happiness  of 
life. 

Contempt  and  admiration  are  equally  incident 
to  narrow  minds  :  he  whose  comprehension  can 
take  in  the  whole  subordination  of  mankind,  and 
whose  perspicacity  can  pierce  to  the  real  state  of 
things  through  the  thin  veils  of  fortune  or  of 
fashion,  will  discover  meanness  in  the  highest 
stations,  and  dignity  in  the  meanest ;  and  find 
that  no  man  can  become  venerable  but  by  virtue, 
or  contemptible  but  by  wickedness. 

In  the  midst  of  this  universal  hurry,  no  man 
ought  to  be  so  little  influenced  by  example,  or 
so  void  of  honest  emulation,  as  to  stand  a  lazy 
spectator  of  incessant  labour ;  or  please  himself 
with  the  mean  happiness  of  a  drone,  while  the 
active  swarms  are  buzzing  about  him  ;  no  man 
is  without  some  quality,  by  the  due  application 
of  which  he  might  deserve  well  of  the  world ; 
and  whoever  he  be  that  has  but  little  in  his 

Eower,  should  be  in  haste  to  do  that  little,  lest  he 
e  confounded  with  him  that  can  do  nothing. 
By  this  general  concurrence  of  endeavours, 
arts  of  every  kind  have  been  so  long  cultivated, 
that  all  the  wants  of  man  may  be  immediately 
supplied ;  idleness    can   scarcely  form  a    wish 
which  she  may  not  gratify  by  the  toil  of  others, 
or  curiosity  dream  of  a  toy,  which  the  shops  are 
not  ready  to  afford  her. 

Happiness  is  enjoyed  onlv  in  proportion  as  it 
is  known ;  and  such  is  the  state  or  tolly  of  man, 
that  it  is  known  only  by  experience  of  its  con- 
trary :  we  who  have  Jong  lived  amidst  the  conve- 
niences of  a  town  immensely  populous,  have 
scarce  an  idea  of  a  place  where  desire  cannot  be 
gratified  by  money.  In  order  to  have  a  just 
sense  of  this  artificial  plenty,  it  is  necessary  to 
Aave  passed  some  time  in  a  distant  colony,  or 
those  parts  of  our  island  which  are  thinly  inha- 
bited :  he  that  has  once  known  how  many  trades 
every  man  in  such  situations  is  compelled  to  ex- 
ercise, with  how  much  labour  the  products  of 
nature  must  be  accommodated  to  human  use, 
bow  long  the  loss  or  defect  of  any  common  uten- 


sil must  be  endured,  or  by  what  awkward  expe- 
dients it  must  be  supplied,  how  far  men  may  wan- 
der with  money  in  their  hands  before  any  can 
sell  them  what  they  wish  to  buy,  will  know  how 
to  rate  at  its  proper  value  the  plenty  and  ease  of 
a  great  city. 

T3ut  that  the  happiness  of  man  may  still  re- 
main imperfect,  as  wants  in  this  place  are  easily 
supplied,  new  wants  likewise  are  easily  created; 
every  man  in  surveying  the  shops  of  London, 
sees  numberless  instruments  and  conveniences, 
of  which,  while  he  did  not  know  them,  he,  never 
felt  the  need ;  and  yet,  when  use  has  made  them 
familiar,  wonders  how  life  could  be  supported 
without  them.  Thus  it  comes  to  pass,  that  our 
desires  always  increase  with  our  possessions;  the 
knowledge  that  something  remains  yet  unenjoy- 
ed,  impairs  our  enjoyment  of  the  good  before  us. 

They  who  have  been  accustomed  to  the  refine- 
ments of  science,  and  multiplications  of  contri- 
vance, soon  lose  their  confidence  in  the  unassist- 
ed powers  of  nature,  forget  the  paucity  of  our  real 
necessities,  and  overlook  the  easy  methods  by 
which  they  may  be  supplied.  It  were  a  specu- 
lation worthy  of  a  philosophical  mind,  to  examine 
how  much  is  taken  away  from  our  native  abili- 
ties, as  wrell  as  added  to  them,  by  artificial  ex- 
pedients. We  are  so  accustomed  to  give  and 
receive  assistance,  that  each  of  us  singly  can  do 
little  for  himself;  and  there  is  scarce  any  one 
among  us,  however  contracted  may  be  his  form 
of  life,  who  does  not  enjoy  the  labour  of  a  thou- 
sand artists. 

But  a  survey  of  the  various  nations  that  inha 
bit  the  earth  will  inform  us,  that  life  may  be  sup- 
ported with  less  assistance  ;  and  that  the  dexte- 
rity, which  practice  enforced  by  necessity  pro- 
duces, is  able  to  effect  much  by  very  scanty 
means.  The  nations  of  Mexico  and  Peru  erect- 
ed cities  and  temples  without  the  use  of  iron;  and 
at  this  day  the  rude  Indian  supplies  himself  with 
all  the  necessaries  of  life :  sent  like  the  rest  of 
mankind  naked  into  the  world,  as  soon  as  his 
parents  have  nursed  him  up  to  strength,  he  is  to 
provide  by  his  own  labour  for  his  own  support. 
His  first  care  is  to  find  a  sharp  flint  among  the 
rocks ;  with  this  he  undertakes  to  fell  the  trees  of 
the  forest ;  he  shapes  his  bow,  heads  his  arrows, 
builds  his  cottage,  and  hollows  his  canoe,  and 
from  that  time  lives  in  a  state  of  plenty  and  pros- 
perity ;  he  is  sheltered  from  the  storms,  he  is  for- 
tified against  beasts  of  prey,  he  is  enabled  to 
pursue  the  fish  of  the  sea,  and  the  deer  of  the 
mountains  ;  and  as  he  does  not  know,  does  not 
envy  the  happiness  of  polished  nations,  where 
gold  can  supply  the  want  of  fortitude  and  skill, 
and  he  whose  laborious  ancestors  have  made  him 
rich,  may  lie  stretched  upon  a  couch,  and  see  all 
the  treasures  of  all  the  elements  poured  down 
before  him. 

This  picture  of  a  savage  life,  if  it  shows  how 
much  individuals  may  perform,  shows  likewise 
how  much  society  is  to  be  desired.  Though  the 
perseverance  and  address  of  the  Indian  excite 
our  admiration,  they  nevertheless  cannot  procure 
him  the  conveniences  which  are  enjoyed  by  the 
vagrant  beggar  of  a  civilized  country :  he  hunts 
like  a  wild  beast  to  satisfy  his  hunger:  and  when 
he  lies  down  to  rest  after  a  successful  chase,  can- 
not pronounce  himself  secure  against  the  danger 
of  perishing  in  a  few  days  ;  he  is,  perhaps,  con- 
tent with  his  condition,  because  be  know? 


324 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  6y. 


that  a  better  is  attainable  by  man  ;  as  he  that  is 
born  blind  does  not  long  lor  the  perception  of 
licrht  because  he  cannot  conceive  the  advan- 
tages which  light  would  afford  him ;  but  hun- 
ger wounds,  and  weariness  are  real  evils,  though 
he  believes  them  equally  incident  to  all  his  fel- 
low-creatures ;  and  when  a  tempest  compels 
him  to  lie  starving  in  his  hut,  he  cannot  justly 
be  concluded  equally  happy  with  those  whom 
art  has  exempted  from  the  power  of  chance,  and 
who  make  the  foregoing  year  provide  for  the 
following. 

To  receive  and  to  communicate  assistance, 
constitutes  the  happiness  of  human  life;  man 
may,  indeed,  preserve  his  existence  in  solitude, 
but  can  enjoy  it  only  in  society ;  the  greatest  un- 
derstanding of  an  individual  doomed  to  procure 
food  and  clothing  for  himself,  will  barely  supply 
him  with  expedients  to  keep  off  death  from  day 
to  day  ;  but  as  one  of  a  large  community  per- 
forming only  his  share  of  the  common  business, 
he  gains  leisure  for  intellectual  pleasures,  and 
enjoys  the  happiness  of  reason  and  reflection. 


No.  69.]        TUESDAY,  JULY  3,  1753. 

Fere  libenter  homines  id  quod  volunt  crtAv.nl.   CJESAR. 
Men  willingly  believe  what  they  wish  to  be  true. 

TULLY  has  long  ago  observed,  that  no  man 
however  weakened  by  long  life,  is  so  conscious 
of  his  own  decrepitude,  as  not  to  imagine  that 
he  may  yet  hold  his  station  in  the  world  for  ano- 
ther year. 

Of  the  truth  of  this  remark  every  day  furnishes 
new  confirmation:  there  is  no  time  of  life,  in 
which  men  for  the  most  part  seem  less  to  expect 
the  stroke  of  death,  than  when  every  other  eye 
sees  it  impending ;  or  are  more  busy  in  providing 
for  another  year,  than  when  it  is  plain  to  all  but 
themselves,  that  at  another  year  they  cannot  ar- 
rive. Though  every  funeral  that  passes  before 
their  eyes  evinces  the  deceitfulness  of  such  ex- 
pectations, since  every  man  who  is  borne  to  the 
grave  thought  himself  equally  certain  of  living  at 
least  to  the  next  year ;  the  survivor  still  continues 
to  flatter  himself,  and  is  never  at  a  loss  for  some 
reason  why  his  life  should  be  protracted,  and  the 
voracity  of  death  continue  to  be  pacified  with 
some  other  prey. 

But  this  is  only  one  of  the  innumerable  artifices 
practised  in  the  universal  conspiracy  of  mankind 
against  themselves ;  every  age  and  every  condi- 
tion indulges  some  darling  fallacy  ;  every  man 
amuses  himself  with  projects  which  he  knows  to 
be  improbable,  and  which,  therefore,  he  resolves 
to  pursue  without  daring  to  examine  them. 
Whatever  any  man  ardently  desires,  he  very 
readily  believes  that  he  shall  some  time  attain  : 
he  whose  intemperance  has  overwhelmed  him 
with  diseases,  while  he  languishes  in  the  spring, 
expects  vigour  and  recovery  from  the  summer 
sun  ;  and  while  he  melts  away  in  the  summer, 
transfers  his  hopes  to  the  frosts  of  winter :  he 
that  gazes  upon  elegance  or  pleasure,  which 
want  of  money  hinders  him  from  imitating  or 
partaking,  comforts  himself  that  the  time  of  dis- 
tress will  soon  be  at  an  end,  and  that  every  day 
orings  him  nearer  to  a  state  of  happiness;  though 
he  knows  it  has  passed  not  only  without  acqui- 


sition of  advantage,  but  perhaps  without  endea- 
vours after  it,  in  the  formation  of  schemes  that 
cannot  be  executed,  and  in  the  contemplation  of 
prospects  which  cannot  be  approached. 

Such  is  the  general  dream  in  which  we  all 
slum  car  out  our  time  :  every  man  thinks  the  day 
coming,  in  which  he  shall  be  gratified  with  all 
his  w'jshes,  in  which  he  shall  leave  all  those  com- 
petitors oenind,  who  are  now  rejoicing  like  him- 
self in  the  expectation  of  victory ;  the  day  is  al- 
ways coming  to  the  servile  in  which  they  shall 
be  powerful,  to  the  obscure  in  which  they  shall 
be  eminent,  and  to  the  deformed  in  which  they 
shall  be  beautiful. 

If  any  of  my  readers  has  looked  with  so  littlo 
attention  on  the  world  about  him,  as  to  imagine 
this  representation  exaggerated  beyond  probabi 
li'.y,  let  him  reflect  a  little  upon  his  own  life  ;  let 
him  consider  what  were  his  hopes  and  prospects 
ten  years  ago,  and  what  additions  he  then  ex- 
pected to  be  made  by  ten  years  to  his  happiness: 
those  years  are  now  elapsed  ;  have  they  made 
good  the  promise  that  was  extorted  from  them, 
have  they  advanced  his  fortune,  enlarged  his 
knowledge,  or  reformed  his  conduct,  to  the  de- 
gree that  was  once  expected  ?  I  am  afraid  every 
man  that  recollects  his  hopes  must  confess  his 
disappointment ;  and  own  that  day  has  glided 
unprofitably  after  day,  and  that  he  is  still  at  the 
same  distance  from  the  point  of  happiness. 

With  what  consolations  can  those,  who  have 
thus  miscarried  in  their  chief  design,  elude  the 
memory  of  their  ill-success  ?  with  what  amuse- 
ments can  they  pacify  their  discontent,  after  the 
loss  of  so  large  a  portion  of  life  ?  They  can  give 
themselves  up  again  to  the  same  delusions,  they 
can  form  new  schemes  of  airy  gratifications,  and 
fix  another  period  of  felicity  ;  they  can  again  re- 
solve to  trust  the  promise  which  they  know  will 
be  broken,  they  can  walk  in  a  circle  with  their 
eyes  shut,  and  persuade  themselves  to  think  that 
they  go  forward. 

Of  every  great  and  complicated  event,  part  de- 
pends upon  causes  out  of  our  power,  and  part 
must  be  effected  by  vigour  and  perseverance. 
With  regard  to  that  which  is  styled  in  common 
language  the  work  of  chance,  men  will  always 
find  reasons  for  confidence  or  distrust,  according 
to  their  different  tempers  or  inclinations ;  and 
he  that  has  been  long  accustomed  to  please  him- 
self with  possibilities  of  fortuitous  happiness,  will 
not  easily  or  willingly  be  reclaimed  from  his 
mistake.  But  the  effects  of  human  industry  and 
skill  are  more  easily  subjected  to  calculation  ; 
whatever  can  be  completed  in  a  year,  is  divisible 
into  parts,  of  which  each  may  be  performed  in 
the  compass  of  a  day ;  he,  therefore,  that  has 
passed  the  day  without  attention  to  the  task  as- 
signed him,  may  be  certain,  that  the  lapse  of  life 
has  brought  him  no  nearer  to  his  object ;  for 
whatever  idleness  may  expect  from  time,  its  pro- 
duce will  be  only  in  proportion  to  the  diligence 
with  which  it  has  been  used.  He  that  floats  la- 
zily down  the  stream,  in  pursuit  of  something 
borne  along  by  the  same  current,  will  find  him- 
self indeed  move  forward  ;  but  unless  he  lays 
his  hand  to  the  oar,  and  increases  his  speed  by 
his  own  labour,  must  be  always  at  the  same 
distance  from  that  which  he  is  following. 

There  have  happened  in  every  age  some  con- 
tingencies of  unexpected  and  indeservea  suc- 
cess, by  which  those  who  are  determined  to  be- 


No.  74.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


325 


beve  whatever  favours  their  inclinations,  have 
been  encouraged  to  delight  themselves  with  fu- 
ture advantages ;  they  support  confidence  by 
considerations,  of  which  the  only  proper  use  is  to 
chase  away  despair:  it  is  equally  absurd  to  sit 
down  in  idleness  because  some  have  been  en- 
riched without  labour,  as  to  leap  a  precipice  be- 
cause some  have  fallen  and  escaped  with  life,  or 
to  put  to  sea  in  a  storm  because  some  have  been 
driven  from  a  wreck  upon  the  coast  to  which 
they  were  bound. 

We  are  all  ready  to  confess,  that  belief  ought 
to  be  proportioned  to  evidence  or  probability ; 
let  any  man,  therefore,  compare  the  number  of 
those  who  have  been  thus  favoured  by  fortune, 
and  of  those  who  have  failed  of  their  expecta- 
tions, and  he  will  easily  determine,  with  what 
justness  he  has  registered  himself  in  the  lucky 
catalogue. 

But  there  is  no  need  on  these  occasions  for 
deep  inquiries  or  laborious  calculations  ;  there  is 
a  far  easier  method  of  distinguishing  the  hopes 
of  folly  from  those  of  reason,  of  finding  the  dif- 
ference between  prospects  that  exist  before  the 
eyes,  and  those  that  are  only  painted  on  a  fond 
imagination.  Tom  Drowsy  had  accustomed 
himself  to  compute  the  profit  of  a  darling  pro- 
ject till  he  had  no  longer  any  doubt  of  its  success: 
it  was  at  last  matured  by  close  consideration, 
all  the  measures  were  accurately  adjusted,  and 
he  wanted  only  five  hundred  pounds  to  become 
master  of  a  fortune  that  might  be  envied  by  a  di- 
rector of  a  trading  company.  Tom  was  gene- 
rous and  grateful,  and  was  resolved  to  recom- 
pense this  small  assistance  with  an  ample  for- 
tune :  he,  therefore,  deliberated  for  a  time,  to 
whom  amongst  his  friends  he  should  declare  his 
necessities  ;  not  that  he  suspected  a  refusal,  but 
because  he  could  not  suddenly  determine  which 
of  them  would  make  the  best  use  of  riches,  and 
was,  therefore,  most  worthy  of  his  favour.  At 
last  his  choice  was  settled  ;  and  knowing  that  in 
order  to  borrow  he  must  show  the  probability  of 
repayment,  he  prepared  for  a  minute  and  copious 
explanation  of  his  project.  But  here  the  golden 
dream  was  at  an  end:  he  soon  discovered  the 
impossibility  of  imposing  upon  others  the  notions 
by  which  he  had  so  long  imposed  upon  himself; 
which  way  soever  he  turned  his  thoughts,  im- 
possibility and  absurdity  arose  in  opposition  on 
every  side ;  even  credulity  and  prejudice  were  at 
last  forced  to  give  way,  and  he  grew  ashamed  of 
crediting  himself  what  shame  would  not  suffer 
him  to  communicate  to  another. 

To  this  test  let  every  man  bring  his  imagina- 
tions, before  they  have  been  too  long  predomi- 
nant in  his  mind.  Whatever  is  true  will  bear  to 
be  related,  whatever  is  rational  will  endure  to  be 
explained  ;  but  when  we  delight  to  brood  in  se- 
cret over  future  happiness,  and  silently  to  em- 
ploy our  meditations  upon  schemes  of  which  we 
are  conscious  that  the  bare  mention  would  ex- 
pose us  to  derision  and  contempt :  we  should 
then  remember,  that  we  are  cheating  ourselves 
by  voluntary  delusions  :  and  giving  up  to  the  un- 
real mockeries  of  fancy,  those  hours  in  which 
solid  advantages  might  be  attained  by  sober 
thought  and  rational  assiduity. 

There  is,  indeed,  so  little  certainty  in  human 
affairs,  that  the  most  cautious  and  severe  exa- 
miner may  be  allowed  to  indulge  some  hopes 
which  he  cannot  prove  to  be  much  favoured  by 


probability  ;  since,  after  his  utmost  endeavours  to 
ascertain  events,  he  .mist  often  leave  the  issue  in 
the  hands  of  chance.  And  so  scanty  is  our  pre- 
sent allowance  of  happiness,  that  in  many  situa- 
tions life  could  scarcely  be  supported,  if  hope 
were  not  allowed  to  relieve  the  present  hour  by 
pleasures  borrowed  from  futurity  ;  and  reani- 
mate the  languor  of  dejection  to  new  efforts, 
by  pointing  to  distant  regions  of  felicity,  which 
yet  no  resolution  or  perseverance  shall  ever 
reach. 

But  these,  like  all  other  cordials,  though  they 
may  invigorate  in  a  small  quantity,  intoxicate  in 
a  greater  ;  these  pleasures,  like  the  rest,  are  law 
ful  only  in  certain  circumstances,  and  to  certain 
degrees ;  they  may  be  useful  in  a  due  subservi- 
ency to  nobler  purposes,  but  become  dangerous 
and  destructive  when  once  they  gain  the  ascend- 
ant in  the  heart :  to  soothe  the  mind  to  tran- 
quillity by  hope,  even  when  that  hope  is  likely 
to  deceive  us,  may  be  sometimes  useful ;  but  to 
lull  our  faculties  in  a  lethargy,  is  poor  and  des- 
picable. 

Vices  and  errors  are  differently  modified,  ac- 
cording to  the  state  of  the  minds  to  which  they 
are  incident ;  to  indulge  hope  beyond  the  war- 
rant of  reason,  is  the  failure  alike  of  mean  and 
elevated  understandings  ;  but  its  foundation  and 
its  effects  are  totally  different :  the  man  of  high 
courage  and  great  abilities  is  apt  to  place  too 
much  confidence  in  himself,  and  to  expect  from 
a  vigorous  exertion  of  his  powers  more  than  spi- 
rit or  diligence  can  attain  ;  between  him  and  his 
wish  he  sees  obstacles  indeed,  but  he  expects  to 
overleap  or  break  them ;  his  mistaken  ardour 
hurries  him  forward  ;  and  though  perhaps  he 
misses  his  end,  he  nevertheless  obtains  some 
collateral  good,  and  performs  something  useful  to 
mankind  and  honourable  to  himself. 

The  drone  of  timidity  presumes  likewise  to 
hope,  but  without  ground  and  without  conse- 
quence ;  the  bliss  with  which  he  solaces  his 
hours,  he  always  expects  from  others,  though 
very  often  he  knows  not  from  whom:  he  folds 
his  arms  about  him,  and  sits  in  expectation  of 
some  revolution  in  the  state  that  shall  raise  him 
to  greatness,  or  some  golden  shower  that  shall 
load  him  with  wealth  ;  he  dozes  away  the  day  in 
musing  upon  the  morrow  ;  and  at  the  end  or' life 
is  roused  from  his  dream  only  to  discover  that 
the  time  of  action  is  past,  and  that  he  can  now 
show  his  wisdom  only  by  repentance. 


No.  74.]        SATURDAY,  JULY  21,  1753. 

Insanientii  dum  aapienti 

Consultus  erro.  Ho* 

I  miss'd  my  end,  and  lost  my  way, 
By  crack-brain'd  wisdom  led  astray. 

TO  THE  ADVENTURER. 

SIR, 

IT  has  long  been  charged  by  one  part  of  man- 
kind upon  the  other,  that  they  will  not  take  ad- 
vice ;  that  counsel  and  instruction  are  generally 
thrown  away ;  and  that,  in  defiance  both  of  ad- 
monition and  example,  all  claim  the  right  to 
choose  their  own  measures,  and  to  regulate  their 
own  lives. 

That  there  is  something  in  advice  very  useful 


326 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  74 


«nd  salutary,  seems  to  be  equally  confessed  on 
all  hands  ;  since  even  those  that  reject  it,  allow 
for  the  most  part  that  rejection  to  be  wrong,  but 
charge  the  fault  upon  the  unskilful  manner  in 
which  it  is  given  :  they  admit  the  efficacy  of  the 
medicine,  but  abhor  the  nauseousness  of  the  ve- 
hicle. 

Thus  mankind  have  gone  on  from  century  to 
century:  some  have  been  advising  others  how 
to  act,  and  some  have  been  teaching  the  advisers 
how  to  advise ;  yet  very  little  alteration  has  been 
made  in  the  world.  As  we  must  all  by  the 
law  of  nature  enter  life  in  ignorance,  we  must 
all  make  our  way  through  it  by  the  light  of 
our  own  experience  ;  and  for  any  security  that 
advice  has  been  yet  able  to  afford,  must  endea- 
vour after  success  at  the  hazard  of  miscarriage, 
and  learn  to  do  right  by  venturing  to  do  wrong. 

By  advice  I  would  not  be  understood  to  mean, 
the  everlasting  and  invariable  principles  of  moral 
and  religious  truth,  from  which  no  change  of  ex- 
ternal circumstances  can  justify  any  deviation; 
but  such  directions  as  respect  merely  the  pru- 
dential part  of  conduct,  and  which  may  be  fol- 
lowed or  neglected  without  any  violation  of  es- 
sential duties. 

It  is,  indeed,  not  so  frequently  to  make  us 
good  as  to  make  us  wise,  that  our  friends  em- 
ploy the  officiousness  of  counsel ;  and  among 
the  rejecters  of  advice,  who  are  mentioned  by  the 
grave  and  sententious  with  so  much  acrimony, 
you  will  not  so  often  find  the  vicious  and  aban- 
doned, s  •  the  pert  and  the  petulant,  the  vivacious 
and  the  gid  Jy. 

As  the  great  end  of  female  education  is  to  get 
a  husband,  this  likewise  is  the  general  subject  of 
female  advice;  and  the  dreadful  denunciation 
against  those  volatile  girls,  who  will  not  listen 
patiently  to  the  lectures  of  wrinkled  wisdom,  is, 
that  they  will  die  unmarried,  or  throw  themselves 
away  upon  some  worthless  fellow,  who  will  ne- 
ver be  able  to  keep  them  a  coach. 

I  being  naturally  of  a  ductile  and  easy  temper, 
without  strong  desires  or  quick  resentments,  was 
always  a  favourite  amongst  the  elderly  ladies, 
because  I  never  rebelled  against  seniority,  nor 
could  be  charged  with  thinking  myself  wise  be- 
fore my  time ;  but  heard  every  opinion  with  sub- 
missive silence,  professed  myself  ready  to  learn 
from  all  who  seemed  inclined  to  teach  me,  paid 
the  same  grateful  acknowledgments  for  precepts 
contradictory  to  each  other,  and  if  any  contro- 
versy arose,  was  careful  to  side  with  her  who 
presided  in  the  company. 

Of  this  compliance  I  very  early  found  the  ad- 
vantage ;  for  my  aunt  Matilda  left  me  a  very 
large  addition  to  my  fortune,  for  this  reason 
chiefly,  as  she  herself  declared,  because  I  was 
not  above  hearing  good  counsel,  but  would  sit 
from  morning  till  night  to  be  instructed,  while 
my  sister  Sukey,  who  was  a  year  younger  than 
myself,  and  was,  therefore,  in  greater  want  of  in- 
formation, was  so  much  conceited  of  her  own 
knowledge,  that  whenever  the  good  lady  in  the 
ardour  of  benevolence  reproved  or  instructed 
her,  she  would  pout  or  titter,  interrupt  her  with 
questions,  or  embarrass  her  with  objections. 

I  had  no  design  to  supplant  my  sister  by  this 
complaisant  attention ;  nor,  when  the  conse- 
quence of  my  obsequiousness  came  to  be  known, 
did  Sukey  so  much  envy  as  despise  me  :  I  was, 
However,  ^ery  well  pleased  with  my  success;  and 


having  received,  from  the  concurrent  opinion  of 
all  mankind,  a  notion  that  to  be  rich  was  to  be 
great  and  happy,  I  thought  I  had  obtained  my 
advantages  at  an  easy  rate,  and  resolved  to  con- 
tinue the  same  passive  attention,  since  I  found 
myself  so  powerfully  recommended  by  it  to  kind- 
ness and  esteem. 

The  desire  of  advising  has  a  very  extensive 
prevalence  ;  and  since  advice  cannot  be  given 
but  to  those  that  will  hear  it,  a  patient  listener  is 
necessary  to  the  accommodation  of  all  those 
who  desire  to  be  confirmed  in  the  opinion  of 
their  own  wisdom :  a  patient  listener,  however, 
is  not  always  to  be  had  ;  the  present  age,  what- 
ever age  is  present,  is  so  vitiated  and  disordered, 
that  young  people  are  readier  to  talk  than  to  at- 
tend, and  good  counsel  is  only  thrown  away 
upon  those  who  are  full  of  their  own  perfec 
tions. 

I  was,  therefore,  in  this  scarcity  of  good  sense, 
a  general  favourite  ;  and  seldom  saw  a  day  in 
which  some  sober  matron  did  not  invite  me  to 
her  house,  or  take  me  out  in  her  chariot,  for  the 
sake  of  instructing  me  how  to  keep  my  charac 
ter  in  this  censorious  age,  how  to  conduct  my 
self  in  the  time  of  courtship,  how  to  stipulate  foi 
a  settlement,  how  to  manage  a  husband  of  every 
character,  regulate  my  family,  and  educate  mj 
children. 

We  are  all  naturally  credulous  in  our  own  fa 
vour.  Having  been  so  often  caressed  and  ap 
plauded  for  docility,  I  was  willing  to  believe 
myself  really  enlightened  by  instruction,  and 
completely  qualified  for  the  task  of  life.  I  did  not 
doubt  but  I  was  entering  the  world  with  a  mind 
furnished  against  all  exigencies,  with  expedients 
to  extricate  myself  from  every  difficulty,  and 
sagacity  to  provide  against  every  danger,  I  was 
therefore,  in  haste  to  give  some  specimen  of  my 
prudence,  and  to  show  that  this  liberality  of  in- 
struction had  not  been  idly  lavished  upon  a  mind 
incapable  of  improvement. 

My  purpose,  for  why  should  I  deny  it  ?  was 
like  that  of  other  women,  to  obtain  a  husband  cl 
rank  and  fortune  superior  to  my  own  ;  and  in 
this  I  had  the  concurrence  of  all  those  that  had 
assumed  the  province  of  directing  me.  That 
the  woman  was  undone  who  marri-to  below  her 
self,  was  universally  agreed  :  and  though  somo 
ventured  to  assert,  that  the  richer  man  ought  in- 
variably to  be  preferred,  and  that  money  was  a 
sufficient  compensation  for  a  defective  ancestry; 
yet  the  majority  declared  warmly  for  a  gentle- 
man, and  were  of  opinion  that  upstarts  should 
not  be  encouraged. 

With  regard  to  other  qualifications,  I  had  an 
irreconcilable  variety  of  instructions.  I  was 
sometimes  told  that  deformity  was  no  defect  in  a 
man ;  and  that  he  who  was  not  encouraged  to 
intrigue  by  an  opinion  of  his  person,  was  more 
likely  to  value  the  tenderness  of  his  wife  :  but  a 
grave  widow  directed  me  to  choose  a  man  who 
might  imagine  himself  agreeable  to  me,  for  that 
the  deformed  were  always  insupportably  vigilant 
and  apt  to  sink  into  sullenness,  or  burst  into 
rage,  if  they  found  their  wife's  eye  wandering 
for  a  moment  to  a  good  face  or  a  handsome 
shape. 

They  were,  however,  all  unanimous  in  warn- 
ing me,  with  repeated  cautions,  against  all 
thoughts  of  union  with  a  wit,  as  a  being  with 
whom  no  happiness  could  possibly  be  enjoyed 


No.  81.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


327 


men  of  every  other  kind  I  was  taught  to  govern, 
but  a  wit  was  an  animal  for  whom  no  arts  of 
taming  had  been  yet  discovered :  the  woman 
whom  he  could  once  get  within  his  power,  was 
considered  as  lost  to  all  hope  of  dominion  or  of 
quiet :  for  he  would  detect  artifice  and  defeat  al- 
lurement; and  if  once  he  discovered  any  failure 
oT  conduct,  would  believe  his  own  eyes,  in  defi- 
ance of  tears,  caresses,  and  protestations. 

In  pursuance  of  these  sage  principles,  I  pro- 
ceeded to  form  my  schemes  j  and  while  I  was 
yet  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  was  taken  out  at 
an  assembly  by  Mr.  Frisk.  I  am  afraid  my 
cheeks  glowed,  and  my  eyes  sparkled  ;  for  I  ob- 
served the  looks  of  all  my  superintendents  fixed 
anxiously  upon  me  ;  and  I  was  next  day  caution- 
ed against  him  from  all  hands,  as  a  man  of  the 
most  dangerous  and  formidable  kind,  who  had 
writ  verses  to  one  lady,  and  then  forsaken  her 
only  because  she  could  not  read  them,  and  had 
lampooned  another  for  no  other  fault  than  de- 
faming his  sister. 

Having  been  hitherto  accustomed  to  obey,  I 
ventured  to  dismiss  Mr.  Frisk,  who  happily  did 
not  think  me  worth  the  labour  of  a  lampoon.  I 
was  then  addressed  by  Mr.  Sturdy,  and  congra- 
tulated by  all  my  friends  on  the  manors  of 
which  I  was  shortly  to  be  lady  :  but  Sturdy's 
conversation  was  so  gross,  that  after  the  third 
visit  I  could  endure  him  no  longer ;  and  incur- 
red, by  dismissing  him,  the  censure  of  all  my 
friends,  who  declared  that  my  nicety  was  greater 
than  my  prudence,  and  that  they  feared  it  would 
be  my  fate  at  last  to  be  wretched  with  a  wit 

By  a  wit,  however,  I  was  never  afterwards  at- 
tacked, but  lovers  of  every  other  class,  or  pre- 
tended lovers,  I  have  often  had;  and  notwith- 
standing the  advice  constantly  given  me,  to  have 
no  regard  in  my  choice  to  my  own  inclinations, 
I  could  not  forbear  to  discard  some  for  vice,  and 
some  for  rudeness.  I  was  once  loudly  censured 
for  refusing  an  old  gentleman  who  offered  an 
enormous  jointure,  and  died  of  the  phthisic  a 
year  after;  and  was  so  baited  with  incessant  im- 
portunities, that  I  should  have  given  my  hand  to 
Drone  the  stock-jobber,  had  not  the  reduction  of 
interest  made  him  afraid  of  the  expenses  of  ma- 
trimony. 

Some  indeed,  I  was  permitted  to  encourage; 
but  miscarried  of  the  main  end,  by  treating  them 
according  to  the  rules  of  art  which  had  been  pre- 
scribed me.  Altilis,  an  old  maid,  infused  into 
me  so  much  haughtiness  and  reserve,  that  some 
of  my  lovers  withdrew  themselves  from  my 
frown,  and  returned  no  more,  others  were  dri- 
ven away,  by  the  demands  of  settlement  which 
the  widow  Trapland  directed  me  to  make;  and 
I  have  learned,  by  many  experiments,  that  to  ask 
advice  is  to  lose  opportunity.  I  am  sir,  your 
humble  servant, 

PERDITA. 


No.  81.]       TUESDAY,  AUG.  14,  1753. 

ffil  dteperandtim.  HOR. 

A  vaunt  despair. 

I  HAVE  sometimes  heard  it  disputed  in  conver- 
sation, whether  it  be  more  laudable  or  desirable, 
that  a  man  should  think  too  highly  or  too  meanly 
of  himself:  it  is  on  all  hands  agreed  to  be  best, 


that  he  should  think  rightly ;  but  since  a  fallible 
being  will  always  make  some  deviations  from 
exact  rectitude,  it  is  not  wholly  useless  to  inquire 
towards  which  side  it  is  safer  to  decline. 

The  prejudices  of  mankind  seem  to  favour  him. 
who  errs  by  underrating  his  own  powers :  he  is 
considered  as  a  modest  and  harmless  member  of 
society,  not  likely  to  break  the  peace  by  com- 
petition, to  endeavour  after  such  splendour  of 
reputation  as  may  dim  the  lustre  of  others,  or 
to  interrupt  any  in  the  enjoyment  of  themselves  ; 
he  is  no  man's  rival,  and,  therefore,  may  be  eve- 
ry man's  friend. 

The  opinion  which  a  man  entertains  of  him- 
self ought  to  be  distinguished,  in  order  to  an  ac- 
curate discussion  of  this  question,  as  it  relates  to 
persons  or  to  things.  To  think  highly  of  our- 
selves in  comparison  with  others,  to  assume  by 
our  own  authority  that  precedence  which  none 
is  willing  to  grant,  must  be  always  invidious  and 
offensive ;  but  to  rate  our  powers  high  in  pro- 
portion to  things,  and  imagine  ourselves  equal 
to  great  undertakings,  while  we  leave  others  in 
possession  of  the  same  abilities,  cannot  with  equal 
justice  provoke  censure. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  self-love  may  dis- 
pose us  to  decide  too  hastily  in  our  own  favour  : 
but  who  is  hurt  by  the  mistake  ?  If  we  are  in- 
cited by  this  vain  opinion  ti  attempt  more  than 
we  can  perform,  ours  is  the  labour,  and  ours  is 
the  disgrace. 

But  he  that  dares  to  think  well  of  himself,  will 
not  always  prove  to  be  mistaken ;  and  the  good 
effects  of  his  confidence  will  then  appear  in  great 
attempts  and  great  performances  :  if  he  should 
not  fully  complete  his  design,  he  will  at  least  ad- 
vance it  so  far  as  to  leave  an  easier  task  for  him 
that  succeeds  him ;  and  even  though  he  should 
wholly  fail,  he  will  fail  with  honour. 

But  from  the  opposite  error,  from  torpid  de- 
spondency, can  come  no  advantage  ;  it  is  the 
frost  of  the  soul,  which  binds  up  all  its  powers, 
and  congeals  life  in  perpetual  sterility.  He  that 
has  no  hopes  of  success,  will  make  no  attempts  ; 
and  where  nothing  is  attempted,  nothing  can  be 
done. 

=Lvery  man  should,  therefore,  endeavour  to 
maintain  in  himself  a  favourable  opinion  of  the 
powers  of  the  human  mind  ;  which  arc,  perhaps, 
in  every  man,  greater  than  they  appear,  and 
might,  by  diligent  cultivation,  be  exalted  to  a  de- 
gree beyond  what  their  possessor  presumes  to 
believe.  There  is  scarce  any  man  but  has  found 
himself  able,  at  the  instigation  of  necessity,  to 
do  what  in  a  state  of  leisure  and  deliberation  ha 
would  have  concluded  impossible ;  and  some  of 
our  species  have  signalized  themselves  by  such 
achievements,  as  prove  that  there  are  few  thing* 
above  human  hope. 

It  has  been  the  policy  of  all  nations  to  pre- 
serve, by  some  public  monuments,  the  memory 
of  those  who  have  served  their  country  by  great 
exploits :  there  is  the  same  reason  for  continuing 
or  reviving  the  names  of  those,  whose  extensivi 
abilities  have  dignified  humanity.  An  honest 
emulation  may  be  alike  excited  ;  and  the  philo- 
sopher's curiosity  may  be  inflamed  by  a  cata. 
logue  of  the  works  of  Boyle  or  Bacon,  as  Tha 
mistocles  was  kept  awake  by  the  trophies  ol 
Miltiades. 

Among  the  favourites  of  nature  that  havti 
from  time  to  time  appeared  in  the  world,  enrich- 


S28 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  81. 


ed  with  various  endowments  and  contrarieties 
of  excellence,  none  seems  to  have  been  more  ex- 
alted above  the  common  rate  of  humanity,  than 
the  man  known  about  two  centuries  ago  by  the 
appellation  of  the  Admirable  Crichton ;  of 
whose  history,  whatever  we  may  suppress  as 
•irpassing  credibility,  yet  we  shall,  upon  bc^n- 
testable  authority,  relate  enough  to  ran*,  mm 
among  prodigies. 

"Virtue,"  says  Virgil,  "is  better  accepted 
vhen  it  comes  in  a  pleasing  form : "  the  person 
f  Crichton  was  eminently  beautiful ;  but  his 
eauty  was  consistent  with  such  activity  and 
trength,  that  in  fencing  he  would  spring  at  one 
>ound  the  length  of  twenty  feet  upon  his  anta- 
gonist ;  and  he  used  the  sword  in  either  hand 
with  such  force  and  dexterity,  that  scarce  any 
one  had  courage  to  engage  him. 

Having  studied  at  St.  Andrew's  in  Scotland, 
he  went  to  Paris  in  his  twenty-first  year,  and  af- 
fixed on  the  gate  of  the  college  of  Navarre  a  kind 
of  challenge  to  the  learned  of  that  university  to 
dispute  with  him  on  a  certain  day :  offering  to 
his  opponents,  whoever  they  should  be  the 
choice  of  ten  languages,  and  of  all  the  faculties 
and  sciences.  On  the  day  appointed  three  thou- 
sand auditors  assembled,  when  four  doctors  of 
the  church  and  fifty  masters  appeared  against 
him ;  and  one  of  his  antagonists  confesses,  that 
the  doctors  were  defeated ;  that  he  gave  proofs 
of  knowledge  above  the  reach  of  man  ;  and  that 
a  hundred  years  passed  without  food  or  sleep, 
would  not  be  sufficient  for  the  attainment  of  his 
learning.  After  a  disputation  of  nine  hours,  he 
was  presented  by  the  president  and  professors 
with  a  diamond  and  a  purse  of  gold,  and  dis- 
missed with  repeated  acclamations. 

From  Paris  he  went  away  to  Rome,  where  he 
made  the  same  challenge,  and  had  in  the  pre- 
sence of  the  Pope  and  cardinals  the  same  suc- 
cess. Afterwards  he  contracted  at  Venice  an 
acquaintance  with  Aldus  Manutius,  by  whom  he 
was  introduced  to  the  learned  of  that  city :  then 
visited  Padua,  where  he  engaged  in  another  pub- 
lic disputation,  beginning  his  performance  with 
an  extemporal  poem  in  praise  of  the  city  and 
the  assembly  then  present,  and  concluding  with 
an  oration  equally  unpremeditated  in  commen- 
dation of  ignorance. 

He  afterwards  published  another  challenge,  in 
which  he  declared  himself  ready  to  detect  the 
errors  of  Aristotle  and  all  his  commentators,  ei- 
ther in  the  common  forms  of  logic,  or  in  any 
which  his  antagonists  should  propose  of  a  hun- 
dred different  kinds  of  verse. 

These  acquisitions  of  learning,  however  stu- 
pendous, were  not  gained  at  the  expense  of  any 
pleasure  which  youth  generally  indulges,  or  by 
the  omission  of  any  accomplishment  in  which  it 
becomes  a  gentleman  to  excel .  He  practised  in 
great  perfection  the  arts  of  drawing  and  paint- 
ing, he  was  an  eminent  performer  in  both  vocal 
and  instrumental  music,  he  danced  with  uncom- 
mon gracefulness,  and  on  the  day  after  his  dis- 
putation at  Paris  exhibited  his  skill  in  horseman- 
ship before  the  court  of  France,  where  at  a  pub- 
.ic  match  of  tilting,  he  bore  away  the  ring  upon 
his  lance  fifteen  times  together. 

He  excelled  likewise  in  domestic  games  of 
less  dignity  and  reputation  :  and,  in  the  in;erval 
between  his  challenge  and  disputation  at  Paris, 
So  spent  so  much  of  his  time  at  cards,  dice,  and 


tennis,  that  a  lampoon  was  fixed  upon  the  gate  of 
the  Sorbonne,  directing  those  that  would  see  this 
monster  of  erudition,  to  look  for  him  at  the  tavern. 

So  extensive  was  his  acquaintance  with  life 
and  manners,  that  in  an  Italian  comedy  composed 
by  himself,  and  exhibited  before  the  court  of 
Mantua,  he  is  said  to  have  personated  fifteen 
different  characters :  in  all  of  which  ho  might  suc- 
ceed without  great  difficulty,  since  he  had  such 
power  of  retention,  that  once  hearing  an  oration 
of  an  hour,  he  would  repeat  it  exac.'iy,  and  in  the 
recital  follow  the  speaker  through  all  his  variety 
of  tone  and  gesticulation. 

Nor  was  his  skill  in  arms  less  than  in  learn- 
ing, or  his  courage  inferior  to  his  skill :  there  was 
a  prize-fighter  at  Mantua,  who  travelling  about 
the  world,  according  to  the  barbarous  custom  of 
that  age,  as  a  general  challenger,  had  defeated 
the  most  celebrated  masters  in  many  parts  of 
Europe  ;  and  in  Mantua,  where  lie  then  resided, 
had  killed  three  that  appeared  against  him.  The 
duke  repented  that  he  had  granted  him  his  pro- 
tection ;  when  Crichton,  looking  on  his  sanguin- 
ary success  with  indignation,  offered  to  stake 
fifteen  hundred  pistoles,  and  mount  the  stage 
against  him.  The  duke,  with  some  reluctance, 
consented,  and  on  the  day  fixed,  the  combatants 
appeared :  their  weapon  seems  to  have  been  sin- 
gle rapier,  which  was  then  newly  introduced  in 
Italy.  The  prize-fighter  advanced  with  great 
violence  and  fierceness,  and  Crichton  contented 
himself  calmly  to  ward  his  passes,  and  suffered 
him  to  exhaust  his  vigour  by  his  own  fury. 
Crichton  then  became  the  assailant;  and  press- 
ed upon  him  with  such  force  and  agility,  that  he 
thrust  him  thrice  through  the  body,  and  saw  him 
expire ;  he  then  divided  the  prize  he  had  won 
among  the  widows  whose  husbands  had  been 
killed. 

The  death  of  this  wonderful  man  I  should  be 
willing  to  conceal,  did  I  not  know  that  every 
reader  will  inquire  curiously  after  that  fatal  hour, 
which  is  common  to  all  human  beings,  however 
distinguished  from  each  other  by  nature  or  by 
fortune. 

The  duke  of  Mantua  having  received  so  many 
proofs  of  his  various  merit,  made  him  tutor  to 
his  son  Vicentio  di  Gozaga,  a  prince  of  loose 
manners  and  turbulent  disposition.  On  this 
occasion  it  was,  that  he  composed  the  comedy  in 
which  he  exhibited  so  many  different  characters 
with  exact  propriety.  But  his  honour  was  of 
short  continuance  :  for  as  he  was  one  night  in  the 
time  of  Carnival  rambling  about  the  streets,  with 
his  guitar  in  his  hand,  he  was  attacked  by  six 
men  masked.  Neither  his  courage  nor  skill  in 
this  exigence  deserted  him :  he  opposed  them 
with  such  activity  and  spirit,  that  he  soon  dis- 
persed them,  and  disarmed  their  leader,  who 
throwing  off  his  mask,  discovered  himself  to  be 
the  prince  his  pupil.  Crichton,  falling  on  his 
knees,  took  his  own  sword  by  the  point,  and 
presented  it  to  the  prince ;  who  immediately 
seized  it,  and  instigated,  as  some  say,  by  jea 
lousy,  according  to  others  only  by  drunken  fury 
and  brutal  resentment,  thrust  him  through  the 
heart. 

Thus  was  the  admirable  Crichton  brought  into 
that  state,  in  which  he  could  excel  the  meanest 
of  mankind  only  by  a  few  empty  honours  paid 
to  his  memory :  the  court  of  Mantua  testified 
their  esteem  by  a  public  mourning,  the  contem- 


04.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


829 


porary  wits  were  profuse  of  their  encomiums, 
and  the  palaces  of  Italy  were  adorned  with  pic- 
tures, representing  him  on  horsehack,  with  a 
lance  in  one  hand  and  a  hook  in  the  other. 


No.  84.]     SATURDAY,  AUGUST  25,  1753. 

Tolle  periculum. 

Jam  vaga  prosilietf ranis  natura  remotis.        HOR. 

But  take  the  danger  and  the  shame  away, 

And  vagrant  nature  bounds  upuu  her  prey     FRANCIS 


TO  THE  ADVENTURER. 


SIR, 


IT  has  been  observed,  I  think,  by  Sir  William 
Temple,  and  after  him  by  almost  every  other 
writer,  that  England  affords  a  greater  variety  of 
characters  than  the  rest  of  the  world.  This  is 
ascribed  to  the  liberty  prevailing  among  us, 
which  gives  every  man  the  privilege  of  being 
wise  or  foolish  his  own  way,  and  preserves  him 
from  the  necessity  of  hypocrisy  or  the  servility  of 
imitation. 

That  the  position  itself  is  true,  I  am  not  com* 
pletely  satisfied.  To  he  nearly  acquainted  with 
the  people  of  different  countries  can  happen  to 
very  few  ;  and  in  life,  as  in  every  thing  else  be- 
held at  a  distance,  there  appears  an  even  uni- 
formity: the  petty  discriminations  which  diver- 
sify the  natural  character,  are  not  discoverable 
but  by  a  close  inspection ;  we,  therefore,  find 
them  most  at  home,  because  there  we  have  most 
opportunities  of  remarking  'them.  Much  less 
am  I  convinced,  that  this  peculiar  diversification, 
if  it  be  real,  is  the  consequence  of  peculiar  liber- 
ty ;  for  where  is  the  government  to  be  found  that 
superintends  individuals  with  so  much  vigi- 
lance, as  not  to  leave  their  private  conduct  with- 
out restraint?  Can  it  enter  into  a  reasonable 
mind  to  imagine,  that  men  of  every  other  nation 
are  not  equally  masters  of  their  own  time  or 
houses  with  ourselves  ;  and  equally  at  liberty  to 
be  parsimonious  or  profuse,  frolic  or  sullen,  ab- 
stinent or  luxurious  ?  Liberty  is  certainly  neces- 
sary to  the  full  play  of  predominant  humours  ; 
but  such  liberty  is  to  be  found  alike  under  the 
government  of  the  many  or  the  few,  in  monarch- 
ies or  in  commonwealths. 

How  readily  the  predominant  passion  snatches 
an  interval  of  liberty,  and  how  fast  it  expands  it- 
self when  the  weight  of  restraint  is  taken  away, 
I  had  lately  an  opportunity  to  discover,  as  I  took 
a  journey  into  the  country  in  a  stage  coach, 
which,  as  every  journey  is  a  kind  of  adventure, 
may  be  very  properly  related  to  you,  though  I  can 
display  no  such  extraordinary  assembly  as  Cer- 
vantes has  collected  at  Don  Quixote's  inn. 

In  a  stage  coach,  the  passengers  are  for  the 
most  part  wholly  unknown  to  one  another,  and 
without  expectation  of  ever  meeting  again  when 
their  journey  is  at  an  end ;  one  should  therefore 
imagine,  that  it  was  of  little  importance  to  any 
of  them,  what  conjectures  the  rest  should  form 
concerning  him.  Yet  so  it  is  that  as  all  think 
themselves  secure  from  detection,  all  assume  that 
character  of  which  they  are  most  desirous,  and 
on  no  occasion  is  the  general  ambition  of  superi- 
ority more  apparently  indulged. 

On  the  day  of  our  departure,  in  the  twilight  of 
the  morning,  1  ascended  the  vehicle  with  three 
m«n  and  two  women,  my  fellow-travellers.  It 
2R 


was  easy  to  observe  the  affected  elevation  of 
mien  with  which  every  one.  entered,  and  the  su- 
percilious civility  with  which  they  paid  their 
compliments  to  each  other.  When  the  first  cere- 
mony was  despatched,  we  sat  silent  for  a  long 
time,  all  employed  in  collecting  importance  into 
our  faces,  and  endeavouring  to  strike  reverence 
and  submission  into  our  companions. 

It  is  always  observable,  that  silence  propagates 
itself,  and  that  the  longer  talk  has  been  suspend- 
ed, the  more  difficult  it  is  to  find  any  thing  to 
say.  We  began  now  to  wish  for  conversation  ; 
but  no  one  seemed  inclined  to  descend  from  his 
dignity,  or  first  propose  a  topic  of  discourse.  At 
last  a  corpulent  gentleman,  who  had  equipped 
himself  for  this  expedition  with  a  scarlet  surtout 
and  a  large  hat  with  a  broad  lace,  drew  out  his 
watch,  looking  on  it  in  silence,  and  then  held  it 
dangling  at  his  finger.  This  was,  I  suppose,  un- 
derstood by  all  the  company  as  an  invitation  to  ask 
the  time  of  the  day,  but  nobody  appeared  to  heed 
his  overture  ;  and  his  desire  to  be  talking  so  far 
overcame  his  resentment,  that  he  let  us  know  of 
his  own  accord  that  it  was  past  five,  and  that  in 
two  hours  we  should  be  at  breakfast. 

His  condescension  was  thrown  away;  we 
continued  all  obdurate  ;  the  ladies  held  up  their 
heads;  I  amused  myself  with  watching  their  be- 
haviour ;  and  of  the  other  two,  one  seemed  to 
employ  himself  in  counting  the  trees  as  we  drove 
by  them,  the  other  drew  his  hat  over  his  eyes, 
and  counterfeited  a  slumber.  The  man  of  bene- 
volence, to  show  that  he  was  not  depressed  by 
our  neglect,  hummed  a  tune,  and  beat  time  upon 
his  snuff-box. 

Thus  universally  displeased  with  one  another, 
and  not  much  delighted  with  ourselves,  we  came 
at  last  to  the  little  inn  appointed  for  our  repast ; 
and  all  began  at  once  to  recompense  themselves 
for  the  constraint  of  silence,  by  innumerable 
questions  and  orders  to  the  people  that  attended 
us.  At  last,  what  every  one  had  called  for  was 
got,  or  declared  impossible  to  be  got  at  that  time, 
and  we  were  persuaded  to  sit  round  the  same 
table ;  when  the  gentleman  in  the  red  surtout 
looked  again  upon  his  watch,  told  us  that  we 
had  half  an  hour  to  spare,  but  he  was  sorry  to 
see  so  little  merriment  among  us ;  that  all  fellow 
travellers  were  for  the  time  upon  the  level,  and 
that  it  was  always  his  way  to  make  himself  one 
of  the  company.  "  I  remember,"  says  he,  "  it 
was  on  just  such  a  morning  as  this,  that  I  and 
my  Lord  Mumble  and  the  duke  of  Tenterden 
were  out  upon  a  ramble :  we  called  at  a  little 
house,  as  it  might  be  this ;  and  my  landlady,  I  war- 
rant you,  not  suspecting  to  whom  she  was  talk- 
ing, was  so  jocular  and  facetious,  and  made  so 
many  merry  answers  to  our  questions,  that  we 
were  all  ready  to  burst  with  laughter.  At  last 
the  good  woman  happening  to  overhear  me  whis- 
per the  duke,  and  call  him  by  this  title,  was  so 
surprised  and  confounded,  that  we  could  scarcely 
get  a  word  from  her ;  and  the  duke  never  met 
me  from  that  day  to  this,  but  he  talks  of  the  little 
house,  and  quarrels  with  me  for  terrifying  the 
landlady." 

He  had  scarcely  time  to  congratulate  himself 
on  the  veneration  which  this  narrative  must  have 
procured  him  from  the  company,  when  one  of 
the  ladies  having  reached  out  for  a  plate  on  a 
distant  part  of  the  table,  began  to  remark  "  the 
inconveniences  of  travelling,  and  the  difficulty 


i.30 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


(No    85. 


which  tiicy  who  never  sat  ut  home  without  a 
great  number  of  attendants,  found  in  performing 
ti>r  themselves  e'.ich  offices  as  the  road  required  ; 
out  that  people  of  quality  often  travelled  in  dis- 
guise, and  might  be  generally  known  from  the 
vulgar  by  their  condescension  to  poor  innkeep- 
ers,Dand  the  allowance  which  they  made  for  any 
defect  in  their  entertainment ;  that  for  her  part, 
while  people  were  civil  and  meant  well,  it  was 
never  her  custom  to  find  fault,  for  one  was  not  to 
expect  upon  a  journey  all  that  one  enjoyed  at 
one's  own  house." 

A  general  emulation  now  seemed  to  be  excited. 
One  of  the  men  who  had  hitherto  said  nothing, 
called  for  the  last  newspaper ;  and  having  pe- 
rused it  a  while  with  deep  pensiveness,  "  It  is 
impossible,"  says  he,  "  for  any  man  to  guess 
how  to  act  with  regard  to  the  stocks ;  last  week 
it  was  the  general  opinion  that  they  would  fall ; 
and  I  sold  out  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  order 
to  a  purchase;  they  have  now  risen  unexpect- 
edly ;  and  I  make  no  doubt  but  at  my  return  to 
London  I  shall  risk  thirty  thousand  pounds 
among  them  again." 

A  young  man,  who  had  hitherto  distinguished 
himself  only  by  the  vivacity  of  his  looks,  and  a 
frequent  diversion  of  his  eyes  from  one  object 
to  another,  upon  this  closed  his  snuffbox,  and 
told  us  that  "he  had  a  hundred  times  talked  with 
the  chancellor  and  the  judges  on  the  subject  of 
the  stocks  ;  that  for  his  part  he  did  not  pretend 
to  be  well  acquainted  with  the  principles  on 
which  they  were  established,  but  had  always 
heard  them  reckoned  pernicious  to  trade,  uncer- 
tain in  their  produce,  and  unsolid  in  their  found- 
ation; and  that  he  had  been  advised  by  three 
judges,  his  most  intimate  friends,  never  to  ven- 
ture his  money  in  the  funds,  but  to  put  it  out  upon 
land  security,  till  he  could  light  upon  an  estate  in 
his  own  country." 

^It  might  be  expected,  that  upon  these  glimpses 
of  latent  dignity,  we  should  all  have  begun  to 
look  round  us  with  veneration ;  and  have  be- 
haved like  the  princes  of  romance,  when  the  en- 
chantment that  disguises  them  is  dissolved,  and 
they  discover  the  dignity  of  each  other ;  yet  it 
happened,  that  none  of  these  hints  made  much 
impression  on  the  company  ;  every  one  was  ap- 
parently suspected  of  endeavouring  to  impose 
false  appearances  upon  the  rest ;  all  continued 
their  haughtiness  in  hopes  to  enforce  their 
claims;  and  all  grew  every  hour  more  sullen, 
because  they  found  their  representations  of 
themselves  without  effect. 

Thus  we  travelled  on  four  days  with  malevo- 
lence perpetually  increasing,  and  without  any 
endeavour  but  to  outvie  each  other  in  supercili- 
ousness and  neglect ;  and  when  any  two  of  us 
could  separate  ourselves  for  a  moment,  we  vented 
our  indignation  at  the  sauciness  of  the  rest. 

At  length  the  journey  was  at  an  end  ;  and 
time  and  chance,  that  strip  off  all  disguises,  have 
discovered  that  the  intimate  of  lords  and  dukes 
is  a  nobleman's  butler,  who  has  furnished  a 
shop  with  the  money  he  has  saved ;  the  man 
who  deals  so  largely  in  the  funds,  is  the  clerk  of 
a  broker  in  'Change-alley ;  the  lady  who  so 
carefully  concealed  her  quality,  keeps  a  cook- 
shop  behind  the  Exchange  ;  and  the  young  man 
who  is  so  happy  in  the  friendship  of  the  judges, 
engrosses  and  transcribes  for  bread  in  a  garret 
of  the  Temple.  Of  one  of  the  women  only  I 


could  make  no  disadvantageous  detection,  he- 
cause  she  had  assumed  no  character,  out  accom- 
modate- \  herself  to  the  scenes  before  her,  without 
any  struggle  fnr  distinction  r.r  s"periorit". 

I  could  not  forbear  to  reflect  on  the  folly  of 
practising  a  fraud,  which,  as  the  event  showed, 
hail  been  already  practised  too  often  to  succeed, 
and  by  the  success  of  which  no  advantage  could 
have  been  obtained ;  of  assuming  a  character, 
which  was  to  end  with  the  day;  and  of  claiming 
upon  false  pretences  honours  which  must  perish 
with  the  breath  that  paid  them. 

But,  Mr.  Adventurer,  let  not  those  who  laugh 
at  me  and  my  companions,  think  this  folly  con 
fined  to  a  stage  coach.  Every  man  in  the  jour 
ney  of  life  takes  the  same  advantage  of  the  Jgno 
jance  of  his  fellow  travellers,  disguises  himself  in 
counterfeit  merit,  and  hears  those  praises  with 
complacency,  which  his  conscience  reproaches' 
him  for  accepting.  Every  man  deceives  himself, 
while  he  thinks  he  is  deceiving  others  ;  and  for- 
gets that  the  time  is  at  hand  when  every  illusion 
shall  cease,  when  fictitious  excellence  shall  be 
torn  away,  and  all  must  be  shown  to  all  in  their 
real  estate.  I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

VIATOR. 


No.  85.]        TUESDAY,  AUG.  28,  1753. 

Qui  cupit  optatam  cursu  contingere  metam, 
Multa  tulil  fecitque  puer.  HOR 

The  youth,  who  hopes  th'Oljmpic  prize  to  gain, 
AH  arts  must  try,  oiid  every  toil  sustain.        FRANCIS 

IT  is  observed  by  Bacon,  that  "  reading  makes  a 
full  man,  conversation  a  ready  man,  and  writing 
an  exact  man." 

As  Bacon  attained  to  degrees  of  knowledge 
scarcely  ever  reached  by  any  other  man,  the  di- 
rections which  he  gives  for  study  have  certainly 
a  just  claim  to  our  regard  ;  for  who  can  teach  an 
art  with  so  great  authority,  as  he  that  has  prac- 
tised it  with  undisputed  success  ? 

Under  the  protection  of  so  great  a  name,  J 
shall,  therefore,  venture  to  inculcate  to  my  inge- 
nious contemporaries,  the  necessity  of  reading, 
the  fitness  of  consulting  other  understandings 
than  their  own,  and  of  considering  the  sentiments 
and  opinions  of  those  who,  however  neglected 
in  the  present  age,  had  in  their  own  times,  and 
many  of  them  a  long  time  afterwards,  such  re- 
putation for  knowledge  and  acuteness  as  will 
scarcely  ever  be  attained  by  those  that  despise 
them. 

An  opinion  has  of  late  been,  I  know  not  how, 
propagated  among  us,  that  libraries  are  filled 
only  with  useless  lumber;  that  men  of  parts 
stand  in  need  of  no  assistance;  and  that  to  spend 
life  in  poring  upon  books,  is  only  to  imbibe  pre- 
judices, to  obstruct  and  embarrass  the  powers 
of  nature,  to  cultivate  memory  at  the  expense  of 
judgment,  and  to  bury  reason  under  a  chaos  of 
indigested  learning. 

Such  is  the  talk  of  many  who  think  themselves 
wise,and  of  some  who  are  thought  wise  by  others; 
of  whom  part  probably  believe  their  own  tenets, 
and  part  may  be  justly  suspected  of  endeavour- 
ing to  shelter  their  ignorance  in  multitudes,  and 
of  wishing  to  destroy  that  reputation  which  they 
have  no  hopes  to  share.  It  will,  I  believe,  b« 


No.  85.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


&und  invariably  true,  that  learning  was  never 
decried  by  any  learned  man  :  and  what  credit  can 
be  given  to  those  who  venture  to  condemn  that 
which  they  do  not  know? 

If  reason  has  the  power  ascribed  to  it  by  its  ad- 
vocates, if  so  much  is  to  be  discovered  by  atten- 
tion and  meditation,  it  is  hard  to  believe,  that  so 
many  millions,  equally  participating  of  the  boun- 
ties of  nature  with  ourselves,  have  been  for  ages 
upon  ages  meditating  in  vain  :  if  the  wits  of  the 
present  time  expect  the  regard  of  posterity, 
which  will  then  inherit  the  reason  which  is  now 
thought  superior  to  instruction,  surely  they  may 
allow  themselves  to  be  instructed  by  the  reason 
of  former  generations.  When,  therefore,  an  au- 
thor declares,  that  he  has  been  able  to  learn  no- 
thing from  the  writings  of  his  predecessors,  and 
such  a  declaration  has  been  lately  made,  nothing 
but  a  degree  of  arrogance  unpardonable  in  the 
greatest  human  understanding,  can  hinder  him 
from  perceiving  that  he  is  raising  prejudices 
against  his  own  performance  ;  for  with  what 
hopes  of  success  can  he  attempt,  that  in  which 
Itfreater  abilities  have  hitherto  miscarried  ?  or 
with  what  peculiar  force  does  he  suppose  him- 
self invigorated,  that  difficulties  hitherto  invinci- 
ble should  give  way  before  him  ? 

Of  those  whom  Providence  has  qualified  to 
make  any  additions  to  human  knowledge,  the 
number  is  extremely  small;  and  what  can  be 
added  by  each  single  mind,  even  of  his  superior 
class,  is  very  little ;  the  greatest  part  of  mankind 
must  owe  all  their  knowledge,  and  all  must  owe 
far  the  larger  part  of  it,  to  the  information  of 
others.  To  understand  the  works  of  celebrated 
authors,  comprehend  their  systems,  and  retain 
their  reasonings,  is  a  task  more  than  equal  to 
common  intellects ;  and  he  is  by  no  means  to  be 
accounted  useless  or  idle,  who  has  stored  his 
mind  with  acquired  knowledge,  andean  detail  it 
occasionally  to  others  who  have  less  leisure  or 
weaker  abilities. 

Persius  has  justly  observed,  that  knowledge  is 
nothing  to  him  who  is  not  known  by  others  to 
possess  it :  to  the  scholar  himself  it  is  nothing 
with  respect  either  to  honour  or  advantage,  for 
the  world  cannot  reward  those  qualities  which 
are  concealed  from  it ;  with  respect  to  others  it 
is  nothing,  because  it  affords  no  help  to  igno- 
rance or  error. 

It  is  with  justice,  therefore,  that  in  an  accom- 
plished character,  Horace  unites  just  sentiments 
with  the  power  of  expressing  them;  and  he  that 
has  once  accumulated  learning,  is  next  to  con- 
sider, how  he  shall  most  widely  diffuse  and  most 
agreeably  impart  it. 

A  ready  man  is  made  by  conversation.  He 
that  buries  himself  among  his  manuscripts  "be- 
sprent," as  Pope  expresses  it,  "with learned  dust," 
and  wears  out  his  days  and  nights  in  perpetual 
research  and  solitary  meditation,  is  too  apt  to 
lose  in  his  elocution  what  he  adds  to  his  wis- 
dom; and  when  he  comes  into  the  world,  to  ap- 
pear overloaded  with  his  own  notions,  like  a  man 
armed  with  weapons  which  he  cannot  wield.  He 
has  no  facility  of  inculcating  his  speculations,  of 
adapting  himself  to  the  various  degrees  of  intel- 
lect which  the  accidents  of  conversation  will  pre- 
sent ;  but  will  talk  to  most  unintelligibly,  and  to 
all  unpleasantly. 

I  was  once  present  at  the  lectures  of  a  pro- 
found philosopher,  a  man  really  skilled  in  the 


science  which  he  professed,  who  having  occasion 
to  explain  the  terms  opacum  and  pellucidum,  told 
us,  after  some  hesitation,  that  opacum  was,  as  one 
might  say,  opake,  and  that  pellucidum  signified 
pellucid.  Such  was  the  dexterity  with  which 
this  learned  reader  facilitated  to  his  auditors  the 
intricacies  of  science ;  and  so  true  is  it  that  a  man 
may  know  what  he  cannot  teach. 

Bqerhaave  complains,  that  the  writers  who 
have  treated  of  chymistry  before  him,  are  useless 
to  the  greater  part  of  students,  because  they  pre- 
suppose their  readers  to  have  such  degrees  of 
skill  as  are  not  often  to  be  found.  Into  the  same 
error  are  all  men  apt  to  fall,  who  have  familiar- 
ized any  subject  to  themselves  in  solitude :  they 
discourse,  as  if  they  thought  every  other  man  had 
been  employed  in  the  same  inquiries ;  and  ex- 
pect that  short  hints  and  obscure  allusions  will 
produce  in  others  the  same  strain  of  ideas  which 
they  excite  in  themselves. 

Nor  is  this  the  only  inconvenience  which  the 
man  of  study  suffers  from  a  recluse  life.  When 
he  meets  with  an  opinion  that  pleases  him,  he 
catches  it  up  with  eagerness ;  looks  only  after 
such  arguments  as  tend  to  his  confirmation  ;  or 
spares  himself  the  trouble  of  discussion,  and 
adopts  it  with  very  little  proof;  indulges  it  long 
without  suspicion,  and  in  time  unites  it  to  the  ge- 
neral body  of  his  knowledge,  and  treasures  it  up 
among  incontestable  truths ;  but  when  he  comes 
into  the  world  among  men  who,  arguing  upon 
dissimilar  principles,  have  been  led  to  different 
conclusions,  and  being  placed  in  various  situa- 
tions, view  the  same  object  on  many  sides ;  he 
finds  his  darling  position  attacked,  and  himself 
in  no  condition  to  defend  it :  having  thought  al- 
ways in  one  train,  he  is  in  the  state  of  a  man  who 
having  fenced  always  with  the  same  master,  is 
perplexed  and  amazed  by  a  new  posture  of  his 
antagonist ;  he  is  entangled  in  unexpected  difH 
culties,  he  is  harassed  by  sudden  objections,  he 
is  unprovided  with  solutions  or  replies :  his  sur- 

Erise  impedes  his  natural  powers  of  reasoning, 
is  thoughts  are  scattered  and  confounded,  and 
he  gratifies  the  pride  of  airy  petulance,  with  an 
easy  victory. 

It  is  difficult  to  imagine,  with  what  obstinacy 
truths  which  one  mind  perceives  almost  by  intui- 
tion, will  be  rejected  by  another,  and  how  many 
artifices  must  be  practised,  to  procure  admission 
for  the  most  evident  propositions  into  under 
standings  frighted  by  their  novelty,  or  hardened 
against  them  by  accidental  prejudice ;  it  can 
scarcely  be  conceived,  how  frequently,  in  these 
extemporaneous  controversies,  the  dull  will  be 
subtle,  and  the  acute  absurd ;  how  often  stupid- 
ity will  elude  the  force  of  argument,  by  involv- 
ing itself  in  its  own  gloom  ;  and  mistaken  inge- 
nuity will  weave  artful  fallacies,  which  reason 
can  scarcely  find  means  to  disentangle. 

In  these  encounters  the  learning  of  the  recluse 
usually  fails  him ;  nothing  but  long  habit  and 
frequent  experiments  can  confer  the  power  of 
changing  a  position  into  various  forms,  present- 
ing it  in  different  points  of  view,  connecting  it 
with  known  and  granted  truths,  fortifying  it.  with 
intelligible  arguments,  and  illustrating  it  by  apt 
similitudes  ;  and  he,  therefore,  that  has  collected 
his  knowledge  in  solitude,  mustleara  its  applica- 
tion by  mixing  with  mankind. 

But  while  the  various  opportunities  of  conver- 
sation invite  us  to  try  every  mode  of  argument, 


332 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[Xo.  91 


and  every  art  of  recommending  our  sentiments, 
we  are  frequently  betrayed  to  the  use  of  such  as 
are  not  in  themselves  strictly  defensible :  a  man 
heated  in  talk,  and  eager  of  victory,  takes  advan- 
tage of  the  mistakes  or  ignorance  of  his  adversa- 
ry, lays  hold  of  concessions  to  which  he  knows 
he" has  no  right,  and  urges  proofs  likely  to  prevail 
on  his  opponent,  though  he  knows  himself  that 
they  have  no  force :  thus  the  severity  of  reason 
ia  relaxed,  many  topics  are  accumulated',  but 
without  just  arrangement  or  distinction  ;  we 
learn  to  satisfy  ourselves  with  such  ratiocination 
as  silences  others  ;  and  seldom  recall  to  a  close 
examination,  that  discourse  which  has  gratified 
our  vanity  with  victory  and  applause. 

Some  caution,  therefore,  must  be  used  lest  co- 
piousness and  facility  be  made  less  valuable  by 
inaccuracy  and  confusion.  To  fix  the  thoughts 
by  writing,  and  subject  them  to  frequent  exami- 
nations and  reviews,  is  the  best  method  of  ena- 
bling the  mind  to  detect  its  own  sophisms,  and 
keep  it  on  guard  against  the  fallacies  which  it 
practises  on  others :  in  conversation  we  naturally 
diffuse  our  thoughts,  and  in  writing  we  contract 
them ;  method  is  the  excellence  of  writing,  and 
unconstraint  the  grace  of  conversation. 

To  read,  write,  and  converse  in  due  propor- 
tions, is,  therefore,  the  business  of  a  man  of  let- 
ters. For  all  these  there  is  not  often  equal  op- 
portunity ;  excellence,  therefore,  is  not  often 
attainable  ;  and  most  men  fail  in  one  or  other  of 
the  ends  proposed,  and  are  full  without  readi- 
ness, or  ready  without  exactness.  Some  defi 
ciency  must  be  forgiven  all,  because  all  are  men  ; 
and  more  must  be  allowed  to  pass  uncensured  in 
the  greater  part  of  the  world,  because  none  can 
confer  upon  himself  abilities,  and  few  have  the 
choice  of  situations  proper  for  the  improvement 
of  those  which  nature  has  bestowed  :  it  is,  how- 
ever, reasonable  to  have  perfection  in  our  eye ; 
that  we  may  always  advance  towards  it,  though 
we  know  it  never  can  be  reached. 

No.  92.]    SATURDAY  SEPTEMBER  22,  1753. 
Cum  tabulis  animum  cenioris  tttmet  honesti.      HOR. 

Bold  be  the  critic,  zealous  to  his  trust, 
Like  the  firm  judge  inexorably  just. 


SIR, 


TO  THE  ADVENTURER, 


IN  the  papers  of  criticism  which  you  have  given 
to  the  public,  I  have  remarked  a  spirit  of  candour 
and  love  of  truth,  equally  remote  from  bigotry 
and  captiousness  :  a  just  distribution  of  praise 
amongst  the  ancients  and  the  moderns  :  a  sober 
deference  to  reputation  long  established,  with- 
out, a  Wind  adoration  of  antiquity  ;  and  a  will- 
ingness to  favour  later  performances  without  a 
light,  or  puerile  fondness  for  novelty. 

I  shall,  therefore,  venture  to  lay  before  you, 
such  observations  as  have  risen  to  my  mind  in 
the  consideration  of  Virgil's  pastorals,  without 
any  inquiry  how  far  my  sentiments  deviate  from 
established  rules  or  common  opinions. 

If  we  survey  the  ten  pastorals  in  a  general 
view,  it  will  be  found  that  Virgil  can  derive  from 
them  very  little  claim  to  the  praise  of  an  inventor. 
To  search  into  the  antiquity  of  this  kind  of  poet- 
ry, is  not  my  present  purpose ;  that  it  has  long 
subsisted  in  the  east,  the  Sacred  Writings  suffi- 


ciently inform  us;  and  we  may  conjecture,  with 
great  probability,  that  it  was  sometimes  the  de- 
votion, and  sometimes  the  entertainment,  of  uie 
first  generations  of  mankind.  Theocritus  united 
elegance  with  simplicity ;  and  taught  his  shep- 
herds to  sing  with  so  much  ease  and  harmony 
that  his  countrymen,  despairing,  to  excel,  for 
bore  to  imitate  him  ;  and  the  Greeks,  however 
vain  or  ambitious,  left  him  in  quiet  possession  ol 
the  garlands  which  the  wood  nymphs  had  be 
stowed  upon  him. 

Virgil,  however,  taking  advantage  of  another 
language,  ventured  to  copy  or  to  rival  the  Sici- 
lian bard :  he  has  written  with  greater  splendour 
of  diction,  and  elevation  of  sentiment:  but  aa 
the  magnificence  of  his  performances  was  more, 
the  simplicity  was  less  ;  and  perhaps,  where  he 
excels  Theocritus,  he  sometimes  obtains  his  su  • 
periority  by  deviating  from  the  pastoral  charac 
ter,  and  performing  what  Theocritus  never  at- 
tempted. 

Yet,  though  I  would  willingly  pay  to  Theo- 
critus the  honour  which  is  always  due  to  an  ori 
ginal  author,  I  am  far  from  intending  to  depre- 
ciate Virgil;  of  whom  Horace  justly  declares, 
that  the  rural  muses  have  appropriated  to  him 
their  elegance  and  sweetness,  and  who,  as  he  co- 
pied Theocritus  in  his  design,  has  resembled  him 
likewise  in  his  success  ;  for,  if  we  except  Cal- 
phurnius,  an  obscure  author  of  the  lower  ages,  I 
know  not  that  a  single  pastoral  was  written  after 
him  by  any  poet,  till  the  revival  of  literature. 

But  though  his  general  merit  has  been  univer- 
sally acknowledged,  I  am  far  from  thinking  all  the 
productions  of  his  rural  Thalia  equally  excellent ; 
there  is,  indeed,  in  all  his  pastorals  a  strain  of 
versification  which  it  is  vain  to  seek  in  any 
other  poet ;  but  if  we  except  the  first  and  the 
tenth,  they  seem  liable  either  wholly  or  in  part  to 
considerable  objections. 

The  second,  though  we  should  forget  the  great 
charge  against  it,  which  I  am  afraid  can  never 
be  refuted,  might,  I  think,  have  perished  without 
any  diminution  of  the  praise  of  its  author ;  for  I 
know  not  that  it  contains  one  affecting  sentiment 
or  pleasing  description,  or  one  passage  that 
strikes  the  imagination  or  awakcn-s  the  passions. 

The  third  contains  a  contest  between  two 
shepherds,  begun  with  a  quarrel  of  which  some 
particulars  might  well  be  spared,  carried  on  with 
sprightliness  and  elegance,  and  terminated  at 
last  in  a  reconciliation :  but,  surely,  whether  the 
invectives  with  which  they  attack  each  other  be 
true  or  false,  they  are  too  much  degraded  from 
the  dignity  of  pastoral  innocence  ;  and  instead 
of  rejoicing  that  they  are  both  victorious,  I  should 
not  have  grieved  could  they  have  been  both  de- 
feated. 

The  Poem  to  Pollio  is  indeed  of  another  kind  : 
it  is  filled  with  images  at  once  splendid  and  pleas- 
ing, and  it  is  elevated  with  grandeur  of  language 
worthy  of  the  first  of  Roman  poets,  but  I  am  not 
able  to  reconcile  myself  to  the  disproportion  be- 
tween the  performance  and  the  occasion  that 
produced  it :  that  the  golden  age  should  return 
because  Pollio  had  a  son,  appears  so  wild  a  fic- 
tion, that  I  am  ready  to  suspect  the  poet  of  hav 
ing  written  for  some  other  purpose,  what  he  took 
this  opportunity  of  producing  to  the  public. 

The  fifth  contains  a  celebration  of  Daphnis, 
which  has  stood  to  all  succeeding  ages  as  the 
model  of  pastoral  elegies.  To  deny  praise  to 


No.  92.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


333 


performance  which  so  many  thousands  have  la- 
boured to  imitate,  would  be  to  judge  with  too 
little  deference  for  the  opinion  of  mankind :  yet 
whoever  shall  read  it  with  impartiality,  will  find 
that  most  of  the  images  are  of  the  mythological 
kind,  and  therefore  easily  invented  ;  and  that 
there  are  few  sentiments  of  rational  praise  or  na- 
tural lamentation. 

In  the  Silenus  he  again  rises  to  the  dignity  of 
philosophic  sentiments,  and  heroic  poetry.  The 
address  to  Varus  is  eminently  beautiful ;  but 
since  the  compliment  paid  to  Gallus  fixes  the 
transaction  to  his  own  time,  the  fiction  of  Silenus 
seems  injudicious :  nor  has  any  sufficient  reason 
yet  been  found,  to  justify  his  choice  of  those  fa- 
bles that  make  the  subject  of  the  song. 

The  seventh  exhibits  another  contest  of  the 
tuneful  shepherds :  and,  surely,  it  is  not  without 
some  reproach  to  his  inventive  power,  that  often 
pastorals,  Virgil  has  written  two  upon  the  same 
plan.  One  of  the  shepherds  now  gains  an  ac- 
knowledged victory,  but  without  any  apparent 
superiority,  and  the  reader  when  he  sees  the 
prize  adjudged,  is  not  able  to  discover  how  it  was 
deserved. 

Of  the  eighth  pastoral,  so  little  is  properly  the 
work  of  Virgil,  that  he  has  no  claim  to  other 
praise  or  blame  than  that  of  a  translator. 

Of  the  ninth  it  is  scarce  possible  to  discover 
the  design  or  tendency :  it  is  said,  I  know  not 
upon  what  authority,  to  have  been  composed 
from  fragments  of  other  poems  :  and  except  a 
few  lines  in  which  the  author  touches  upon  his 
own  misfortunes,  there  is  nothing  that  seems  ap- 
propriated to  any  time  or  place,  or  of  which  any 
other  use  can  be  discovered  than  to  fill  up  the 
poem. 

The  first  and  the  tenth  pastorals,  whatever  be 
determined  of  the  rest,  are  sufficient  to  place 
their  author  above  the  reach  of  rivalry.  The 
complaint  of  Gallus  disappointed  in  his  love,  is 
full  of  such  sentiments  as  disappointed  'ove  na- 
turally produces  :  his  wishes  are  wild,  his  resent- 
ment is  tender;  and  his  purposes  are  inconstant. 
In  the  genuine  language  of  despair,  he  soothes 
himself  awhile  with  the  pity  that  shall  be  paid 
him  after  his  death. 

Tamen  cantabitis,  Arcades,  inquit, 

Montibus  hecc  vestris ;  soli  cantare  periti 
Arcades.     O  milii  turn  qvam  molliter  ossa  quiescant. 
Vestra  meos  olim  si  fistula  dicat  amores  '. 

Yet,  O  Arcadian  swains, 

Ye  best  artificers  of  soothing  strains ! 

Tune  your  soft  reeds,  and  teach  your  rocks  my  woes, 

So  shall  my  .-hade  in  sweeter  re.n  repose. 

O  that  your  birth  and  business  had  been  mine  ; 

To  feed  the  flock,  and  pruue  the  spreading  vine ! 

WARTON. 

Discontented  with  his  present  condition,  and 
desirous  to  be  any  thing  but  what  he  is,  he  wishes 
himself  one  of  the  shepherds.  He  then  catches 
the  idea  of  rural  tranquillity  ;  but  soon  discovers 
how  much  happier  he  should  be  in  these  happy 
regions,  with  Lycoris  at  his  side  : 

Hie  pelidifontes,  hie  mollia,  prata  Lycori  : 
Hie  nemus ;  hit  ipso  tr.cum  consumerer  avo. 
ffunr.  insnnas  amor  duri  me  Mortis  in  armis, 
Tela  inter  media,  atijue  odvcrsos  detinet  hostel. 
Tuprocul  apatria  (nee  sit  mihi  credere)  tantum 
Alpinas,  ah  durn  !  nives,  etfrigora  Rheni 
Me  sine  sola  vidcs.     All  te  ncfrigora  ladant ! 
Ah  tibi  ne  teneras  glacics  tecet  aspera  plantas  ' 


Here  cooling  fountains  roll  through  flowery  mead*. 

Here  woods,  Lycoris,  lift  their  verdant  heads ; 

Here  could  I  wear  my  careless  life  away, 

And  in  thy  arms  insensibly  decay. 

Instead  of  that,  me  frantic  love  detains, 

'Mid  foes,  and  dreadful  darts,  and  bloody  plains : 

While  you — and  can  my  soul  the  tale  believe. 

Far  from  your  country,  lonely  wandering  leave 

Me,  me  your  lover,  barbarous  fugitive  ! 

Seek  the  rough  Alps  whore  snows  eternal  shine, 

And  joyless  borders  of  the  frozen  Rhine. 

Ah  !  may  no  cold  e'er  blast  my  dearest  maid, 

Nor  pointed  ice  thy  tender  feet  invade.         WARTOJT. 

He  then  turns  his  thoughts  on  every  side,  in 
quest  of  something  that  may  solace  or  amuse 
him ;  he  proposes  happiness  to  himself,  first  in 
one  scene  and  then  in  another:  and  at  last  finds 
that  nothing  will  satisfy : 

Jam  neque  Hamaaryades  rursum,  nee  carmina  r&bii 
Ipsa  placent :  ipsa  rursum  concedite  sylca. 
ffon  ilium  nostri  possunt  mutare  labores  ; 
Hec  sifngoribns  mediis  Hebrumque  bibamm, 
Sithoniasque  nives  hyemis  subeamns  ai/uosa 
Sfec  si,  cvm  moriens  alia  liber  ai  et  in  ulmo, 
JEthiopum  versemus  oces  sub  side.re  Cancri. 
Omnia  vincit  amor  ;  et  nos  cedamns  amor*. 

But  now  again  no  more  the  woodland  maids, 
Nor  pas-toral  songs  delight — Farewell,  ye  saades 
No  toils  of  ours  the  cruel  god  can  change, 
Though  lost  in  frozen  deserts  we  should  rf.nge ; 
Though  we  should  drink  where  chilling  Hsbrus  flowg, 
Endure  bleak  winter  blasts',  and  Thracia.i  snows  . 
Or  on  hot  India's  plains  our  flocks  should  feed, 
Where  the  paroh'd  elm  declines  his  sickening  head, 
Beneath  fierce-glowing  Cancer's  fiery  beams, 
Far  from  cool  breezes  and  refreshing  streams. 
Love  over  all  maintains  resistless  sway, 
And  let  us  love's  all-conquering  power  obey. 

WARTON. 

But  notwithstanding  the  excellence  of  the 
tenth  pastoral,  I  cannot  forbear  to  give  the  pre- 
ference to  the  first,  which  is  equally  natural  and 
more  diversified.  The  complaint  of  the  shep- 
herd, who  saw  his  old  companion  at  ease  in  the 
shade,  while  himself  was  driving  his  little  flock 
he  knew  not  whither,  is  such  as,  with  variation 
of  circumstances,  misery  always  utters  at  the 
sight  of  prosperity : 

Jfospatriec  fines,  et  dulcia  linquimits  arva : 

ffos  patriamfugimus :  tu,  Tityre,  lentus  in  umbra, 

Formosam  resonare  daces  Amaryllida  salvos. 

We  leave  our  country's  bounds,  our  much-loved  plains, 

We  from  our  country  fly,  unhappy  swains ! 

You,  Tit'rus,  in  the  groves  at  leisure  laid, 

Teach  Amaryllis'  name  to  every  shade.        WARTON. 

His  account  of  the  difficulties  of  his  journey, 
gives  a  very  tender  image  of  pastoral  distress : 

•  En  !  ipse  capellas 


Protemts  tfffer  ago  :  hanc  etiam  vix,  Tityre,  duco 
Hie  inter  densas  corylos  modo  namque  gemf.llos, 
Spem  gregis,  ah  !  filice  in  nuda  connixa  reliquit. 

And,  lo  I  sad  partner  of  the  general  care, 

Weary  and  faint  I  drive  my  goats  afar ! 

While  scarcely  this  my  loading  hand  sustains, 

Tired  with  the  way,  and  recent  from  her  pains ; 

For  'mid  yon  tangled  hazels  as  we  past, 

On  the  bare  flints  her  hapless  twin  she  cast, 

The  hopes  and  promise  of  my  ruin'd  fold !   WARTOX. 

The  description  of  Virgil's  happiness  in  hU 
little  farm,  combines  almost  all  the  images  of  ru- 
ral pleasure  ;  and  he,  therefore,  that  can  read  it 
with  indifference,  has  no  sense  of  pastoral  poetry 


331 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[Ko.  95. 


Fortunate  scncx,  ergo  tua  rura  manebunt, 
Kt  tibi  muffna  satis  ;  quamvis  lapis  omnia  nudut, 
I Amoaoque  pallia  obducat  puscua junco  : 
Kon  insueta  graves  lentabunt  pabula  fcctat, 
Jtf.c  mala  vicini  pccoris  contagia  ladint. 
Fortunate  senix,  hicinttr  fluiuina  tona, 
Et/untci  sacros.fiigus  captabis  opacum. 
Ulnc  tibi,  </u<z  semper  cicino  ab  timtte  sepes, 
Uyblai*  ajnbusjlviem  dipa.~ta  s-ilicli, 
Sapc  Icvisomnum  suadebit  inire  susurro 
J/tttc  alta  sub  rupe  Lanctfronilator  ad  tiurai ; 
A",  c  tnmen  interea  rauctt,  tua  cnra,palumbes, 
Jfecgemere  atria  cesaabit  turtuab  ulmo. 

Happy  old  man !  then  still  thy  farms  restored, 
Enough  for  thee  shall  bless  thy  frugal  board. 
What  though  rough  stones  the  nakeil  soil  o'erspread, 
Or  marshy  bulrush  rear  its  watery  head, 
Ni>  foreign  food  thy  teeming  ewes  shall  fear, 
No  touch  contagious  spread  its  influence  here. 
Happy  old  man  !  here  'mid  th'  accustom'd  streams, 
And  sacred  springs,  you'll  shun  the  scorching  beams; 
While  from  you  willow-fence,  thy  picture's  bound, 
The  beesth^t  suck  the  flowery  stores  arouiid, 
Shall  sweetly  mingle  with  the  whispering  boughs, 
Their  lulling  murmurs  and  invite  repose  : 
While  from  steep  rocks  the  pruner's  song  is  heard ; 
Nor  the  soft-cooing  dove,  thy  favourite  bird, 
Meanwhile  shall  cease  to  breathe  her  melting  strain, 
Nor  turtles  from  th'  aerial  elm  to  'plain.        WARTON. 

It  may  be  observed,  that  these  two  poems  were 
produced  by  events  that  really  happened  ;  and 
may,  therefore,  be  of  use  to  prove,  that  we  can 
always  feel  more  than  we  can  imagine  and  that 
the  most  artful  fiction  must  give  way  to  truth.  I 
am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

DUBIUS. 


No.  95.J      TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  2,  1753. 

Dulcique  animos  novitate  tentbo.  OVID. 

And  with  sweet  novelty  your  soul  detain. 

IT  is  often  charged  upon  writers,  that  with  all 
their  pretensions  to  genius  and  discoveries,  they 
do  little  more  than  copy  one  another ,  and  that 
compositions  obtruded  upon  the  world  with  the 
pomp  of  novelty,  contain  only  tedious  repetitions 
of  common  sentiments,  or  at  best  exhibit  a  trans- 
position of  known  images,  and  give  a  new  ap- 
pearance to  truth  only  by  some  slight  difference 
of  dress  and  decoration. 

The  allegation  of  resemblance  between  au- 
thors is  indisputably  true;  but  the  charge  of  pla- 
giarism, which  is  raised  upon  it,  is  not  to  be  al- 
lowed with  equal  readiness.  A  coincidence  of 
sentiment  may  easily  happen  without  any  com- 
munication, since  there  are  many  occasions  in 
which  all  reasonable  men  will  nearly  think  alike. 
Writers  of  all  ages  have  had  the  same  sentiments, 
because  they  have  in  all  ages  had  the  same  ob- 
jects of  speculation  ;  the  interests  and  passions, 
the  virtues  and  vices  of  mankind,  have  been  di- 
versified in  different  times,  only  by  unessential 
and  casual  varieties:  and  we  must,  therefore,  ex- 
pect in  the  works  of  all  those  who  attempt  to  de- 
scribe them,  such  a  likeness  as  we  find  in  the 
pictures  of  the  same  person  drawn  in  different 
periods  of  his  life. 

It  is  necessary,  therefore,  that  before  an  author 
be  charged  with  plagiarism,  one  of  the  most  re- 
proachful, though  perhaps  not  the  most  atrocious, 
of  literary  crimes,  the  subject  on  which  he  treats 
should  be  carefully  considered.  We  do  not 
Wonder,  that  historians,  relating  the  same  facts, 


agree  in  their  narration  ;  or  that  authors,  deliver- 
ing the  elements  of  science,  advance  the  same 
theorems,  and  lay  down  the  same  definitions: 
yet  it  is  not  wholly  without  use  to  mankind,  that 
books  are  multiplied,  and  that  different  authors 
lay  out  their  labours  on  the  same  subject ;  for 
there  will  always  be  some  reason  why  one  should 
on  particular  occasions,  or  to  particular  persons, 
be  preferable  to  another;  some  will  be  clear 
where  others  are  obscure,  some  will  please  by 
their  style  and  others  by  their  method,  some  by 
their  embellishments  and  others  by  their  simpli- 
city, some  by  closeness  and  others  by  diffusion. 

The  same  indulgence  is  to  be  shown  to  the 
writers  of  morality  :  right  and  wrong  are  immut- 
able ;  and  those,  therefore,  who  teach  us  to  dis- 
tinguish them,  if  they  all  teach  us  right,  must 
agree  with  one  another.  The  relations  of  social 
life,  and  the  duties  resulting  from  them,  must  be 
the  same  at  all  times  and  in  all  nations :  some 
petty  differences,  may  be,  indeed,  produced  by 
forms  of  government  or  arbitrary  customs  ;  but 
the  general  doctrine  can  receive  no  alteration. 

rt  it  is  not  to  be  desired,  that  morality  should 
be  considered  as  interdicted  to  all  future  writ- 
ers ;  men  will  always  be  tempted  to  deviate  from 
their  duty,  and  will,  therefore,  always  want  a 
monitor  to  recall  them  ;  and  a  new  book  often 
seizes  the  attention  of  the  public  without  any 
other  claim  than  that  it  is  new.  There  is  like 
wise  in  composition,  as  in  other  things,  a  perpe 
tual  vicissitude  of  fashion  ;  and  truth  is  recom- 
mended at  one  time  to  regard,  by  appearances 
which  at  another  would  expose  it  to  neglect ;  the 
author,  therefore,  who  has  judgment  to  discern 
the  taste  of  his  contemporaries,  and  skill  to  gra- 
tify it,  will  have  always  an  opportunity  to  de- 
serve well  of  mankind,  by  conveying  instruction 
to  them  in  a  grateful  vehicle. 

There  are  likewise  many  modes  of  compost 
tion,  by  which  a  moralist  may  deserve  the  name 
of  an  original  writer:  he  may  familiarize  his  sys- 
tem by  dialogues  after  the  manner  of  the  an- 
cients," or  subtilize  it  into  a  series  of  syllogistic 
arguments:  he  may  enforce  his  doctrine  by  se- 
riousness and  solemnity,  or  enliven  it  by  spright- 
liness  and  gayety :  he  may  deliver  his  sentiments 
in  naked  precepts,  or  illustrate  them  by  histori- 
cal examples:  he  may  detain  the  studious  by  the 
artful  concatenation  of  a  continued  discourse,  or 
relieve  the  busy  by  short  strictures,  and  uncon- 
nected essays. 

To  excel  in  any  of  these  forms  of  writing  will 
require  a  particular  cultivation  of  the  genius : 
whoever  can  attain  to  excellence,  will  be  certain 
to  engage  a  set  of  readers,  whom  no  other  me- 
thod would  have  equally  allured  ;  and  he  that 
communicates  truth  with  success,  must  be  num- 
bered among  the  first  benefactors  to  mankind. 

The  same  observation  may  be  extended  like- 
wise to  the  passions:  their  influence  is  uniform, 
and  their  effects  nearly  the  same  in  every  human 
breast,  a  man  loves  and  hates,  desires  and  avoids, 
exactly  like  his  neighbour  ;  resentment  and  am- 
bition, avarice  and  indolence,  discover  them 
selves  by  the  same  symptoms  in  minds  distant  a 
thousand  years  from  one  another. 

Nothing,  therefore,  can  be  more  unjust,  thar 
to  charge  an  author  with  plagiarism,  merely  be 
cause  he  assigns  to  every  cause  its  natural  ef 
feet ;  and  makes  his  personages  act,  as  others  in 
like  circumstances  have  always  done.  There  ar» 


No.  99.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


conceptions  in  which  all  men  will  agree,  though 
each  derives  them  from  his  own  observation  : 
whoever  has  bet  i  in  love,  will  represent  a  lover 
impatient  of  every  idea  that  interrupts  his  medi- 
tations on  his  mistress,  retiring  to  shades  and 
solitude,  that  he  may  muse  without  disturbance 
on  his  approaching  happiness,  or  associating 
himself  with  some  friend1  that  flatters  his  passion, 
and  talking  away  the  hours  of  absence  upon  his 
darling  subject.  Whoever  has  been  so  unhappy 
as  to  have  felt  the  miseries  of  long-continued 
hatred,  will,  without  any  assistance  from  an- 
cient volumes,  be  able  to  relate  how  the  passions 
are  kept  in  perpetual  agitation,  by  the  recollec- 
tion of  injury,  and  meditations  of  revenge ;  how 
the  blood  boils  at  the  name  of  the  enemy,  and 
life  is  worn  away  in  contrivances  of  mischief. 

Every  other  passion  is  alike  simple  and  limit- 
ed, if  it  be  considered  only  with  regard  to  the 
breast  which  it  inhabits  ;  the  anatomy  of  the 
mind,  as  that  of  the  body,  must  perpetually  ex- 
hibit the  same  appearances ;  and  though  by  the 
continued  industry  of  successive  inquirers,  new 
movements  will  be  from  time  to  time  discovered, 
they  can  affect  only  the  minuter  parts,  and  are 
commonly  of  more  curiosity  than  importance. 

It  will  now  be  natural  to  inquire,  by  what  arts 
are  the  writers  of  the  present  and  future  ages  to 
attract  the  notice  and -favour  of  mankind.  They 
are  to  observe  the  alterations  which  time  is  al- 
ways making  in  the  modes  of  life,  that  they  may 
gratify  every  generation  with  a  picture  of  them- 
selves. Thus  love  is  uniform,  but  courtship  is 
perpetually  varying :  the  different  arts  of  gallant- 
rv,  which  beauty  has  inspired,  would  of  them- 
selves be  sufficient  to  fill  a  volume ;  sometimes 
balls  and  serenades;  sometimes  tournaments  and 
adventures,  have  been  employed  to  melt  the 
hearts  of  ladies,  who  in  another  century  have 
been  sensible  of  scarce  any  other  merit  than  that 
of  riches,  and  listened  only  to  jointures  arid  pin- 
money.  Thus  the  ambitious  man  has  at  all  times 
been  eager  of  wealth  and  power ;  but  these  hopes 
have  been  gratified  in  some  countries  by  suppli- 
cating the  people,  and  in  others,  by  flattering  the 
prince  :  honour  in  some  states  has  been  only  the 
reward  of  military  achievements,  in  others,  it 
has  been  gained  by  noisy  turbulence,  and  popu- 
lar clamours.  Avarice  has  worn  a  different  form, 
as  she  actuated  the  usurer  of  Rome,  and  the  stock- 
jobber of  England  ;  and  idleness  itself,  how  little 
soever  inclined  to  the  trouble  of  invention,  has 
been  forced  from  time  to  time  to  change  its  amuse. 
mcnls,  and  contrive  different  methods  of  wearing 
out  the  day. 

Here  then  is  tne  fund,  from  which  those  who 
study  mankind  may-fill  their  compositions  with 
an  inexhaustible  variety  of  images  and  allusions; 
and  he  must  be  confessed  to  look  with  little  atten- 
tion upon  scenes  thus  perpetually  changing,  who 
cannot  catch  some  of  the  figures  before  they  are 
made  vulgar  by  reiterated  descriptions. 

It  has  been  discovered  by  Sir  Isaac  Newton, 
that  the  distinct  and  primogenial  colours  are  only 
seven  ;  but  every  eye  can  witness,  that  from  va- 
rious mixtures,  in  various  proportions,  infinite  di- 
versification of  tints  may  be  produced.  In  like 
manner,  the  passions  of  the  mind,  which  put  the 
world  in  motion,  and  produce  all  the  bustle  and 
eagerness  of  the  busy  crowds  that  swarm  upon 
the  earth  ;  the  passions,  from  whence  arise  all 
tfce  pleasures  and  pains  that  we  see  and  hear  of, 


if  we  analyze  the  mind  of  man,  are  very  few  : 
but  those  few  agitated  and  combined,  as  external 
causes  shall  happen  to  operate,  and  modified  by 
prevailing  opinions  and  accidental  caprices,  make 
such  frequent  alterations  on  the  surface  of  life, 
that  the  show,  while  we  are  busied  in  delineating 
it,  vanishes  from  the  view,  and  a  new  set  of  ob- 
jects succeed,  doomed  to  the  same  shortness  of  du- 
ration with  the  former:  thus  curiosity  may  always 
find  employment,  and  the  busy  part  of  mankind 
will  furnish  the  contemplative  with  the  materials 
of  speculation,  to  the  end  of  time. 

The  complaint,  therefore,  that  all  topics  are 
pre-occupied,  is  nothing  more  than  the  murmur 
of  ignorance  or  idleness,  by  which  some  discou 
rage  others,  and  some  themselves ;  the  mutabi- 
lity of  mankind  will  always  furnish  writers  with 
new  images,  and  the  luxuriance  of  fancy  may  al- 
ways embellish  them  with  new  decorations. 


No.  99.]        TUESDAY,  OCT.  16,  1753. 

— Magnis  lumen  excidit  aufis.  OVID. 

But  in  the  glorious  enterprise  he  died.        ADDISOM 

IT  has  always  been  the  practice  ot  mankino,  to 
judge  of  actions  by  the  event.  The  same  at- 
tempts, conducted  in  the  same  manner,  but  ter- 
minated by  different  success,  produce  different 
judgments  :  they  who  attain  their  wishes,  never 
want  celebrators  of  their  wisdom  and  their  virtue; 
and  they  that  miscarry,  are  quickly  discovered  to 
have  been  defective  not  only  in  mental  but  in  mo- 
ral qualities.  The  world  will  never  be  long  with 
out  some  good  reason  to  hate  the  unhappy ;  their 
real  faults  are  immediately  detected ;  and  if 
those  are  not  sufficient  to  sink  them  into  infamy, 
an  additional  weight  of  calumny  will  be  super- 
added  :  he  that  fails  in  his  endeavours  after 
wealth  or  power,  will  not  long  retain  either  ho- 
nesty or  courage. 

This  species  of  injustice  has  so  long  prevailed 
in  universal  practice,  that  it  seems  likewise  to 
have  infected  speculation  :  so  few  minds  are  ablo 
to  separate  the  ideas  of  greatness  and  prosperity, 
that  even  Sir  William  Temple  has  determined, 
"that  he  who  can  deserve  the  name  of  a  hero, 
must  not  only  be  virtuous  but  fortunate." 

By  this  unreasonable  distribution  of  praise  and 
blame,  none  have  suffered  oftener  than  project- 
ors, whose  rapidity  of  imagination,  and  vastnesa 
of  design,  raise  such  envy  in  their  fellow  mortals, 
that  every  eye  watches  for  their  fall,  and  every 
heart  exults  at  their  distresses :  yet  even  a  pro- 
jector may  gain  favour  by  success ;  and  the  tongue 
thai  was  prepared  to  hiss,  then  endeavours  to 
excel  others  in  loudness  of  applause. 

When  Coriolanus,  in-Shakspeare,  deserted  to 
Aufidius,  the  Volscian  servants  at  first  insulted 
him,  even  while  he  stood  under  the  protection 
of  the  household  gods:  but  when  they  saw  that 
the  project  took  effect,  and  the  stranger  was  seat- 
ed at  the  head  of  the  table,  one  of  them  very  judi- 
ciously observes,  "that  he  always  thought  there 
was  more  in  him  than  he  could  think." 

Machiavcl  has  justly  animadverted  on  the  dif- 
ferent notice  taken  by  all  succeeding  times,  of 
the  two  great  projectors,  Catiline  and  C;esar. 
Both  formed  the  same  project,  and  intended  to 
raise  themselves  to  power,  by  subverting  th« 
commonwealth  :  they  pursued  their  design,  n«>r- 


336 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No. 


hang,  with  equal  abilities  and  with  equal  virtue  ; 
But  Catiline  perished  in  the  field,  and  Caesar  re- 
turned from  Pharsalia  with  unlimited  authority  : 
and  from  that  time,  every  monarch  of  the  earth 
lias  thought  himself  honoured  by  a  comparison 
with  Caesar  ;  and  Catiline  has  been  never  men- 
tioned, but  that  his  name  might  be  applied  to 
traitors  and  incendiaries. 

la  an  age  more  remote,  Xerxes  projected  the 
conquest  of  Greece,  and  brought  down  the  power 
of  Asia  against  it :  but  after  the  world  had  been 
filled  with  expectation  and  terror,  his  army  was 
beaten,  his  rleet  was  destroyed,  and  Xerxes  has 
never  been  mentioned  without  contempt. 

A  few  years  afterwards  Greece  likewise  had 
her  turn  of  giving  birth  to  a  projector  ;  who,  in- 
vading Asia  with  a  small  army,  went  forward  in 
search  of  adventures,  and  by  his  escape  from  one 
danger,  gained  only  more  rashness  to  rush  into 
another  ;  he  stormed  city  after  city,  overran  king- 
do-.n  after  kingdom,  fought  battles  only  for  bar- 
ren victory,  and  invaded  nations  only  that  he 
might  make  his  way  through  them  to  new  inva- 
sions ;  but  having  been  fortunate  in  the  execu- 
tion of  his  projects,  he  died  with  the  name  of 
Alexander  the  Great 

Thess  are,  indeed,  events  of  ancient  times ; 
but  human  nature  is  always  the  same,  and  every 
age  will  afford  us  instances  of  public  censures 
influenced  by  events.  The  great  business  of  the 
middle  centuries,  was  the  holy  war;  which  un- 
doubtedly was  a  noble  project,  and  was  for  a  long 
time  prosecuted  with  a  spirit  equal  to  that  with 
which  it  had  been  contrived ;  but  the  ardour  of 
the  European  heroes  only  hurried  them  to  de- 
struction ;  for  a  long  time  they  could  not  gain 
the  territories  for  which  they  fought,  and,  when 
at  last  gained,  they  could  not  keep  them :  their 
expeditions,  therefore,  have  been  the  scoff  of  idle- 
ness and  ignorance,  their  understanding  and 
their  virtue  have  been  equally  vilified,  their  con- 
duct has  been  ridiculed, and  their  cause  has  been 
defamed. 

When  Columbus  had  engaged  king  Ferdinand 
in  the  discovery  of  the  other  hemisphere,  the 
sailors  with  whom  he  embarked  in  the  expedi- 
tion had  so  little  confidence  in  their  commander, 
hat  after  having  been  long  at  sea  looking  for 
•.oasts  which  they  expected  never  to  find,  they 
•aised  a  general  mutiny,  and  demanded  to  re- 
turn. He  found  means  to  soothe  them  into  a 
permission  to  continue  the  same  course  three 
days  longer,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day 
descried  land.  Had  the  impatience  of  his  crew 
denied  him  a  few  hours  of  the  time  requested, 
what  had  been  his  fate  but  to  have  come  back 
with  the  infamy  of  a  vain  projector,  who  had  be- 
trayed the  kind's  credulity  to  useless  expenses, 
and  risked  his  life  in  seeking  countries  that  had 
no  existence  ?  how  would  those  that  had  rejected 
his  proposals,  have  triumphed  in  their  acuteness  ! 
,\nd  when  would  his  name  have  been  mentioned, 
hut  with  the  makers  of  potable  gold  and  malea- 
bls  glass  ? 

The  last  royal  projectors  with  whom  the 
world  has  been  troubled,  were  Charles  of  Swe- 
den, and  the  U/f.r  of  Muscovy.  Charles,  if  any 
Judgment  mny  be  formed  of  his  designs  by  his 
ineasur-'s  and  his  inquiries,  had  purposed  first 
i'i  dethrone  the  Czar,  then  to  lead  his  army 
through  pathless  deserts  into  China,  thence  to 
make  his  way  by  tho  sword  through  the  whole 


circuit  of  Asia,  and  by  the  conquest  of  Turkey  t<r 
unite  Sweden  with  his  new  dominions:  but  this 
mighty  project  was  crushed  at  Pultowa  ;  and 
Charles  has  since  been  considered  as  a  madman 
by  those  powers,  who  asm  their  ambassadors  to 
solicit  his  friendship,  and  their  generals  "  to  learn 
under  him  the  art  of  war." 

The  Czar  found  employment  sufficient  in  his 
own  dominions,  and  amused  himself  in  digging 
canals,  and  building  cities ;  murdering  his  sub- 
jects with  insufferable  fatigues,  and  transplant- 
ing nations  from  one  corner  of  his  dominions  to 
another,  without  regretting  the  thousands  that 
perished  on  the  way:  but  he  attained  his  end, 
he  made  his  people  formidable,  and  is  numbered 
by  fame  among  the  demi-gods. 

I  am  far  from  intending  to  vindicate  the  san 
guinary  projects  of  heroes  and  conquerors,  and 
would  wish  rather  to  diminish  the  reputation  of 
their  success,  than  the  infamy  of  their  miscar- 
riages :  for  I  cannot  conceive,  why  he  that  has 
burned  cities,  wasted  nations,  and  filled  the 
world  with  horror  and  desolation,  should  be 
more  kindly  regarded  by  mankind,  than  he  who 
died  in  the  rudiments  of  wickedness  ;  why  he 
that  accomplished  wickedness  should  be  glori- 
ous, and  he  that  only  endeavoured  it  should  be 
criminal.  I  would  wish  Caesar  and  Catiline, 
Xerxes  and  Alexander,  Charles  and  Peter,  hud- 
dled together  in  obscurity  or  detestation. 

But  there  is  another  species  of  projectors,  to 
whom  I  would  willingly  conciliate  mankind  ; 
whose  ends  are  generally  laudable,  and  whose 
labours  are  innocent ;  who  are  searching  out 
new  powers  of  nature,  or  contriving  new  works 
of  art ;  but  who  are  yet  persecuted  with  inces- 
sant obloquy,  and  whom  the  universal  contempt 
with  which  they  are  treated,  often  debars  from 
that  success  which  their  industry  would  obtain, 
if  it  were  permitted  to  act  without  opposition. 

They  who  find  themselves  inclined  to  censure 
new  undertakings,  only  because  they  are  new, 
should  consider,  that  the  folly  of  projection  is 
very  seldom  the  folly  of  a  fool ;  it  is  commonly 
the  ebullition  of  a  capacious  mind,  crowded  with 
variety  of  knowledge,  and  heated  with  intense- 
ness  of  thought ;  it  proceeds  often  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  uncommon  powers,  from  the  con 
fidence  of  those,  who,  having  already  done 
much,  are  easily  persuaded  that  they  can  do 
more.  When  Rowley  had  completed  the  or- 
rery, he  attempted  the  perpetual  motion  ;  when 
Boyle  had  exhausted  the  secrets  of  vulgar  chy- 
mistry,  he  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  work  of 
transmutation. 

A  projector  generally  unites  those  qualities 
which  have  the  fairest  claim  to  veneration,  ex- 
tent of  knowledge,  and  greatness  of  design  ;  it 
was  said  of  Catiline,  "  immoderate/,  incrr.dibilia, 
nimis  alta  semptr  cupiebat."  Projectors  of  all 
kinds  agree  in  their  intellects,  though  they  differ 
in  their  morals  ;  they  all  fail  by  attempting  things 
beyond  their  power,  by  despising  vulgar  attain- 
ments, and  aspiring  to  performances  to  which 
perhaps  nature  has  not  proportioned  the  force  of 
man  ;  when  they  fail,  therefore,  they  fail  not  by 
idleness  or  timidity,  but  by  rash  adventure  and 
fruitless  diligence. 

That  the  attempts  of  such  men  will  often  mis- 
carry, we  may  reasonably  expect ;  yet  from  such 
men,  and  such  only,  are  we  to  hope  for  the  culti- 
vation of  those  parts  of  nature  which  lie  yet 


.  102.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


337 


waste,  and  '.he  invention  of  those  arts  which  are 
yet  WHuting  to  the  felicity  of  life.  If  they  are, 
therefoMJ,  universally  discouraged,  art  and  dis- 
covery can  make  no  advances.  Whatever  is  at- 
tempted without  previous  certainty  of  success, 
may  lie  considered  as  a  project,  and  amongst  nar- 
row minds  may,  therefore,  expose  its  author  to 
censure  and  contempt;  and  if  the  liberty  of  laugh- 
ing be  once  indulged,  every  man  will  laugh  at 
what  he  does  not  understand,  every  project  will 
be  considered  as  madness,  and  every  great  or 
new  design  will  be  censured  as  a  project.  Men, 
unaccustomed  to  reason  and  researches,  think 
every  enterprise  impracticable,  which  is  extend- 
ed beyond  common  effects,  or  comprises  many 
intermediate  operations.  Many  that  presume  to 
laush  at  projectors,  would  consider  a  flight  through 
the  air  in  a  winged  chariot,  and  the  movement  of 
a  mighty  engine  by  the  steam  of  water,  as  equal- 
ly the  dreams  of  mechanic  lunacy ;  and  would 
hear,  with  equal  negligence,  of  the  union  of  the 
Thames  and  Severn  by  a  canal,  and  the  scheme 
of  Albuquerque,  the  viceroy  of  the  Indies,  who 
in  the  rage  of  hostility  had  contrived  to  make 
Egypt  a  barren  desert,  by  turning  the  Nile  into 
the  Red  Sea. 

Those  who  have  attempted  much,  have  seldom 
failed  to  perform  more  than  those  who  never  de- 
viate from  the  common  roads  of  action  :  many 
valuable  preparations  of  chymistry  are  supposed 
to  have  risen  from  unsuccessful  inquiries  after 
the  grand  elixir ;  it  is,  therefore,  just  to  encou- 
rage those  who  endeavour  to  enlarge  the  power 
of  art,  sirvce  they  often  succeed  beyond  expecta- 
tion ;  and  when  they  fail,  may  sometimes  benefit 
the  world  even  by  their  miscarriages. 


N"o.  102.]     SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  27,  1753. 

Quirf  tarn  de.xtro  pede  concipis,  ut  te 

Conatus  non  panitcat,  votique  pcracti  ?  ju v. 

What  in  the  conduct  of  our  life  appears 

So  well  design'd,  so  luckily  begun, 

But  when  we  have  our  wish,  we  wish  undone  ? 

DRYDEN. 


TO  THE  ADVENTURER. 


SIR, 


I  HAVE  been  for  many  years  a  trader  in  London. 
My  beginning  was  narrow,  and  my  stock  small. 
I  was,  therefore,  a  long  time  brow-beaten  and 
despised  by  those,  who,  having  more  money, 
thought  they  had  more  merit  than  myself.  I  did 
not,  however,  suffer  my  resentment  to  instigate 
me  to  any  mean  arts  of  supplantation,  nor  my 
eagerness  of  riches  to  betray  me  to  any  indirect 
methods  of  gain ;  I  pursued  my  business  with 
incessant  assiduity,  supported  by  the  hope  of 
being  one  day  richer  than  those  who  contemned 
me  ;  and  had,  upon  every  annual  review  of  my 
books,  the  satisfaction  of  finding  my  fortune  in- 
creased beyond  my  expectation. 

In  a  few  years  my  industry  and  probity  were 
fully  recompensed  ;  my  wealth  was  really  great, 
and  my  reputation  for  wealth  still  greater.  I 
had  large  warehouses  crowded  with  goods,  and 
considerable  sums  in  the  public  funds;  I  was 
caressed  upon  the  Exchange  by  the  most  emi- 
nent merchants;  became  the  oracle  of  the  com- 
mon council ;  was  solicited  to  engage  in  all  com- 
mercial undertakings;  wa»  flattered  with  the 


iiopes  of  becoming  in  a  short  time  one  of  the  di- 
rectors of  a  wealthy  company,  and,  to  complete 
my  mercantile  honours,  enjoyed  the  expensive 
happiness  of  fining  for  sheriff. 

Riches,  you  know,  easily  produce  riches: 
when  I  had  arrived  to  this  degree  of  wealth,  I 
bad  no  longer  any  obstruction  or  opposition  to 
fear ;  new  acquisitions  were  hourly  brought 
within  my  reach,  and  I  continued  for  some  years 
longer  to  heap  thousands  upon  thousands. 

At  last  I  resolved  to  complete  the  circle  of  a 
citizen's  prosperity  by  the  purchase  of  an  estate 
in  the  country,  and  to  close  my  life  in  retire- 
ment From  the  hour  that  this  design  entered 
my  imagination,  I  found  the  fatigues  of  my  em- 
ployment every  day  more  oppressive,  and  per- 
suaded myself  that  I  was  no  longer  equal  to 
perpetual  attention,  and  that  my  health  would 
soon  be  destroyed  by  the  torment  and  distrac- 
tion of  extensive  business.  I  could  image  to 
myself  no  happiness,  but  in  vacant  jollity,  and 
uninterrupted  leisure  ;  nor  entertain  my  friends 
with  any  other  topic,  than  the  vexation  and  un- 
certainty of  trade,  and  the  happiness  of  rural 
privacy. 

But  notwithstandingthese  declarations,  I  could 
not  at  once  reconcile  myself  to  the  thoughts  ot 
ceasing  to  get  money ;  and  though  I  was  every 
day  inquiring  for  a  purchase,  I  found  some  rea- 
son for  rejecting  all  that  were  offered  me ;  and, 
indeed,  had  accumulated  so  many  beauties  and 
conveniences  in  my  idea  of  the  spot  where  I 
was  finally  to  be  happy,  that,  perhaps,  the  world 
might  have  been  travelled  over  without  disco- 
ery  of  a  place  whicn  ould  not  have  been  de- 
fective in  some  particular. 

Thus  I  went  on,  still  talking  of  retirement, 
and  still  refusing  to  retire ;  my  friends  began  to 
laugh  at  my  delays,  and  I  grew  ashamed  to  trifle 
longer  with  my  own  inclinations ;  an  estate  was 
at  length  purchased,  I  transferred  my  stock  to 
a  prudent  young  man  who  had  married  my 
daughter,  went  down  into  the  country,  and  com 
menced  lord  of  a  spacious  manor. 

Here  for  some  time,  I  found  happiness  equal 
to  my  expectation.  I  reformed  the  old  house 
according  to  the  advice  of  the  best  architects,  I 
threw  down  the  walls  of  the  garden,  and  en- 
closed it  with  palisades,  planted  long  avenues  of 
trees,  filled  a  greenhouse  with  exotic  plants,  dug 
a  new  canal,  and  threw  the  earth  into  the  old 
moat. 

The  fame  of  these  expensive  improvements 
brought  in  all  the  country  to  see  the  show.  I 
entertained  my  visitors  with  great  liberality,  led 
them  round  my  gardens,  showed  them  my  apart- 
ments, laid  before  them  plans  for  new  decora- 
tions, and  was  gratified  by  the  wonder  of  some 
and  the  envy  of  others. 

I  was  envied :  but  how  little  can  one  man 
judge  of  the  condition  of  another !  The  time  was 
now  coming,  in  which  affluence  and  splendour 
could  no  longer  make  me  pleased  with  myself. 
I  had  built  till  the  imagination  of  the  architect 
was  exhausted  ;  I  had  added  one  convenience  to 
another,  till  I  knew  not  what  more  to  wish  or  to 
design ;  I  had  laid  out  my  gardens,  planted  my 
park,  and  completed  my  waterworks  ;  and  what 
now  remained  to  be  done?  what,  but  to  look  up 
to  turrets,  of  which,  when  they  were  once  raised 
I  had  no  further  use,  to  range  over  apartments 
where  time  waa  tarnishing  the  furniture,  to 


333 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


(Xo. 


stand  by  the  cascade  of  which  I  scarcely  now 
perceived  the  sound,  and  to  watch  the  growth 
of  woods  that  must  give  their  shade  to  a  distant 
generation. 

In  this  gloomy  inactivity,  is  every  day  begun 
and  ended :  the  happiness  that  I  have  been  so 
long  procuring  is  now  at  an  end,  because  it  has 
been  procured  ;  I  wander  from  room  to  room,  till 
I  arn  weary  of  myself ;  1  ride  out  to  a  neighbour- 
ing hill  in  the  centre  of  my  estate,  from  whence 
nil  my  lands  lie  in  prospect  around  me;  I  see 
nothing  that  I  have  not  seen  before,  and  return 
home  disappointed,  though  I  knew  that  I  had 
nothing  to  expect. 

In  my  happy  days  of  business  I  had  been  ac- 
customed to  rise  early  in  the  morning :  and  re- 
member the  time  when  I  grieved  that  the  night 
came  so  soon  upon  me,  and  obliged  me,  fora  few 
hours,  to  shut  out  affluence  and  prosperity.  I 
now  seldom  see  the  rising  sun,  but  to  "  tell 
him,"  with  the  fallen  angel,  "  how  I  hate  his 
beams."  I  awake  from  sleep  as  to  languor  or 
imprisonment,  and  have  no  employment  for  the 
first  hour  but  to  consider  by  what  art  I  shall  rid 
myself  of  the  second.  I  protract  the  breakfast 
as  long  as  I  can,  because  when  it  is  ended  I  have 
no  call  for  my  attention,  till  I  can  with  some  de- 
gree of  decency  grow  impatient  for  my  dinner. 
If  I  could  dine  all  my  life  I  should  be  happy  ;  I 
eat  not  because  I  am  hungry,  but  because  1  am 
idle:  but,  alas!  the  time  quickly  comes  when  I 
can  eat  no  longer ;  and  so  ill  does  my  constitu- 
tion second  my  inclination,  that  I  cannot  bear 
strong  liquors;  seven  hours  must  then  be  en- 
dured, before  I  shall  sup  ;  but  supper  comes  at 
last,  the  more  welcome  as  it  is  in  a  short  time 
succeeded  by  sleep. 

Such,  Mr.  Adventurer,  is  the  happiness,  the 
hope  of  which  seduced  me  from  the  duties  of  a 
mercantile  life.  I  shall  be  told  by  those  who 
read  my  narrative,  that  there  are  many  means 
of  innocent  amusement,  and  many  schemes  of 
useful  employment,  which  I  do  not  appear  ever 
to  have  known  ;  and  that  nature  and  art  have 
provided  pleasures  by  which,  without  the  drud- 
gery of  settled  business,  the  active  may  be  en- 
gaged, the  solitary  soothed,  and  the  social  en- 
tertained. 

These  arts,  Sir,  I  have  tried.  When  first  I 
took  possession  of  my  estate,  in  conformity  to 
the  taste  of  my  neighbours,  I  bought  guns  and 
nets,  filled  my  kennel  with  dogs,  and  my  stable 
with  horses :  but  a  little  experience  showed  me, 
that  these  instruments  of  rural  felicity  would  af- 
ford me  few  gratifications.  I  never  shot  but  to 
miss  the  mark,  and,  to  confess  the  truth,  was 
afraid  of  the  fire  of  my  own  gun.  I  could  dis- 
cover no  music  in  the  cry  of  the  dogs,  nor  could 
divest  myself  of  pity  for  the  animal  whose  peace- 
ful and  inoffensive  life  was  sacrificed  to  our 
sport.  I  was  not,  indeed,  always  at  leisure  to 
reflect  upon  her  danger;  for  my  horse,  who  had 
been  bred  to  the  chase,  did  not  always  regard 
my  choice  either  of  speed  or  way,  but  leaped 
hedges  and  ditches  at  his  own  discretion,  and 
hurried  me  along  with  the  dogs,  to  the  great  di- 
version of  my  brother  sportsmen.  His  eager- 
ness of  pursuit  once  incited  him  to  swim  a  river ; 
and  I  had  leisure  to  resolve  in  the  water,  that  I 
would  never  hazard  my  life  again  for  the  de- 
•Sruction  of  a  hare. 

.  .tan  ordered  books  to  be  procured,  and  by  the 


direction  of  the  vicar  had  within  a  few  weeks,  <i 
closet  elegantly  furnished.  You  will,  perhaps, 
be  surprised  when  1  shall  tell  you,  that  when 
once  I  had  ranged  them  according  to  their  sizes, 
and  piled  them  up  in  regular  gradations,  I  had 
received  all  the  pleasure  which  they  could  give 
me.  I  am  not  able  to  excite  in  myself  any  curi- 
osity after  events  which  have  been  long  passed, 
and  in  which  I  can  therefore  have  no  interest ; 
I  am  utterly  unconcerned  to  know  whether  Tullj 
or  Demosthenes  excelled  in  oratory,  whether 
Hannibal  lost  Italy  by  his  own  negligence  01 
the  corruption  of  his  countrymen.  I  have  no 
skill  in  controversial  learning,  nor  can  conceive 
why  so  many  volumes  should  have  been  written 
upon  questions,  which  I  have  lived  so  long  and 
so  happily  without  understanding.  I  once  re- 
solved to  go  through  the  volumes  relating  to  tho 
office  of  justice  of  the  peace,  but  found  them  so 
crabbed  and  intricate,  that  in  less  than  a  month 
I  desisted  in  despair,  and  resolved  to  supply  my 
deficiencies  by  paying  a  competent  salary  to  a 
skilful  clerk. 

I  am  naturally  inclined  to  hospitality,  and  for 
some  time  kept  up  a  constant  intercourse  of  visits 
with  the  neighbouring  gentlemen  ;  but  though 
they  are  easily  brought  about  me  by  better  wine 
than  they  can  find  at  any  other  house,  I  am  not 
much  relieved  by  their  conversation  ;  they  have 
no  skill  in  commerce  or  the  stocks,  and  I  have  no 
knowledge  of  the  history  of  families  or  the  fac- 
tions of  the  country ;  so  that  when  the  first  civili- 
ties are  over,  they  usually  talk  to  one  another, 
and  I  am  left  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  company. 
Though  I  cannot  drink  myself,  I  am  obliged  to 
encourage  the  circulation  of  the  glass ;  their 
mirth  grows  more  turbulent  and  obstreperous  ; 
and  before  their  merriment  is  at  an  end,  I  L«:n 
sick  with  disgust,  and  perhaps  reproached  with 
my  sobriety,  or  by  some  sly  insinuations  ininsult- 
ed  as  a  cit. 

Such,  Mr.  Adventurer,  is  the  life  to  which  I 
am  condemned  by  a  foolish  endeavour  to  be  hap- 

?y  by  imitation  ;  such  is  the  happiness  to  which 
pleased  myseif  with  approaching,  and  which  I 
considered  as  the  chief  end  of  my  cares  and  my 
labours.  I  toiled_  year  after  year  with  cheerful- 
ness, in  expectation  of  the  happy  hour  in  which  I 
might  be  idle :  the  privilege  of  happiness  is  at- 
tained, but  has  not  brought  with  it  the  blessing 
of  tranquillity.  I  am  yours,  &c. 

MERCATOR 


No.  107.]      TUESDAY,  Nov.  13,  1753. 

Subjudicelisest.—  HOB. 

And  of  their  vain  disputings  fiud  no  end.        FRANCIS. 

IT  has  been  sometimes  asked  by  those  who  find 
the  appearance  of  wisdom  more  easily  attained 
by  questions  than  solutions,  how  it  comes  to 
pass,  that  the  world  is  divided  by  such  difference 
of  opinion  ;  and  why  men  equally  reasonable, 
and  equally  lovers  of  truth,  do  not  always  think 
in  the  same  manner? 

With  regard  to  simple  propositions,  where  the 
terms  are  understood,  and  the  whole  subject  is 
comprehended  at  once,  there  is  such  a  uniformi- 
ty of  sentiment  among  all  human  beings,  that, 
for  many  ages,  a  very  numerous  set  of  notions 
were  supposed  to  be  innate,  or  necessarily  coex 


No.  107.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


339 


istent  with  the  faculty  of  reason  ;  it  being  ima- 
gined, that  universal  agreement  could  proceed 
only  from  the  invariable  dictates  of  the  universal 
parent. 

In  questions  diffuse  and  compounded,  this  simi- 
larity of  determination  is  no  longer  to  be  expect- 
ed. At  our  first  sally  into  the  intellectual  world, 
,ve  all  march  together  along  one  straight  and 
open  road  ;  but  as  we  proceed  further,  and  wider 
prospects  open  to  our  view,  every  eye  fixes  upon 
a  different  scene  ;  we  divide  into  various  paths, 
and,  as  we  move  forward,  are  still  at  a  greater  dis- 
tance from  each  other.  As  a  question  becomes 
more  complicated  and  involved,  and  extends  to 
a  greater  number  of  relations,  disagreement  of 
opinion  will  always  be  multiplied  ;  not  because 
we  are  irrational,  but  because  we  are  finite  be- 
ings, furnished  with  different  kinds  of  knowledge, 
exerting  different  degrees  of  attention,  one  dis- 
covering consequences  which  escape  another, 
none  taking  in  the  whole  concatenation  of  causes 
and  effects,  and  most  comprehending  but  a  very 
small  part,  each  comparing  what  he  observes 
with  a  different  criterion,  and  each  referring  it  to 
a  different  purpose. 

Where,  then,  is  the  wonder,  that  they  who  see 
only  a  small  part,  should  judge  erroneously  of  the 
whole  ?  or  that  they,  who  see  different  and  dis- 
similar parts,  should  judge  differently  from  each 
other? 

Whatever  has  various  respects,  must  have  va- 
rious appearances  of  good  and  evil,  beauty  or 
deformity  ;  thus  the  gardener  tears  up  as  a  weed, 
the  plant  which  the  physician  gathers  as  a  me- 
dicine ;  and  "  a  general,"  says  Sir  Kenelm  Dig- 
by,  "  will  look  with  pleasure  over  a  plain,  as  a 
fit  place  on  which  the  fate  of  empires  might  be 
decided  in  battle,  which  the  farmer  will  despise  as 
bleak  and  barren,  neither  fruitful  of  pasturage, 
nor  fit  for  tillage." 

Two  men  examining  the  same  question,  pro- 
ceed commonly  like  the  physician  and  gardener 
in  selecting  heibs,  or  the  farmer  and  hero  look- 
ing on  the  plain  ;  they  bring  minds  impressed 
with  different  notions,  and  direct  their  inquiries 
to  different  ends  ;  they  form,  therefore,  contrary 
conclusions,  and  each  wonders  at  the  other's  ab- 
surdity. 

We  have  less  reason  to  be  surprised  or  offend- 
ed when  we  find  others  differ  from  us  in  opinion, 
because  we  very  often  differ  from  ourselves. 
How  often  we  alter  our  minds,  we  do  not  always 
remark ;  because  the  change  is  sometimes  made 
imperceptibly  and  gradually,  and  the  last  convic- 
tion effaces  all  memory  of  the  former,  yet  every 
man  accustomed  from  time  to  time  to  take  a  sur- 
vey of  his  own  notions,  will,  by  a  slight  retro- 
spection, be  able  to  discover,  that  his  mind  has 
Buffered  many  revolutions  ;  that  the  same  things 
have  in  the  several  parts  of  his  life  been  condemn- 
ed and  approved,  pursued  and  shunned  :  and  that 
on  many  occasions,  even  when  his  practice  has 
been  steady,  his  mind  has  been  wavering,  and 
he  has  persisted  in  a  scheme  of  action,  rather 
because  he  feared  the  censure  of  inconstancy, 
than  because  he  was  always  pleased  with  his 
own  choice. 

Of  the  different  faces  shown  by  the  same  ob- 
jects, as  they  are  viewed  on  opposite  sides,  and 
of  the  different  inclinations  which  they  must  con- 
stantly raise  in  him  that  contemplates  them,  a 
more  striking  example  cannot  easily  be  found 


than  two  Greek  epigrammatists  will  afford  us  in 
their  accounts  of  human  life,  which  1  shall  lay 
before  the  reader  in  Euglish  prose. 

Posidippus,  a  comic  poet,  utters  this  com- 
plaint :  "Through  which  of  the  paths  of  life  is  it 
eligible  to  pass  ?  In  public  assemblies  are  de- 
bates and  troublesome  affairs :  domestic  priva- 
cies are  haunted  with  anxieties ;  in  the  country 
is  labour ;  on  the  sea  is  terror :  in  a  foreign  land, 
he  that  has  money  must  live  in  fear,  he  that  wants 
it  must  pine  in  distress :  are  you  married  ?  you 
are  troubled  with  suspicions ;  are  you  single  ? 
you  languish  in  solitude ;  children  occasion  toil, 
and  a  childless  life  is  a  state  of  destitution  :  the 
time  of  youth  is  a  time  of  folly,  and  gray  hairs 
are  loaded  with  infirmity.  This  choice  only, 
therefore,  can  be  made,  either  never  to  receive 
being,  or  immediately  to  lose  it." 

Such  and  so  gloomy  is  the  prospect  which  Po- 
sidippus has  laid  before  us.  But  we  are  not  to 
acquiesce  too  hastily  in  his  determination  against 
the  value  of  existence:  for  Metrodorus,  a  philo- 
sopher of  Athens,  has  shown,  that  life  has  plea- 
sures as  well  as  pains  ;  and  having  exhibited  the 
present  state  of  man  in  brighter  colours,  draws 
with  equal  appearance  of  reason,  a  contrary  con- 
clusion. 

"  You  may  pass  well  through  any  of  the  paths 
of  life.  In  public  assemblies  are  honours  and 
transactions  of  wisdom  :  in  domestic  privacy  is 
stillness  and  quiet:  in  the  country  are  the  beau- 
ties of  nature :  on  the  sea  is  the  hope  of  gain  :  in 
a  foreign  land,  he  that  is  rich  is  honoured,  he 
that  is  poor  may  keep  his  poverty  secret :  are  you 
married  ?  you  have  a  cheerful  house  ;  are  you 
single :  you  are  unincumbered  ;  children  are  ob- 
jects of  affection,  to  be  without  children  is  to  be 
without  care :  the  time  of  youth  is  the  time  of 
vigour,  and  gray  hairs  are  made  venerable  by 
piety.  It  will,  therefore,  never  be  a  wise  man's 
choice,  either  not  to  obtain  existence,  or  to  lose 
it ;  for  every  state  of  life  has  its  felicity." 

In  these  epigrams  are  included  most  of  the 
questions  which  have  engaged  the  speculations 
of  the  inquirers  after  happiness  ;  and  though  they 
will  not  much  assist  our  determinations,  they 
may,  perhaps,  equally  promote  our  quiet,  by 
showing  that  no  absolute  determination  ever  can 
be  formed. 

Whether  a  public  station,  or  private  life,  be 
desirable,  has  always  been  debated.  We  see 
here  both  the  allurements  and  discouragements 
of  civil  employments  ;  on  one  side  there  is  trou- 
ble, on  the  other  honour ;  the  management  of 
affairs  is  vexatious  and  difficult,  but  it  is  the  only 
duty  in  which  wisdom  can  be  conspicuously  dis- 
played :  it  must  then  still  be  left  to  every  man  to 
choose  either  ease  or  glory ;  nor  can  any  general 
precept  be  given,  since  no  man  can  be  happy  by 
the  prescription  of  another. 

Thus,  what  is  said  of  children  by  Posidippus, 
"  that  they  are  occasions  of  fatigue,"  and  by  Me- 
trodorus, "  that  they  are  objects  of  affection,"  is 
equally  certain  ;  but  whether  they  will  give  most 
pain  or  pleasure,  must  depend  on  their  future 
conduct  and  dispositions,  on  many  causes  over 
which  the  parent  can  have  little  influence :  there 
is,  therefore,  room  for  all  the  caprices  of  imagin- 
ation, and  desire  must  be  proportioned  to  the 
hope  or  fear  that  shall  happen  to  predominate. 

Such  is  the  uncertainty  in  which  we  are  al- 
ways likely  to  remain  with  regard  to  questions 


340 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  108. 


wherein  we  have  most  interest,  and  which  every 
dav  affords  us  fresh  opportunity  to  examine:  we 
mav  examine,  indeed,  but  we  never  can  decide, 
because  our  faculties  are  unequal  to  the  subject; 
we  see  a  little,  and  form  an  opinion  ;  we  see 
more,  and  change  it. 

This  inconstancy  and  unsteadiness,  to  which 
we  must  so  often  find  ourselves  liable,  ought  cer- 
tainly to  teach  us  moderation  and  forbearance 
towards  those  who  cannot  accommodate  them- 
selves to  our  sentiments:  if  they  are  deceived, 
we  have  no  right  to  attribute  their  mistake  to 
obstinacy  or  negligence,  because  we  likewise 
have  been  mistaken ;  we  may,  perhaps,  again, 
change  our  own  opinion :  and  what  excuse  shall 
we  be  able  to  find  for  aversion  and  malignity 
conceived  against  him,  whom  we  shall  then  find 
to  have  committed  no  fault,  and  who  offended  us 
only  by  refusing  to  follow  us  into  error  ? 

It  may  likewise  contribute  to  soften  that  re- 
sentment which  pride  naturally  raises  against 
opposition,  if  we  consider,  that  he  who  differs 
from  us,  does  not  always  contradict  us ;  he  has 
one  view  of  an  object,  and  we  have  another ; 
each  describes  what  he  sees  with  equal  fidelity, 
and  each  regulates  his  steps  by  his  own  eyes : 
one  man,  with  Posidippus,  looks  on  celibacy  as  a 
state  of  gloomy  solitude,  without  a  partner  in 
joy,  or  a  comforter  in  sorrow;  the  other  consi- 
ders it,  with  Metrodorus,  as  a  state  free  from  in- 
cumbrances,  in  which  a  man  is  at  liberty  to 
choose  his  own  gratifications,  to  remove  from 
place  to  place  in  quest  of  pleasure,  and  to  think 
of  nothing  but  merriment  and  diversion  :  full  of 
these  notions  one  hastens  to  choose  a  wife,  and 
the  other  laughs  at  his  rashness,  or  pities  his  ig- 
norance ;  yet  it  is  possible  that  each  is  right,  but 
that  each  is  right  only  for  himself. 

Life  is  not  the  object  of  science :  we.  see  a  lit- 
tle, very  little;  and  what  is  beyond  we  only  can 
conjecture.  If  we  inquire  of  those  who  have 
gone  before  us,  we  receive  small  satisfaction  ; 
some  have  travelled  life  without  observation,  and 
some  willingly  mislead  us.  The  only  thought, 
therefore,  on  which  we  can  repose  with  comfort, 
is  that  which  presents  to  us  the  care  of  Provi- 
dence, whose  eye  takes  in  the  whole  of  things, 
and  under  whose  direction  all  involuntary  errors 
will  terminate  in  happiness. 


No.  108.]      SATURDAY,  NOVEMBER  17,  1753. 


If  obis,  cum  simul  occidit  orevis  lux, 
Nox  estperpetuo  una  dormienda. 


CATULLUS. 


When  once  the  short-lived  mortal  dies, 

A  night  eternal  seals  his  eyes.  ADDISON. 

IT  may  have  been  observed  by  every  reader,  that 
there  are  certain  topics  which  never  are  exhaust- 
ed. Of  some  images  and  sentiments  the  mind 
of  man  may  be  said  to  be  enamoured ;  it  meets 
them,  however  often  they  occur,  with  the  same 
irdour  which  a  lover  feels  at  the  sight  of  his  mis- 
tress, and  parts  from  them  with  the  same  regret 
when  they  can  no  longer  be  enjoyed. 

Of  this  kind  are  many  descriptions  which  the 
poets  have  transcribed  from  each  other  and 
their  successors  will  probably  copy  to  the  end 
of  time ;  which  will  continue  to  engage,  or  as 
the  French  term  it,  to  flatter  the  imagination, 


as    long  as   human  nature    shall    remain    the 
same. 

When  a  poet  mentions  the  spring,  we  know 
that  the  zephyrs  are  about  to  whisper,  that  the 
groves  are  to  recover  their  verdure,  the  linnets 
to  warble  forth  their  notes  of  love,  and  the  flock 
and  herds  to  frisk  over  vales  painted  with  flow 
ers:  yet,  who  is  there  so  insensible  of  the  beau 
ties  of  nature,  so  little  delighted  with  the  renova 
tion  of  the  world,  as  not  to  feel  his  heart  bound 
at  the  mention  of  the  spring  ? 

When  night  overshadows  a  romantic  scene 
all  is  stillness,  silence,  and  quiet ;  the  poets  d 
the  grove  cease  their  melody,  the  moon  tower- 
over  the  world  in  gentle  majesty,  men  forget 
their  labours,  and  their  cares,  and  every  passion 
and  pursuit  is  for  a  while  suspended.  All  this 
we  know  already,  yet  we  hear  it  repeated  with- 
out weariness  ;  because  such  is  generally  the  life 
of  man,  that  he  is  pleased  to  think  on  the  time 
when  he  shall  pause  from  a  sense  of  his  condi- 
tion. 

When  a  poetical  grove  invites  us  to  its  covert, 
we  know  that  we  shall  find  what  we  have  al- 
ready seen,  a  limpid  brook  murmuring  over  peb- 
bles, a  bank  diversified  with  flowers,  a  green 
arch  that  excludes  the  sun,  and  a  natural  grot 
shaded  with  myrtles ;  yet  who  can  forbear  to 
enter  the  pleasing  gloom,  to  enjoy  coolness  and 
privacy,  and  gratify  himself  once  more  by  scenes 
with  which  nature  has  formed  him  to  be  de- 
lighted ? 

Many  moral  sentiments  likewise  are  so  adapt- 
ed to  our  state,  that  they  find  approbation  when- 
ever they  solicit  it,  and  are  seldom  read  without 
exciting  a  gentle  emotion  in  the  mind :  such  is 
the  comparison  of  the  life  of  man  with  the  dura- 
tion of  a  flower,  a  thought  which  perhaps  every 
nation  has  heard  warbled  in  its  own  language, 
from  the  inspired  poets  of  the  Hebrews  to  our 
own  times ;  yet  this  comparison  must  always 
please,  because  every  heart  feels  its  justness, 
and  every  hour  confirms  it  by  example. 

Such,  likewise,  is  the  precept  that  directs  us 
to  use  the  present  hour,  and  refer  nothing  to  a 
distant  time,  which  we  are  uncertain  whether  we 
shall  reach :  this  every  moralist  may  venture  to 
inculcate,  because  it  will  always  be  approved, 
and  because  it  is  always  forgotten. 

This  rule  is,  indeed,  every  day  enforced,  by 
arguments  more  powerful  than  the  dissertations 
of  moralists:  we  see  men  pleasing  themselves 
with  future  happiness,  fixing  a  certain  hour  for 
the  completion  of  their  wishes,  and  perishing 
some  at  a  greater  and  some  at  a  less  distance 
from  the  happy  time;  all  complaining  of  their 
disappointments,  and  lamenting  that  they  had 
suffered  the  years  which  Heavsn  allowed  them, 
to  pass  without  improvement,  and  deferred  the 
principal  purpose  of  their  lives  to  the  time  when 
life  itself  was  to  forsake  them. 

It  is  not  only  uncertain,  whether  through  oil 
the  casualties  and  dangers  which  beset  the  life 
of  man,  we  shall  be  able  to  reach  the  time  ap 
pointed  for  happiness  or  wisdom  ;  but  it  is  likely, 
that  whatever  now  hinders  us  from  doing  that 
which  our  reason  and  conscience  declare  neces- 
sary to  be  done,  will  equally  obstruct  us  in  times 
to  come.  It  is  easy  for  the  imagination,  operat- 
ing on  things  not  yet  existing,~to  please  itself 
with  scenes  of  unmingled  felicity,  or  plan  out 
courses  of  uniform  virtue ;  but  good  and  evil  are 


No.  111.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


in  real  life  inseparably  united;  habits  grow 
stronger  by  indulgence ;  and  reason  loses  her 
dignity,  in  proportion  as  she  has  oftener  yielded 
to  temptation  :  "  he  that  cannot  live  well  to- 
day," says  Martial,  "will  be  less  qualified  to 
live  well  to-morrow." 

Of  the  uncertainty  of  every  human  good, 
every  human  being  seems  to  be  convinced  ;  yet 
this  uncertainty  is  voluntarily  increased  by  un- 
necessary delay,  whether  we  respect  external 
causes,  or  consider  the  nature  of  our  own  minds. 
He  that  now  feels  a  desire  to  do  right,  and  wishes 
to  regulate  his  life  according  to  his  reason,  is 
not  sure  that,  at  any  future  time  assignable,  he 
shall  be  able  to  rekindle  the  same  ardour ;  he 
that  has  now  an  opportunity  offered  him  of 
breaking  loose  from  vice  and  folly,  cannot  know, 
but  that  he  shall  hereafter  be  more  entangled, 
and  struggle  for  freedom  without  obtaining  it, 

We  are  so  unwilling  to  believe  any  thing  to 
our  own  disadvantage,  that  we  will  always 
imagine  the  perspicacity  of  our  judgment  and 
the  strength  of  our  resolution  more  likely  to  in- 
crease than  to  grow  less  by  time ;  and,  therefore, 
conclude,  that  the  will  to  pursue  laudable  pur- 
poses, will  be  always  seconded  by  the  power. 

But,  however  we  may  be  deceived  in  calculat- 
ing the  strength  of  our  faculties,  we  cannot  doubt 
the  uncertainty  of  that  life  in  which  they  must 
be  employed  :  we  see  every  day  the  unexpected 
death  of  our  friends  and  our  enemies,  we  see 
new  graves  hourly  opened  for  men  older  and 
younger  than  ourselves,  for  the  cautious  and  the 
careless,  the  dissolute  and  the  temperate,  for 
men  who,  like  us,  were  providing  to  enjoy  or 
improve  hours  now  irreversibly  cut  off:  we  see 
all  this,  and  yet,  instead  of  living,  let  year  glide 
after  year  in  preparations  to  live. 

Men  are  so  frequently  cut  off  in  the  midst  of 
their  projections,  that  sudden  death  causes  little 
emotion  in  them  that  behold  it,  unless  it  be  im- 
pressed upon  the  attention  by  uncommon  cir- 
cumstances. I,  like  every  other  man,  have  out- 
lived multitudes,  have  seen  ambition  sink  in  its 
triumphs,  and  beauty  perish  in  its  bloom  ;  but 
have  been  seldom  so  much  affected  as  by  the 
fate  of  Euryalus,  whom  I  lately  lost  as  I  began 
to  love  him. 

Euryalus  had  for  some  time  flourished  in  a 
lucrative  profession ;  but  having  suffered  his 
imagination  to  be  fired  by  an  unextinguishable 
curiosity,  he  grew  weary  of  the  same  dull  round 
of  life,  resolved  to  harass  himself  no  longer  with 
the  drudgery  of  getting  money,  but  to  quit  his 
business  and  his  profit,  and  enjoy  for  a  few  years 
the  pleasures  of  travel.  His  friends  heard  him 
proclaim  his  resolution  without  suspecting  that 
he  intended  to  pursue  it :  but  he  was  constant 
to  his  purpose,  and  with  great  expedition  closed 
his  accounts  and  sold  his  moveables,  passed  a 
few  days  in  bidding  farewell  to  his  companions, 
und  with  all  the  eagerness  of  romantic  chivalry, 
crossed  the  sea  in  search  of  happiness.  What- 
ever place  was  renowned  in  ancient  or  modern 
history,  whatever  region  art  or  nature  had  dis- 
tinguished, he  determined  to  visit:  full  of  de- 
sign and  hope,  he  landed  on  the  continent ;  his 
friends  expected  accounts  from  him  of  the  new 
scenes  that  opened  in  his  progress,  but  were  in- 
formed in  a  few  days,  that  Euryalus  was  dead. 

Such  was  the  end  of  Euryalus.  He  is  entered 
that  state  whence  none  ever  shall  return  ;  and 


can  now  only  benefit  his  friends,  by  remaining 
to  their  memories  a  permanent  and  efficacious 
instance  of  the  blindness  of  desire,  and  the  un- 
certainty of  all  terrestrial  good.  But  perhaps 
every  man  has,  like  me,  lost  an  Euryalus,  has 
known  a  friend  die  with  happiness  in  his  grasp; 
and  yet  every  man  continues  to  think  himself 
secure  of  life,  and  defers  to  some  future  time  of 
leisure  what  he  knows  it  will  be  fatal  to  have 
finally  omitted. 

It  is,  indeed,  with  this  as  with  other  frailties 
inherent  in  our  nature ;  the  desire  of  deferring 
to  another  time,  what  cannot  be  done  without 
endurance  of  some  pain,  or  forbearance  of  some 
pleasure,  will,  perhaps,  never  be  totally  overcome 
or  suppressed  ;  there  will  always  be  something 
that  we  shall  wish  to  have  finished,  and  be  ne- 
vertheless unwilling  to  begin  :  but  against  this 
unwillingness  it  is  our  duty  to  struggle,  and 
every  conquest  over  our  passions  will  make  way 
for  an  easier  conquest:  custom  is  equally  forci- 
ble to  bad  and  good  ;  nature  will  always  be  at 
variance  with  reason,  but  will  rebel  more  feebly 
as  she  is  oftener  subdued. 

The  common  neglect  of  the  present  hour  is 
more  shameful  and  criminal,  as  no  man  is  be- 
trayed to  it  by  error,  but  admits  it  by  negligencp. 
Of  the  instability  of  life,  the  weakest  understand 
ing  never  thinks  wrong,  though  the  strongest 
often  omits  to  think  justly  :  reason  and  experi- 
ence are  always  ready  to  inform  us  of  our  real 
state  ;  but  we 'refuse  to  listen  to  their  sugges- 
tions, because  we  feel  our  hearts  unwilling  to 
obey  them:  but,  surely,  nothing  is  more  un- 
worthy of  a  reasonable  being,  than  to  shut  his 
eyes,  when  he  sees  the  road  which  he  is  com- 
manded to  travel,  that  he  may  deviate  with  few- 
er reproaches  from  himself:  nor  could  any  mo- 
tive to  tenderness,  except  the  consciousness  that 
we  have  all  been  guilty  of  the  same  fault,  dis- 
pose us  to  pity  those  who  thus  consign  them- 
selves to  voluntary  ruin. 


No.  111.]      TUESDAY,  Nov.  27.  1753. 
Qua  non  fecimut  ipri, 


Fix  ea  nostra  coco. 


OVID. 


The  deeds  of  long  descended  ancestors 

Are  but  by  grace  of  imputation  ours.         DRYDCTI 

THE  evils  inseparably  annexed  to  the  present 
condition  of  man,  are  so  numerous  and  afflictive, 
that  it  has  been,  from  age  to  age,  the  task  of 
some  to  bewail,  and  of  others  to  solace  them , 
and  he,  therefore,  will  be  in  danger  of  seeming 
a  common  enemy,  who  shall  attempt  to  depreci- 
ate the  few  pleasures  and  felicities  which  nature 
has  allowed  us. 

Yet  I  will  confess,  that  I  have  sometimes  em- 
ployed my  thoughts  in  examining  the  preten- 
sions that  are  made  to  happiness,  by  the  splendid 
and  envied  condition  of  life ;  and  have  not 
thought  the  hour  unprofitably  spent,  when  I  have 
detected  the  imposture  of  counterfeit  advan- 
tages, and  found  disquiet  lurking  under  false  ap- 
pearances of  gayety  and  greatness. 

It  is  asserted  by  a  tragic  poet,  that  "  est  misei 
nemo  nisi  comparatus,"  "  no  man  is  miserable, 
but  as  he  is  compared  with  others  happier  than 


S42 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  JiJ. 


himself:"  this  position  is  not  strictly  and  philo- 
sophically true.  He  might  have  said  with  rigor- 
ous propriety,  that  no  man  's  happy  but  as  he  is 
compared  with  the  miserable ;  ibr  such  is  the 
stiitn  of  this  world,  that  we  find  in  it  absolute  mi- 
eery,  but  happiness  only  comparative ;  we  may 
incur  as  much  pain  as  we  can  possibly  endure, 
though  we  can  never  obtain  as  much  happiness 
as  we  might  possibly  enjoy. 

Yet  it  is  certain  likewise,  that  many  of  our 
miseries  are  merely  comparative  :  we  are  often 
made  unhappy,  not  by  the  presence  of  any  real 
evil,  but  by  the  absence  of  some  fictitious  good  ; 
of  something  which  is  not  required  by  any  real 
want  of  nature  which  has  not  in  itself  any  power 
of  gratification,  and  which  neither  reason  nor 
fancy  would  have  prompted  us  to  wish,  did  we 
not  see  it  in  the  possession  of  others. 

For  a  mind  diseased  with  vain  longings  after 
unattainable  advantages,  no  medicine  can  be 
prescribed,  but  an  impartial  inquiry  into  the  real 
worth  of  that  which  is  so  ardently  desired.  It  is 
well  known,  how  much  the  mind,  as  well  as  the 
eye,  is  deceived  by  distance ;  and,  perhaps,  it 
will  be  found,  that  of  many  imagined  blessings  it 
may  be  doubted,  whether  he  that  wants  or  pos- 
sesses them  has  more  reason  to  be  satisfied  with 
his  lot. 

The  dignity  of  high  birth  and  long  extraction, 
no  man,  to  whom  nature  has  denied  it,  can  con- 
fer upon  himself;  and,  therefore,  it  deserves  to 
be  considered,  whether  the  want  of  that  which 
can  never  be  gained,  may  not  easily  be  endured. 
It  is  true,  that  if  we  consider  the  triumph  and  de- 
light with  which  most  of  those  recount  their  an- 
cestors, who  have  ancestors  to  recount,  and  the 
artifices  by  which  some  who  have  risen  to  unex- 
pected fortune  endeavour  to  insert  themselves 
into  an  honourable  stem,  we  shall  be  inclined  to 
lancy  that  wisdom  or  virtue  may  be  had  by  inhe- 
ritance, or  that  all  the  excellences  of  a  line  of  pro- 
genitors are  accumulated  on  their  descendant. 
Reason,  indeed,  will  soon  inform  us,  that  our  es- 
timation of  birth  is  arbitrary,  and  capricious,  and 
that  dead  ancestors  can  have  no  influence  but 
upon  imagination  :  let  it  then  be  examined,  whe- 
ther one  dream  may  not  operate  in  the  place  of 
another  ;  whether  he  that  owes  nothing  to  fore- 
fathers, may  not  receive  equal  pleasure  from  the 
consciousness  of  owing  all  to  himself;  whether 
he  may  not,  with  a  little  meditation,  find  it  more 
honourable  to  found  than  to  continue  a  family, 
and  to  gain  dignity  than  transm  it  it ;  whether,  if  he 
receives  no  dignity  from  the  virtues  of  his  family, 
he  does  not  likewise  escape  the  danger  of  being 
disgraced  by  their  crimes ;  and  whether  he  that 
brings  a  new  name  into  the  world,  has  not  the 
convenience  of  playing  the  game  of  life  without 
a  stake,  and  opportunity  of  winning  much  though 
he  has  nothing  to  lose. 

There  is  another  opinion  concerning  happi- 
ness, which  approacnes  much  more  nearly  to 
universality,  but  which  may,  perhaps,  with  equal 
reason  be  disputed.  The  pretensions  to  ances- 
tral honours  many  of  the  sons  of  earth  easily  see 
to  be  ill-grounded  ;  hut  all  agree  to  celebrate  the 
advantage  of  hereditary  riches,  and  to  consider 
those  as  the  minions  of  fortune,  who  are  wealthy 
from  their  cradles,  whose  estate  is  "res  nanparta 
labors,  sed  relicta;"  "  the  acquisition  of  another, 
not  of  themselves;"  and  whom  a  father's  indus- 
try has  dispensed  from  a  laborious  attention  to 


arts  or  commerce,  and  left  at  liberty  to  dispose  of 
life  as  fancy  shall  direct  them. 

If  every  man  were  wise  and  virtuous,  capable 
to  discern  the  best  use  of  time,  and  resolute  to 
practise  it,  it  might  be  granted,  I  think,  without 
hesitation,  that  total  liberty  would  be  a  blessing; 
and  that  it  would  be  desirable  to  be  left  at  large 
to  the  exercise  of  religious  and  social  duties,  with- 
out the  interruption  of  importunate  avocations. 

But,  since  felicity  is  relative,  and  that  which  is 
the  means  of  happiness  to  one  man  may  be  to 
another  the  cause  of  misery,  we  are  to  consider, 
what  state  is  best  adapted  to  human  nature  in  its 
present  degeneracy  and  frailty.  And,  surely,  to 
far  the  greater  number  it  is  highly  expedient,  that 
they  should  by  some  settled  scheme  of  duties  be 
rescued  from  the  tyranny  of  caprice,  that  they 
should  be  driven  on  by  necessity  through  the 
paths  of  life  with  their  attention  confined  to  a 
stated  task,  that  they  may  be  less  at  leisure  to 
deviate  into  mischief  at  the  call  of  folly. 

When  we  observe  the  lives  of  those  whom  an 
ample  inheritance  has  let  loose  to  their  own  di- 
rection, what  do  we  discover  that  can  excite  our 
envy?  Their  time  seems  not  to  pass  with  much 
applause  from  others,  or  satisfaction  to  them- 
selves :  many  squander  their  exuberance  of  for- 
tune in  luxury  and  debauchery,  and  have  no  other 
use  of  money  than  to  inflame  their  passions,  and 
riot  in  a  wide  range  of  licentiousness ;  others, 
less  criminal  indeed,  but  surely  not  much  to  be 
praised,  lie  down  to  sleep,  and  rise  up  to  trifle, 
are  employed  every  morning  in  finding  expedi- 
ents to  rid  themselves  of  the  day,  chase  pleasure 
through  all  the  places  of  public  resort,  fly  from 
London  to  Bath,  and  from  Bath  to  London,  with- 
out any  other  reason  for  changing  place,  but  that 
they  go  in  quest  of  company  as  idle  and  as  va- 
grant as  themselves,  always  endeavouring  to 
raise  some  new  desire,  that  they  may  have  some- 
thing to  pursue,  to  kindle  some  hope  which  they 
know  will  be  disappointed,  changing  one  amuse- 
ment for  another  which  a  few  months  will  make 
equally  insipid,  or  sinking  into  languor  and  dis- 
ease for  want  of  something  to  actuate  their  bo- 
dies or  exhilarate  their  minds. 

Whoever  has  frequented  those  places,  where 
idlers  assemble  to  escape  from  solitude,  knows 
that  this  is  generally  the  state  of  the  wealthy  ; 
and  from  this  state  it  is  no  great  hardship  to  be 
debarred.  No  man  can  be  happy  in  total  idle- 
ness :  he  that  should  be  condemned  to  lie  torpid 
and  motionless,  "  would  fly  for  recreation,"  says 
South,  "to  the  mines  and  the  galleys  ;"  and  it 
is  well,  when  nature  or  fortune  finds  employ- 
ment for  those,  who  would  not  have  known  how 
to  procure  it  for  themselves. 

He,  whose  mind  is  engaged  by  the  acquisition 
or  improvement  of  a  fcrtune,  not  only  escapes 
the  insipidity  of  indifference,  and  the  tediousness 
of  inactivity,  but  gains  enjoyments  wholly  un- 
known to  those,  who  live  lazily  on  the  toil  of 
others  ;  for  life  affords  no  higher  pleasure  than 
that  of  surmounting  difficulties,  passing  from 
one  step  of  success  to  another,  forming  new 
wishes,  and  seeing  them  gratified.  He  that  la- 
bours in  any  great  or  laudable  undertaking,  has 
his  fatigues  first  supported  by  hope,  and  after- 
wards rewarded  by  joy ;  he  is  always  moving 
to  a  certain  end,  and  wnen  he  has  attained  it, 
an  end  more  distant  invites  him  to  a  new  pur- 
suit. 


No.  115.] 


THE  ADVENTURER 


343 


It  does  not,  indeed,  always  happen,  that  dili- 

§ence  is  fortunate ;  the  wisest  schemes  are 
roken  by  unexpected  accidents  ;  the  most  con- 
stant perseverance  sometimes  toils  through  life 
without  a  recompense  ;  but  labour,  though  un- 
successful, is  more  eligible  than  idleness ;  he 
that  prosecutes  a  lawful  purpose  by  lawful 
means,  acts  always  with  the  approbation  of  his 
own  reason ;  he  is  animated  through  the  course 
of  his  endeavours  by  an  expectation  which, 
though  not  certain,  he  knows  to  be  just;  and  is 
at  last  comforted  in  his  disappointment,  by  the 
consciousness  that  he  has  not  failed  by  his  own 
fault. 

That  kind  of  life  is  most  happy  which  affords 
us  most  opportunities  of  gaining  our  own  esteem; 
and  what  can  any  man  infer  in  his  own  favour 
from  a  condition  to  which,  however  prosperous, 
he  contributed  nothing,  and  which  the  vilest  and 
weakest  of  the  species  would  have  obtained  by 
the  same  right,  had  he  happened  to  be  the  son 
of  the  same  father  ? 

To  strive  with  difficulties,  and  to  conquer 
them,  is  the  highest  human  felicity ;  the  next  is, 
to  strive,  and  deserve  to  conquer:  but  he  whose 
life  has  passed  without  a  contest,  and  who  can 
boast  neither  success  nor  merit,  can  survey  him- 
self only  as  a  useless  filler  of  existence  ;  and  if 
he  is  content  with  his  own  character,  must  owe 
his  satisfaction  to  insensibility. 

Thus  it  appears  that  the  satirist  advised  right- 
ly, when  he  directed  us  to  resign  ourselves  to  the 
hands  of  Heaven,  and  to  leave  to  superior  pow- 
ers the  determination  of  our  lot : 

Permittes  ipiis  ezpendtrt  Numinibus,  quid 
Convcnial  nobis,  rabusque  sit  utile  iwstrit: 
Carior  esl  illis  homo  guam  sibi. 

Intrust  thy  fortune  to  the  Powers  aoove  : 
Leave  them  to  manage  for  thee,  and  to  grant 
What  their  unerring  wisdom  sees  thee  want. 
In  goodness  as  in  greatness  they  excel ; 
Ah  !  that  we  loved  ourselves  but  half  so  well. 

DRYDEN. 

What  state  of  life  admits  most  happiness,  is 
uncertain  ;  but  that  uncertainty  ought  to  repress 
the  petulance  of  comparison,  and  silence  the 
murmurs  of  discontent. 


>To.  115.]       TUESDAY,  DEC.  11,  1753. 

Scribirmu  indocti  doctiqae.  HOR. 

All  dare  to  write,  who  can  or  cannot  read. 

THEY  who  have  attentively  considered  the  his- 
tory of  mankind,  know  that  every  age  has  its 
peculiar  character.  At  one  time,  no  desire  is 
ielt  but  for  military  honours ;  every  summer  af- 
fords battles  and  sieges,  and  the  world  is  filled 
with  ravage,  bloodshed,  and  devastation  :  this 
sanguinary  fury  at  length  subsides,  and  nations 
arc  divided  into  factions,  by  controversies  about 
points  that  will  never  be  decided.  Men  then 
grow  weary  of  debate  and  altercation,  and  apply 
themselves  to  the  arts  of  profit;  trading  com- 
panies are  formed,  manufactures  improved,  and 
navigation  extended  ;  and  nothing  is  any  longer 
thought  on,  but  the  increase  and  preservation  of 
property,  the  artifices  of  getting  money,  and  the 
pleasures  of  spending  it 


The  present  age,  if  we  consider  chiefly  the 
state  of  our  own  country,  may  be  styled  with 
groat  propriety  The  dge  of  Authors  ;  for,  per- 
haps, there  never  was  a  time  in  which  men  of 
all  degrees  of  ability,  of  every  kind  of  education, 
of  every  profession  and  employment,  were  post- 
ing with  ardour  so  general  to  the  press.  The 
province  of  writing  was  formerly  left  to  those, 
who  by  study,  or  appearance  of  study,  were  sup- 
posed to  have  gained  knowledge  unattainable  by 
the  busy  part  of  mankind  ;  but  in  these  enlight- 
ened days,  every  man  is  qualified  to  instruct  eve- 
ry other  man :  and  he  that  beats  the  anvil,  or 
guides  the  plough,  not  content  with  supplying  cor- 
poral necessities,  amuses  himself  in  the  hours  of 
leisure  with  providing  intellectual  pleasures  for 
his  countrymen. 

It  may  be  observed,  that  of  this,  as  of  other 
evils,  complaints  have  been  made  by  every  gene- 
ration ;  but  though  it  may,  perhaps,  be  true,  that 
at  all  times  more  have  been  willing  than  have 
been  able  to  write,  yet  there  is  no  reason  for  be- 
lieving, that  the  dogmatical  legions  of  the  present 
race  were  ever  equalled  in  number  by  any  former 
period :  for  so  widely  is  spread  the  itch  of  lite- 
rary praise,  that  almost  every  man  is  an  author 
either  in  act  or  in  purpose  ;  has  either  bestowed 
his  favours  on  the  public,  or  withholds  them,  that 
they  may  be  more  seasonably  offered,  or  made 
more  worthy  of  acceptance. 

In  former  times,  the  pen,  like  the  sword,  was 
considered  as  consigned  by  nature  to  the  hands 
of  men ;  the  ladies  contented  themselves  with 
private  virtues  and  domestic  excellence ;  and  a 
female  wrifer,  like  a  female  warrior,  was  consi- 
dered as  a  kind  of  eccentric  being,  that  deviated, 
however  illustriously,  from  her  due  sphere  of  mo- 
tion, and  was,  therefore,  rather  to  be  gazed  at 
with  wonder,  than  countenanced  by  imitation. 
But  as  in  the  times  past  are  said  to  have  been  a  n  a- 
tion  of  Amazons,  who  drew  the  bow  and  wielded 
the  battle-axe,  formed  encampments  and  wasted 
nations,  the  revolution  of  years  has  now  produced 
a  generation  of  Amazons  of  the  pen,  who  with 
the  spirit  of  their  predecessors  have  set  mascu- 
line tyranny  at  defiance,  asserted  their  claim  to 
the  regions  of  science,  and  seem  resolved  to 
contest  the  usurpation  of  virility. 

Some,  indeed,  there  are  of  both  sexes,  who  arj 
authors  only  in  desire,  but  have  not  yet  attained 
the  power  of  executing  their  intentions ;  whoso 
performances  have  not  arrived  at  bulk  sufficient 
to  form  a  volume,  or  who  have  not  the  confi- 
dence, however  impatient  of  nameless  obscurity, 
to  solicit  openly  the  assistance  of  the  printer. 
Among  these  are  the  innumerable  correspond- 
ents of  public  papers,  who  are  always  offering 
assistance  which  no  man  will  receive,  and  sug- 
gesting hints  that  are  never  taken,  and  who  com- 
plain loudly  of  the  perverseness  and  arrogance 
of  authors,  lament  their  insensibility  of  their  own 
interest,  and  fill  the  coffee-houses  with  dark  sto- 
ries of  performances  by  eminent  hands,  which 
have  been  offered  and  rejected. 

To  what  cause  this  universal  eagerness  of 
writing  can  be  properly  ascribed,  I  have  not  yet 
been  able  to  discover.  It  is  said,  that  every  art 
is  propagated  in  proportion  to  the  rewards  confer- 
red upon  it ;  a  position  from  which  a  stranger 
would  naturally  infer,  that  literature  was  now 
blessed  with  patronage  far  transcending  the  can- 
dour or  munificence  of  the  Augustan  age,  that 


344 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[.No. 


the  road  to  greatness  was  open  to  none  but  au- 
thors, and  that  by  writing  alone  riches  and  honour 
were  to  be  obtained. 

But  since  it  is  true,  that  writers,  like  other 
competitors,  are  very  li'ctle  disposed  to  favour  one 
another,  it  is  not  to  lie  expected  that  at  a  time 
when  every  man  writes,  any  man  will  patronize; 
and  accordingly,  there  is  not  one  that  I  can  re- 
collect at  present,  who  professes  the  least  re- 
gard for  the  votaries  of  science,  invites  the  ad- 
dresses of  learned  men,  or  seems  to  hope  for  re- 
putation from  any  pen  but  his  own. 

The  cause,  therefore,  of  this  epidemical  con- 
spiracy for  the  destruction  of  paper,  must  remain 
a  secret ;  nor  can  I  discover,  whether  we  owe  it 
f»  the  influences  of  the  constellations,  or  the  in- 
t  mperature  of  seasons :  whether  the  long  con- 
ti  uiance  of  the  wind  at  any  single  point,  or  in- 
to xicating  vapours  exhaled  from  the  earth,  have 
turned  our  nobles  and  our  peasants,  our  soldiers 
and  traders,  our  men  and  women,  all  into  wits, 
philosophers,  and  writers. 

It  is,  indeed,  of  more  importance  to  search  out 
the  cure  than  the  cause  of  this  intellectual  ma- 
lady ;  and  he  would  deserve  well  of  his  country, 
who,  instead  of  amusing  himself  with  conjectu- 
ral speculations,  should  find  means  of  persuad- 
ing the  peer  to  inspect  his  steward's  accounts,  or 
repair  the  rural  mansion  of  his  ancestors,  who 
could  replace  the  tradesman  behind  his  counter, 
and  send  back  the  fanner  to  the  mattock  and  the 
flail. 

General  irregularities  are  known  in  time  to 
remedy  themselves.  By  the  constitution  of  an- 
cient Egypt,  the  priesthood  was  continually  in- 
creasing, till  at  length  there  was  no  people  be- 
side themselves;  the  establishment  was  then 
dissolved,  and  the  number  of  priests  was  reduced 
and  limited.  Thus  among  us,  writers  will  per- 
haps be  multiplied,  till  no  readers  will  bs  found, 
and  then  the  ambition  of  writing  must  necessarily 
cease. 

But  as  it  will  be  long  before  the  cure  is  thus 
gradually  effected,  and  ths  evil  should  be  stop- 
ped, if  it  be  possible,  before  it  rises  to  so  great  a 
height,  I  could  wish  that  both  sexes  would  fix 
their  thoughts  upon  some  salutary  considera- 
tions, which  might  repress  their  ardour  for  that 
reputation  which  not  one  of  many  thousands  is 
fated  to  obtain. 

Let  it  be  deeply  impressed  and  frequently  re- 
collected, that  he  who  has  not  obtained  the  pro- 
per qualifications  of  an  author,  can  have  no  ex- 
cuse for  the  arrogance  of  writing,  but  the  power 
of  imparting  to  mankind  something  necessary  to 
be  known.  A  man  uneducated  or  unlettered 
may  sometimes  start  a  useful  thought,  or  make 
a  lucky  discovery,  or  obtain  by  chance  some  se- 
cret of  nature,  or  some  intelligence  of  facts,  of 
which  the  most  enlightened  mind  may  be  igno- 
rant, and  which  it  is  better  to  reveal,  though  by 
a  rude  and  unskilful  communication,  than  to  lose 
for  ever  by  suppressing  it. 

But  few  will  be  justified  by  this  plea  ;  for  of 
the  innumerable  books  and  pamphlets  that  have 
overflowed  the  nation,  scarce  one  has  made  any 
addition  to  real  knowledge,  or  contained  more 
than  a  transposition  of  common  sentiments  and 
a  repetition  of  common  phrases. 

It  will  be  naturally  inquired,  when  the  man 
who  feels  an  inclination  to  write,  may  venture 
to  suppose  himself  properly  qualified ;  and,  since 


every  man  is  inclined  to  think  well  cf  his  own  in 
teHect,  by  what  test  he  may  try  his  abilities,  with- 
out hazarding  the  contempt  or  resentment  of  the 
public. 

The  first  qualification  of  a  writer,  is  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  subject  which  he  undertakes 
to  treat ;  since  we  cannot  teach  what  we  do  not 
know,  nor  can  properly  undertake  to  instruct 
others  while  we  are  ourselves  in  want  of  in- 
struction. The  next  requisite  is,  that  he  be 
master  of  the  language  in  which  he  delivers  his 
sentiments:  if  he  treats  of  science  and  demon- 
stration, that  he  has  attained  a  style  clear,  pure, 
nervous,  and  expressive  ;  if  his  topics  be  proba- 
ble and  persuasory,  that  he  be  able  to  recom- 
mend them  by  the  superaddition  of  elegance  and 
imagery,  to  display  the  colours  of  varied  uiction, 
and  pour  forth  the  music  of  modulated  periods. 

If  it  be  again  inquired,  upon  what  principles 
any  man  shall  conclude  that  he  wants  those 
powers,  it  may  be  readily  answered,  that  no  end 
is  attained  but  by  the  proper  means;  he  only 
can  rationally  presume  that  he  understands  a 
subject,  who  has  read  and  compared  the  writers 
that  have  hitherto  discussed  it,  familiarized  theii 
arguments  to  himself  by  long  meditation,  con- 
sulted the  foundations  of  different  systems,  and 
separated  truth  from  error  by  a  rigorous  exami 
nation. 

In  like  manner,  he  only  has  aright  to  suppose 
that  he  can  express  his  thoughts,  whatever  they 
are,  with  perspicuity  or  elegance,  who  has  care- 
fully perused  the  best  authors,  accurately  noted 
their  diversities  of  style,  diligently  selected  the 
best  modes  of  diction,  and  familiarized  them  by 
long  habits  of  attentive  practice; 

No  man  is  a  rhetorician  or  philosopher  by 
chance.  He  who  knows  that  he  undertakes  to 
write  on  questions  which  he  has  never  studied, 
may  without  hesitation  determine,  that  he  is 
about  to  waste  his  own  time  and  that  of  his  read- 
er, and  expose  himself  to  the  derision  of  those 
whom  he  aspires  to  instruct;  he  that  without 
forming  his  style  by  the  study  of  the  best  models 
hastens  to  obtrude  his  compositions  on  the  pub- 
lic, may  be  certain,  that  whatever  hope  or  flat- 
tery may  suggest,  he  shall  shock  the  learned  ear 
with  barbarisms,  and  contribute,  wherever  his 
work  shall  be  received,  to  the  depravation  of 
taste  and  the  corruption  of  language. 


No.  119.]       TUESDAY,  DEC.  25,  1753. 

atius  regnes  aviditm  domando 
Spiritum,  quam  si  Lybiam  remotif 
Gadibusjungas,  et  ute.rque  Pasrua 
Servia.1  uni. 

By  virtue's  precepts  to  control 

The  thirsty  cravings  of  the  soul, 

Is  over  wider  realms  to  reigri 

Unenvied  monarch,  than  if  Spain 

You  could  to  distant  Lybia  join, 

And  both  the  Carthages  were  thine.        FRANCIS. 

WHEN  Socrates  was  asked,  "  which  of  mortal 
men  was  to  be  accounted  nearest  to  the  gods  in 
happiness?"  he  answered,  "that  man  who  is  in 
want  of  the  fewest  things." 

In  this  answer,  Socrates,  left  it  to  be  guessed 
by  his  auditors,  whether,  by  the  exemption  from 
want  which  was  to  constitute  happiness  hti 


No.  119.J 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


o45 


meant  amplitude  of  possessions  or  contraction 
oi  desire.  And,  indeed,  there  is  so  little  differ- 
ence between  them,  that  Alexander  the  Great 
confessed  the  inhabitant  of  a  tub  the  next  man  to 
the  master  of  the  world  ;  and  left  a  declaration 
to  future  ases,  that  if  he  was  not  Alexander,  he 
should  wish  to  be  Diogenes. 

These  two  states,  however,  though  they  re- 
semble each  other  in  their  consequence,  differ 
widely  with  respect  to  the  facility  with  which 
they  may  be  attained.  To  make  great  acquisi- 
tions can  happen  to  very  few ;  and  in  the  uncer- 
tainty of  human  affairs,  to  many  it  will  be  inci- 
dent to  labour  without  reward,  and  to  lose  what 
they  already  possess  by  endeavours  to  make  it 
more;  some  will  always  want  abilities,  and  others 
opportunities  to  accumulate  wealth.  It  is  there- 
fore happy,  that  nature  has  allowed  us  a  more 
certain  and  easy  road  to  plenty ;  every  man  may 
grow  rich  by  contracting  his  wishes,  and  by 
quiet  acquiescence  in  what  has  been  given  him, 
supply  the  absence  of  more. 

Yet  so  far  is  almost  every  man  from  emulat- 
ing the  happiness  ef  the  gods,  by  any  other 
means  than  grasping  at  their  power,  that  it 
seems  to  be  the  great  business  of  life  to  create 
wants  as  fast  as  they  are  satisfied.  It  has  been 
long  observed  by  moralists,  that  every  man 
squanders  or  loses  a  great  part  of  that  life,  of 
which  every  man  knows  and  deplores  the  short- 
ness :  and  it  may  be  remarked  with  equal  just- 
ness, that  though  every  man  laments  his  own 
insufficiency  In  his  happiness,  and  knows  him- 
self a  necessitous  and  precarious  being,  inces- 
santly soliciting  the  assistance  of  others,  and 
feeling  wants  which  bis  own  art  or  strength  can- 
not supply ;  yet  there  is  no  man,  who  does  not, 
by  the  superaddition  of  unnatural  cares,  render 
himself  still  more  dependent ;  who  does  not  cre- 
ate an  artificial  poverty,  and  suffer  himself  to  feel 
pain  for  the  want  of  that,  of  which,  when  it  is 
gained,  he  can  have  no  enjoyment. 

It  must,  indeed,  be  allowed,  that  as  we  lose 
part  of  our  time  because  it  steals  away  silent  and 
invisible,  and  many  an  hour  is  passed  before  we 
recollect  that  it  is  passing  ;  so  unnatural  desires 
insinuate  themselves  unobserved  into  the  mind, 
and  we  do  not  perceive  that  they  are  gaining 
upon  us,  till  the  pain  which  they  give  us  awakens 
us  to  notice.  No  man  is  sufficiently  vigilant  to 
take  account  of  every  minute  of  his  life,  or  to 
watch  every  motion  of  his  heart.  Much  of  our 
time  likewise  is  sacrificed  to  custom:  we  trifle, 
because  we  see  others  trifle ;  in  the  same  man- 
ner we  catch  from  example  the  contagion  of  de- 
sire ;  we  see  all  about  us  busied  in  pursuit  of 
imaginary  good,  and  begin  to  bustle  in  the  same 
chase,  lest  greater  activity  should  triumph  over 
us. 

It  is  true  that  to  man  as  a  member  of  society, 
many  things  become  necessary,  which,  perhaps, 
in  a  state  of  nature  are  superfluous  ;  and  that 
many  things  not  absolutely  necessary,  are  yet 
so  useful  and  convenient,  that  they  cannot  ea- 
sily be  spared.  I  will  make  yet  a  more  ample 
and  liberal  concession.  In  opulent  states,  and 
regular  governments,  the  temptations  to  wealth 
and  rank,  and  to  the  distinctions  that  follow 
them,  are  such  as  no  force  of  understanding  finds 
it  easy  to  resist. 

If,  therefore,  I  saw  the  quiet  of  life  disturbed 
only  by  endeavours  after  wealth  and  honour ;  by 


solicitude,  which  the  world,  whether  justly  or 
not,  considered  as  important;  I  should  scarcely 
have  had  courage  to  inculcate  any  precepts  of 
moderation  and  forbearance.  He  that  is  en- 
gaged in  a  pursuit,  in  which  all  mankind  profess 
to  be  his  rivals,  is  supported  by  the  authority  of 
all  mankind  in  the  prosecution  of  his  design,  and 
will,  therefore,  scarcely  stop  to  hear  the  lectures 
of  a  solitary  philosopher.  Nor  am  I  certain,  that 
the  accumulation  of  honest  gain  ought  to  be  hin- 
dered, or  the  ambition  of  just  honours  always  to 
be  repressed.  Whatever  can  enable  the  pos- 
sessor to  confer  any  benefit  upon  others,  may  be 
desired  upon  virtuous  principles ;  and  we  ought 
not  too  rashly  to  accuse  any  man  of  intending  to 
confine  the  influence  of  his  acquisitions  to  him- 
self. 

But  if  we  look  round  upon  mankind,  whom 
shall  we  find  among  those  that  fortune  permits 
to  form  their  own  manners,  that  is  not  torment 
ing  himself  with  a  wish  for  something,  of  which 
all  the  pleasure  and  all  the  benefit  will  cease  at 
the  moment  of  attainment?  One  man  is  beggar- 
ing his  posterity  to  build  a  house,  which  when 
finished  he  never  will  inhabit  ;  another  is  level- 
ling mountains  to  open  a  prospect,  which  when 
he  has  enjoyed  it,  he  can  enjoy  no  more;  another 
is  painting  ceilings,  carving  wainscot,  and  filling 
his  apartments  with  costly  furniture,  only  that 
some  neighbouring  house  may  not  be  richer  or 
finer  than  his  own. 

That  splendour  and  elegance  are  not  desirable, 
I  am  not  so  abstracted  from  life  as  to  inculcate ; 
but  if  we  inquire  closely  into  the  reason  for 
which  they  are  esteemed,  we  shall  find  them 
valued  principally  as  evidences  of  wealth.  No- 
thing, therefore,  can  show  greater  depravity  of 
understanding,  than  to  delight  in  the  show  when 
the  reality  is  wanting;  or  voluntarily  to  become 
poor,  that  strangers  may  for  a  time  imagine  us  to 
be  rich. 

But  there  are  yet  minuter  objects  and  more 
trifling  anxieties.  Men  may  be  found,  who  are 
kept  from  sleep  by  the  want  of  a  shell  particularly 
variegated  ;  who  are  wasting  their  lives  in  stra- 
tagems to  obtain  a  book  in  a  language  which 
they  do  not  understand ;  who  pine  with  envy 
at  the  flowers  of  another  man's  parterre  ;  who 
hover  like  vultures  round  the  owner  of  a  fossil, 
in  hopes  to  plunder  his  cabinet  at  his  death ;  and 
who  would  not  much  regret  to  see  a  street  in 
flames,  if  a  box  of  medals  might  be  scattered  in 
the  tumult. 

He  that  imagines  me  to  speak  of  these  sages 
in  terms  exaggerated  and  hyperbolical,  has  con- 
versed but  little  with  the  race  of  virtuosos.  A 
slight  acquaintance  with  their  studies,  and  a  few 
visits  to  their  assemblies,  would  inform  him,  that 
nothing  is  so  worthless,  but  that  prejudice  and 
caprice  can  give  it  value ;  nor  any  thing  of  so 
little  use,  but  that  by  indulging  an  idle  competi- 
tion or  unreasonable  pride,  a  man  may  make  it 
to  himself  one  of  the  necessaries  of  life. 

Desires  like  these,  I  may  surely,  without  in- 
curring the  censure  of  moroseness,  advise  every 
man  to  repel  when  they  invade  his  mind  ;  or  if 
he  admits  them,  never  to  allow  them  any  great- 
er influence  than  is  necessary  to  give  petty  em- 
ployments the  power  of  pleasing,  and  diversify 
the  day  with  slight  amusements. 

An  ardent  wish,  whatever  be  its  object,  wiL 
always  be  able  to  interrupt  tranquillity.  What 


316 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  120. 


wo  believe  ourselves  to  want,  torments  us  not  in 
proportion  to  its  real  value,  but  according  to  the 
estimation  by  which  we  have  rated  it  in  our  own 
minds ;  in  some  diseases,  the  patient  has  been 
observed  to  long  for  food,  which  scarce  any  ex- 
tremity of  hunger  would  in  health  have  com- 
pelled him  to  swallow;  but  while  his  organs 
were  thus  depraved,  the  craving  was  irresisti- 
ble, nor  could  any  rest  be  obtained  till  it  was  ap- 
peased by  compliance.  Of  the  same  nature  are 
the  irregular  appetites  of  the  mind  :  though  they 
are  often  excited  by  trifles,  they  are  equally  dis- 
quieting with  real  wants ;  the  Roman,  who  wept 
at  the  death  of  his  lamprey,  felt  the  same  degree 
of  sorrow  that  extorts  tears  on  other  occasions. 

Inordinate  desires,  of  whatever  kind,  ought  to 
be  repressed  upon  a  yet  higher  consideration  ; 
they  must  be  considered  as  enemies  not  only  to 
happiness  but  to  virtue.  There  are  men,  among 
those  commonly  reckoned  the  learned  and  the 
wise,  who  spare  no  stratagems  to  remove  a  com- 
petitor at  an  auction,  who  will  sink  the  price  of 
a  rarity  at  the  expense  of  truth,  and  whom  it  is 
not  sale  to  trust  alone  in  a  library  or  cabinet. 
These  are  faults,  which  the  fraternity  seem  to 
look  upon  as  jocular  mischiefs,  or  to  think  ex- 
cused by  the  violence  of  temptation  :  but  I  shall 
always  fear  that  he  who  accustoms  himself  to 
fraud  in  little  things,  wants  only  opportunity  to 
practise  it  in  greater ;  "  he  that  has  hardened 
himself  by  killing  a  sheep,"  says  Pythagoras, 
"  will  with  less  reluctance  shed  the  blood  of  a 
man." 

To  prize  every  thing  according  to  its  real  use, 
ought  to  be  the  aim  of  a  rational  being.  There 
are  few  things  which  can  much  conduce  to  hap- 
piness, and,  therefore,  few  things  to  be  ardently 
desired.  He  that  looks  upon  the  business  and 
bustle  of  the  world,  with  the  philosophy  with 
which  Socrates  surveyed  the  fair  at  Athens, 
will  turn  away  at  last  with  his  exclamation, 
"How  many  things  are  here  which  I  do  not 
want !" 


No.  120.]      SATURDAY,  DEC.  29,  175* 


-Ultima  semper 


Etpeetanda  dies  homini,  dicique  bcittus 

Ante  ulntum  nemo  supremaque  funera  debet.      OVID. 


But  no  frail  man,  however  great  or  hiffh, 
Can  be  concluded  bless'd  before  lie  die. 


ADDISON. 


THE  numerous  miseries  of  human  life  have  ex- 
torted in  all  ages  a  universal  complaint.  The 
wisest  of  men  terminated  all  his  experiments  in 
search  of  happiness,  by  the  mournful  confession, 
that  "  all  is  vanity  ;"  and  the  ancient  patriarchs 
lamented,  that  "  the  days  of  their  pilgrimage 
were  few  and  evil." 

There  is,  indeed,  no  topic  on  which  it  is  more 
superfluous  to  accumulate  authorities,  nor  any 
assertion  of  which  our  own  eyes  will  more  easily 
discover,  or  our  sensations  more  frequently  im- 
press the  truth,  than,  that  misery  is  the  lot  of 
man,  that  our  present  state  is  a  state  of  danger 
and  infelicity. 

When  we  take  the  most  distant  prospect  of 
life,  what  does  it  present  us  but  a  chaos  of  un- 
bappiness,  a  confused  and  tumultuous  scene  of 
'aoour  and  contest,  disappointment  and  defeat  ? 


If  we  view  past  ages  in  the  reflection  of  history 
what  do  they  offer  to  our  meditation  but  crimes 
and  calamities  ?  One  year  is  distinguished  by  a 
famine,  another  by  an  earthquake:  kingdoms 
are  made  de?olate,  sometimes  by  wars,  and  some 
times  by  pestilence ;  the  peace  of  the  world  is 
interrupted  at  one  time  by  the  caprices  of  a  ty- 
rant, at  another  by  the  rago  of  the  conqueror, 
The  memory  is  stored  only  with  vicissitudes  of 
evil ;  acid  the  happiness,  such  as  it  is,  of  one  part 
of  mankind,  is  found  to  arise  commonly  from 
sanguinary  success,  from  victories  which  confer 
upon  them  the  power,  not  so  much  of  improving 
life  by  any  new  enjoyment,  as  of  inflicting  misery 
on  others,  and  gratifying  their  own  pride  by  com- 
parative greatness. 

But  by  him  that  examined  life  with  a  more 
close  attention,  the  happiness  of  the  world  will 
be  found  still  less  than  it  appears.  In  some  in- 
tervals of  public  prosperity,  or  to  use  terms 
more  proper,  in  some  intermissions  of  calamity, 
a  general  diffusion  of  happiness  may  seem  to 
overspread  a  people ;  all  is  triumph  and  exulta- 
tion, jollity  and  plenty;  there  are  no  public  fears 
and  dangers,  and  "no  complainings  in  the 
streets."  But  the  condition  of  individuals  is 
very  little  mended  by  this  general  calm ;  pain 
and  malice  and  discontent  still  continue  their 
havoc;  the  silent  depredation  goes  incessantly 
forward  ;  and  the  grave  continues  to  be  filled  by 
the  victims  of  sorrow. 

He  that  enters  a  gay  assembly,  beholds  the 
cheerfulness  displayed  in  every  countenance, 
and  finds  all  sitting  vacant  and  disengaged,  with 
no  other  attention  than  to  give  or  receive  plea- 
sure, would  naturally  imagine  thathe  had  reach- 
ed at  last  the  metropolis  of  felicity,  the  place  sa- 
cred to  gladness  of  heart,  from  whence  all  fear 
and  anxiety  were  irreversibly  excluded.  Such, 
indeed,  we  may  often  find  to  bs  the  opinion  ot 
those,  who  from  a  lower  station  look  up  to  the 
pomp  and  gayety  which  they  cannot  reach ;  but 
who  is  there  of  those  who  frequent  these  luxuri- 
ous assemblies,  that  will  not  confess  his  own 
uneasiness,  or  cannot  recount  the  vexations  and 
distresses  that  prey  upon  the  lives  of  his  gay 
companions? 

The  world,  in  its  best  state,  is  nothing  more 
than  a  larger  assembly  of  beings,  combining  to 
counterfeit  happiness  which  they  do  not  feel, 
employing  every  art  and  contrivance  to  embel- 
lish life,  and  to  hide  their  real  condition  from  the 
eyes  of  one  another. 

The  species  of  happiness  most  obvious  to  the 
observation  of  others,  is  that  which  depends  upon 
the  goods  of  fortune  ;  yet  even  this. is  often  ficti- 
tious. There  is  in  the  world  more  poverty  than 
is  generally  imagined  ;  not  only  because  many 
whose  possessions  are  large  have  desires  still 
larger,  and  many  measure  their  wants  by  the 
gratifications  which  others  enjoy:  but  great 
numbers  are  pressed  by  real  necessities  which  it 
is  their  chief  ambition  to  conceal,  and  are  forced 
to  purchase  the  appearance  of  competence  and 
cheerfulness  at  the  expense  of  many  comforts 
and  conveniences  of  life. 

Many,  however,  are  confessedly  rich,  and 
many  more  are  sufficiently  removed  from  all 
danger  of  real  poverty :  but  it  has  been  long  ago 
remarked,  that  money  cannot  purchase  quiet  j 
the  highest  of  mankind  can  promise  themselves 
no  exemption  from  that  discord  or  suspicion,  bj 


No.   126.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


34? 


which  the  sweetness  of  domestic  retirement  is 
destroyed  ;  and  must  always  be  even  more  ex- 
posed, in  the  same  degree  as  they  are  elevated 
above  others,  to  the  treachery  of  dependents, 
the  calumny  of  defamers,  and  the  violence  of 
opponents. 

Affliction  is  inseparable  from  our  present 
state ;  it  adheres  to  all  the  inhabitants  of  this 
world,  in  different  proportions  indeed,  but  with 
an  allotment  which  seems  very  little  regulated 
by  our  own  conduct. 

It  has  been  the  boast  of  some  swelling  moral- 
ists, that  every  man's  fortune  was  in  his  own 
power,  that  prudence  supplied  the  place  of  all 
other  divinities,  and  that  happiness  is  the  un- 
failing consequence  of  virtue.  But,  surely,  the 
quiver  of  Omnipotence  is  stored  with  arrows, 
against  which  the  shield  of  human  virtue,  how- 
ever adamantine  it  has  been  boasted,  is  held  up 
in  vain :  we  do  not  always  suffer  by  our  crimes  ; 
we  are  not  always  protected  by  our  innocence. 

A  good  man  is  by  no  means  exempt  from  the 
danger  of  suffering  by  the  crimes  of  others  ;  even 
his  goodness  may  raise  him  enemies  of  implaca- 
ble malice  and  restless  perseverance  :  the  good 
man  has  never  been  warranted  by  Heaven  from 
the  treachery  of  friends,  the  disobedience  of  chil- 
dren, or  the  dishonesty  of  a  wife ;  he  may  see  his 
cares  made  useless  by  profusion,  his  instructions 
defeated  by  perverseness,  and  his  kindness  re- 
jected by  ingratitude :  he  may  languish  under  the 
infamy  of  false  accusations,  or  perish  reproach- 
fully by  an  unjust  sentence. 

A  good  man  is  subject,  like  other  mortals,  to 
all  the  influences  of  natural  evil ;  his  harvest  is 
not  spared  by  the  tempest,  nor  his  cattle  by  the 
murrain  ;  his  house  flames  like  others  in  a  con- 
flagration ;  nor  have  his  ships  any  peculiar  power 
of  resisting  hurricanes :  his  mind,  however  ele- 
vated, inhabits  a  body  subject  to  innumerable 
casualties,  of  which  he  must  always  share  the 
dangers  and  the  pains  ;  he  bears  about  him  the 
seeds  of  disease,  and  may  linger  away  a  great 
part  of  his  life  under  the  tortures  of  the  gout  or 
stone;  at  one  time  groaning  with  insufferable 
anguish,  at  another  dissolved  in  listlessness  and 
languor. 

From  this  general  and  indiscriminate  distribu- 
tion of  misery,  the  moralists  have  always  derived 
one  of  their  strongest  moral  arguments  for  a  fu- 
ture state  ;  for  since  the  common  events  of  the 
present  life  happey  alike  to  the  good  and  bad,  it 
follows  from  the  justice  of  the  Supreme  Being, 
that  there  must  be  another  state  of  existence,  in 
which  a  just  retribution  shall  be  made,  and  every 
man  shall  be  happy  and  miserable  according  to 
his  works. 

The  miseries  of  life  may,  perhaps,  afford  some 
proof  of  a  future  state,  compared  as  well  with  the 
mercy  as  the  justice  of  God.  It  is  scarcely  to  be 
in.agined  that  Infinite  Benevolence  would  create 
a  being  capable  of  enjoying  so  much  more  than 
is  here  to  be  enjoyed,  and  qualified  by  nature  to 
prolong  pajn  by  remembrance,  and  anticipate  it 
by  terror,  if  he  was  not  designed  for  something 
nobler  and  better  than  a  state,  in  which  many 
of  his  faculties  can  serve  only  for  his  torment: 
in  which  he  is  to  be  importuned  by  desires  that 
never  can  be  satisfied,  to  feel  many  evils  which 
he  had  no  power  to  avoid,  and  to  fear  many 
which  he  shall  never  feel :  there  will  surely  come 
a  time,  when  every  capacity  of  happiness  'shall 


be  filled,  and  none  shall  be  wretched  but  by  his 
own  fault. 

In  the  mean  time,  it  is  by  affliction  chiefly  that 
the  heart  of  man  is  purified,  and  that  the  thoughts 
are  fixed  upon  a  better  state.  Prosperity,  allay- 
ed and  imperfect  as  it  is,  has  power  to  intoxicate 
the  imagination,  to  fix  the  mind  upon  the  present 
scene,  to  produce  confidence  and  elation,  and  to 
make  him  who  enjoys  affluence  and  honours  for- 
get the  hand  by  which  they  were  bestowed.  It 
is  seldom  that  we  are  otherwise,  than  by  afflic- 
tion, awakened  to  a  sense  of  our  own  imbecility, 
or  taught  to  know  how  little  all  our  acquisitions 
can  conduce  to  safety  or  to  quiet;  and  how  justly 
we  may  ascribe  to  the  superintendence  of  a  high- 
er Power,  those  blessings  which  in  the  wanton- 
ness of  success  we  considered  as  the  attainments 
of  our  policy  or  courage. 

Nothing  confers  so  much  ability  to  resist  the 
temptations  that  perpetually  surround  us,  as  an 
habitual  consideration  of  the  shortness  of  life, 
and  the  uncertainty  of  those  pleasures  that  so- 
licit our  pursuit;  and  this  consideration  can  be 
inculcated  only  by  affliction.  "  O  Death !  how 
bitter  is  the  remembrance  of  thee,  to  a  man  that 
lives  at  ease  in  his  possessions!"  If  our  present 
state  were  one  continued  succession  of  delights, 
or  one  uniform  flow  of  calmness  and  tranquillity, 
we  should  never  willingly  think  upon  its  end  ; 
death  would  then  surely  surprise  us  as  "  a  thief 
in  the  night ;"  and  our  task  of  duty  would  re- 
main unfinished,  till  "  the  night  came  when  no 
man  can  work." 

While  affliction  thus  prepares  us  for  felicity, 
we  may  console  ourselves  under  its  pressures,  by 
remembering,  that  they  are  no  particular  marks 
of  divine  displeasure  :  since  all  the  distresses  of 
persecution  have  been  suffered  by  those  "  of 
whom  the  world  was  not  worthy ;"  and  the  Re- 
deemer of  mankind  himself  was  "a  man  of  sor- 
rows and  acquainted  with  grief!" 


No.  126.]     SATURDAY,  JAN.  19,  1754. 


-Sterilesnec  legit  arenas 


Ut  caneret  paucis,  mersitque  hoc  pulvere  verum. 

L.UCAN 

Canst  thou  believe  the  vast  eternal  Mind 

Was  e'er  to  Syrts  and  Lybian  sands  confined  ? 

That  he  would  choose  this  waste,  this  barren  ground, 

To  teach  the  thin  inhabitants  around, 

And  leave  his  truth  in  wilds  and  deserts  drown'd  ? 

THERE  has  always  prevailed  among  that  part  of 
mankind  that  addict  their  minds  to  speculation, 
a  propensity  to  talk  much  of  the  delights  of  re- 
tirement :  and  some  of  the  most  pleasing  com- 
positions produced  in  every  age  contain  descrip- 
tions of  the  peace  and  happiness  of  a  country 
life. 

I  know  not  whether  those  who  thus  ambitious- 
ly repeat  the  praises  of  solitude,  have  always 
considered,  how  much  they  depreciate  mankind 
by  declaring,  that  whatever  is  excellent  or  desir- 
able is  to  be  obtained  by  departing  from  them; 
that  the  assistance  which  we  may  derive  from 
one  another,  is  not  equivalent  to  the  evils  which 
we  have  to  fear;  that  the  kindness  of  a  few  if 
overbalanced  by  the  malice  of  many ;  and  that 
the  protection  of  society  is  too  dearly  purchased 
by  encountering  its  dangers  and  enduring  its  op- 
pressions. 


343 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  126. 


These  specious  representations  of  solitary  hap- 
piness, however  opprobrious  to  human  nature, 
have  so  far  spread  their  influence  over  the  world, 
that  almost  every  man  delights  his  imagination 
with  the  hopes  of  obtaining  some  time  an  oppor- 
tunity of  retreat.  Many,  indeed,  who  enjoy  re- 
treat only  in  imagination,  content  themselves 
with  believing,  that  another  year  will  transport 
them  to  rural  tranquillity,  and  die  while  they  talk 
of  doing  what,  if  they  had  lived  longer,  they 
would  never  have  done.  But  many  likewise 
there  are,  either  of  greater  resolution  or  more 
credulity,  who  in  earnest  try  the  state  which 
they  have  been  taught  to  think  thus  secure  from 
cares  and  dangers ;  and  retire  to  privacy,  either 
that  they  may  improve  their  happiness,  increase 
their  knowledge,  or  exalt  their  virtue. 

The  greater  part  of  the  admirers  of  solitude, 
as  of  all  other  classes  of  mankind,  have  no  high- 
er or  remoter  view,  than  the  present  gratification 
of  their  passions.  Of  these,  some,  haughty  and 
impetuous,  fly  from  society  only  because  they 
cannot  bear  to  repay  to  others  the  regard  which 
themselves  exact ;  and  think  no  state  of  life  eli- 
gible, but  that  which  places  them  out  of  the 
reach  of  censure  or  control,  and  affords  them  op- 
portunities of  living  in  a  perpetual  compliance 
with  their  own  inclinations,  without  the  neces- 
sity of  regulating  their  actions  by  any  other 
man's  convenience  or  opinion. 

There  are  others,  of  minds  more  delicate  and 
tender,  easily  offbnded  by  every  deviation  from 
rectitude,  soon  disgusted  by  ignorance  or  imper- 
tinence, and  always  expecting  from  the  conver- 
sation of  mankind  more  elegance,  purity,  and 
truth,  than  the  mingled  mass  of  life  will  easily 
afford.  Such  men  are  in  haste  to  retire  from 
grossness,  falsehood,  and  brutality ;  and  hope  to 
find  in  private  habitations  at  least  «  negative  fe- 
licity, an  exemption  from  the  shocks  and  pertur- 
bations with  which  public  scenes  are  continually 
distressing  them. 

To  neither  of  these  votaries  will  solitude  af- 
ford that  content,  which  she  has  been  taught  so 
lavishly  to  promise.  The  man  of  arrogance  will 
quickly  discover,  that  by  escaping  from  his  op- 
ponents he  has  lost  his  flatterers,  that  greatness 
is  nothing  where  it  is  not  seen,  and  power  no- 
thing where  it  cannot  be  felt :  and  he  whose  fa- 
culties are  employed  in  too  close  an  observation 
of  failings  and  defects,  will  find  his  condition 
very  little  mended  by  transferring  his  attention 
from  others  to  himself:  he  will  probably  soon 
come  back  in  quest  of  new  objects,  and  be  glad 
to  keep  his  captiousness  employed  on  any  cha- 
racter rather  than  his  own. 

Others  are  seduced  into  solitude  merely  by 
ihe  authority  of  great  names,  and  expect  to  find 
those  charms  in  tranquillity  which  have  allured 
statesmen  and  conquerors  to  the  shades :  these 
likewise  arc  apt  to  wonder  at  their  disappoint- 
ment, for  want  of  considering,  that  those  whom 
they  aspire  to  imitate,  carried  with  them  to  their 
country  seats  minds  full  fraught  with  subjects 
of  reflection,  the  consciousness  of  great  merit,  the 
memory  of  illustrious  actions,  the  knowledge 
of  important  events,  and  the  seeds  of  mighty  de- 
signs to  be  ripened  by  future  meditation.  Soli- 
tude was  to  such  men  a  release  from  fatigue,  and 
?m  opportunity  of  usefulness.  But  what  can  re- 
t«rement  confer  upon  him,  who  having  done  no- 
thing, can  receive  no  support  from  his  own  im 


portance,  who  having  known  nothing  ran  find 
no  entertainment  in  reviewing  the  past.  j.nd  who 
intending  nothing  can  form  no  hopes  from  pros- 
pects of  the  future  ?  He  can,  surely,  take  no  wiser 
course  than  that  of  losing  himself  again  in  the 
crowd,  and  filling  the  vacuities  of  his  mind  with, 
the  news  of  the  day. 

Others  consider  solitude  as  the  parent  of  phi- 
losophy, and  retire  in  expectation  of  greater  in- 
timacies with  science,  as  Numa  repaired  to  the 
groves  when  he  conferred  with  Egeria.  These 
men  have  not  always  reason  to  repent.  Some 
studies  require  a  continued  prosecution  of  the 
same  train  of  thought,  such  as  is  too  often  inter 
rupted  by  the  petty  avocations  of  common  life, 
sometimes,  likewise,  it  is  necessary,  that  a  mul- 
tiplicity of  objects  be  at  once  present  to  the  mind; 
and  every  thing,  therefore,  must  be  kept  at  a 
distance,  which  may  perplex  the  memory,  or  dis- 
sipate the  attention. 

But  though  learning  may  be  conferred  by  soli 
tude,  its  application  must  be  attained  by  general 
converse.  He  has  learned  to  no  purpose,  that  is 
not  able  to  teach  ;  and  he  will  always  teach  un- 
successfully, who  cannot  recommend  his  senti- 
ments by  his  diction  or  address. 

Even  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  is  often 
much  facilitated  by  the  advantages  of  society:  he 
that  never  compares  his  notions  with  those  of 
others  readily  acquiesces  in  his  first  thoughts, 
and  very  seldom  discovers  the  objections  which 
may  be  raised  against  his  opinions:  he,  therefore, 
often  thinks  himself  in  possession  of  truth,  when 
he  is  only  fondling  an  error  long  since  exploded. 
He  that  has  neither  companions  nor  rivals  in  his 
studies,  will  always  applaud  his  own  progress, 
and  think  highly  of  his  performances,  because 
he  knows  not  that  others  have  equalled  or  excell- 
ed him.  And  I  am  afraid  it  may  be  added,  that 
the  student  who  withdraws  himself  from  the 
world,  will  soon  feel  that  ardour  extinguished 
which  praise  and  emulation  had  enkindled,  and 
take  the  advantage  of  secrecy  to  sleep,  rather 
than  to  labour. 

There  remains  yet  another  set  of  recluses, 
whose  intention  entitles  them  to  higher  respect, 
and  whose  motives  deserve  a  more  serious  consi- 
deration. These  retire  from  the  world,  not 
merely  to  bask  in  ease  or  gratify  curiosity ;  but 
that  being  disengaged  from  common  cares,  they 
may  employ  more  time  in  the  duties  of  religion  : 
that  they  may  regulate  their  actions  with  stricter 
vigilance,  and  purify  their  thoughts  by  more  fre- 
quent meditation. 

To  men  thus  elevated  above  the  mists  of  mor- 
tality, I  am  far  from  presuming  myself  qualified 
to  give  directions.  On  him  that  appears  "  to 
pass  through  things  temporary,"  with  no  other 
care  than  "  not  to  lose  finally  the  things  eternal," 
I  look  with  such  veneration  as  inclines  me  to  ap- 
prove his  conduct  in  the  whole,  without  a  minute 
examination  of  its  parts ;  yet  I  could  never  for- 
bear to  wish,  that  while  vice  is  every  day  multi- 
plying seducements,  anil  stalking  forth  with  more 
hardened  effrontery,  virtue  would  not  withdraw 
the  influence  of  her  presence,  or  forbear  to  assert 
her  natural  dignity  by  open  and  undaunted  per- 
severance in  the  right.  Piety  practised  in  soli- 
tude, like  the  flower  that  blooms  in  the  deserts, 
may  give  its  fragrance  to  the  winds  of  heaven, 
and  delight  those  unbodied  spirits  that  survey 
the  works  of  God  and  the  actions  of  men  ;  but  it 


£•>.  128.] 

*ics',ofV3  no  assistance  upon  earthly  beings,  and 
no*V3ver  free  from  taints  of  impurity,  yet  wants 
the  sacred  splendour  of  beneficence. 

Oui  Maker,  who  though  he  gave  us  such  va- 
rieties of  temper  and  such  difference  of  powers, 
yet  designed  us  all  for  happiness,  undoubtedly 
intended,  that,  we  should  obtain  that  happiness 
by  different  means.  Some  are  unable  to  resist 
the  temptations  of  importunity,  or  the  impetuosi- 
ty of  their  own  passions  incited  by  the  force  of 
present  temptations :  of  these  it  is  undoubtedly 
the  duty  to  fly  from  enemies  which  they  cannot 
conquer,  and  to  cultivate,  in  the  calm  of  solitude, 
that  virtue  which  is  too  tender  to  endure  the  tem- 
pest of  public  life.  But  there  are  others,  whose 
passions  grow  more  strong  and  irregular  in  pri- 
vacy ;  and  who  cannot  maintain  a  uniform  te- 
nour  of  virtue,  but  by  exposing  their  manners  to 
the  public  eye,  and  assisting  the  admonitions  of 
conscience  with  the  fear  of  infamy :  for  such,  it  is 
dangerous  to  exclude  all  witnesses  of  their  con- 
duct till  they  have  formed  strong  habits  of  virtue, 
and  weakened  their  passions  by  frequent  victo- 
ries. But  there  is  a  higher  order  of  men  so  in- 
spired with  ardour,  and  so  fortified  with  resolu- 
tion, that  the  world  passes  before  them  without 
influence  or  regard  :  these  ought  to  consider 
themselves  as  appointed  the  guardians  of  man- 
kind :  they  are  placed  in  an  evil  world,  to  ex- 
hibit public  examples  of  good  life:  and  may  be 
said,  when  they  withdraw  to  solitude,  to  desert 
the  station  which  Providence  assigned  them. 


No.  128.]        SATURDAY,  JAN.  26,  1754. 

lilt,  linittronum,  hie  deztrorsum  abit;  vnus  vtrique 
Error,  sed  varriia  illudit  partibiw.  Hon. 

When  in  a  wood  we  leave  the  certain  way, 
One  error  fools  us,  though  we  various  stray, 
Some  to  the  left,  and  some  to  t'other  side.  FRANCIS. 

IT  is  common  among  all  the  classes  of  mankind, 
to  charge  each  other  with  trifling  away  life: 
every  man  looks  on  the  occupation  or  amuse- 
ment of  his  neighbour  as  something  below  the 
dignity  of  our  nature,  and  unworthy  of  the  at- 
tention of  a  rational  being. 

A  man  who  considers  the  paucity  of  the 
wants  of  nature,  and  who,  being  acquainted  with 
the  various  means  by  which  all  manual  occupa- 
tions are  now  facilitated,  observes  what  numbers 
are  supported  by  the  labour  of  a  few,  would, 
indeed,  be  inclined  to  wonder,  how  the  multi- 
tudes who  are  exempted  from  the  necessity  of 
working  either  for  themselves  or  others,  find 
business  to  fill  up  the  vacuities  of  life.  The 
greater  part  of  mankind  neither  card  the  fleece, 
dig  the  mine,  fell  the  wood,  nor  gather  in  the 
harvest ;  they  neither  tend  herds  nor  build 
houses;  in  what  then  are  they  employed  ? 

This  is  certainly  a  question,  which  a  distant 
prospect  of  the  world  will  not  enable  us  to  an- 
swer. We  find  all  ranks  and  ages  mingled  to- 
gether in  a  tumultuous  confusion,  with  haste  in 
their  motions,  and  eagerness  in  their  looks  ;  but 
what  they  have  to  pursue  or  avoid,  a  more  mi- 
nute observation  must  inform  us. 

When  we  analyze  the  crowd  into  individuals, 
it  soon  appears  that  the  passions  and  imagina- 
tions of  men  will  not  easily  suffer  them  to  be 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


34? 


j  idle;  we  see  tilings  coveted  merely  because  th«-^ 
I  are  rare,  and  pursued  because  they  are  fugitive  ; 
'  we  see  men  conspire  to  fix  an  arbitrary  value 
on  that  which  is  worthless  in  itself,  and  then  con- 
tend for  the  possession.  One  is  a  collector  of 
fossils,  of  which  he  knows  no  other  use  than  to 
show  them ;  and  when  he  has  stocked  his  own 
repository,  grieves  that  the  stones  which  he  has 
left  behind  him  should  be  picked  up  by  another. 
The  florist  nurses  a  tulip,  and  repines  that  his 
rival's  beds  enjoy  the  same  showers  and  sunshine 
with  his  own.  This  man  is  hurrying  to  a  con- 
cert, only  lest  others  should  have  heard  the  new 
musician  before  him  ;  another  bursts  from  his 
company  to  the  play,  because  he  fancies  himself 
the  patron  of  an  actress ;  some  spend  the  morn- 
ing in  consultations  with  their  tailor,  and  some 
in  directions  to  their  cook  ;  some  are  forming 
parties  for  cards,  and  some  laying  wagers  at  a 
horse-race. 

It  cannot,  I  think,  be  denied,  that  some  of 
these  lives  are  passed  in  trifles,  in  occupations  by 
which  the  busy  neither  benefit  themselves  nor 
others,  and  by  which  no  man  could  be  long  en- 
gaged, who  seriously  considered  what  he  was  do- 
ing, or  had  knowledge  enough  to  compare  what 
he  is  with  what  he  might  be  made.  However, 
as  people  who  have  the  same  inclination  gene- 
rally flock  together,  every  trifler  is  kept  in  coun- 
tenance by  the  sight  of  others  as  unprofitably 
active  as  himself;  by  kindling  the  heat  of  com- 
petition, he  in  time  thinks  himself  important,  and 
by  having  his  mind  intensely  engaged,  he  is  se- 
cured from  weariness  of  himself. 

Some  degree  of  self  approbation  is  always  the 
reward  of  diligence  ;  and  I  cannot,  therefore,  but 
consider  the  laborious  cultivation  of  petty  plea- 
sures, as  a  more  happy  and  more  virtuous  dis- 
position, than  that  universal  contempt  and 
haughty  negligence,  which  is  sometimes  asso- 
ciated with  powerful  faculties,  but  is  often  as- 
sumed by  indolence  when  it  disowns  its  name, 
and  aspires  to  the  appellation  of  greatness  of 
mind. 

It  has  been  long  observed,  that  drollery  and 
ridicule  is  the  most  easy  kind  of  wit :  let  it  be 
added,  that  contempt  and  arrogance  is  the  easi- 
est philosophy.  To  find  some  objection  to  every 
thing,  and  to  dissolve  in  perpetual  laziness  under 
pretence  that  occasions  are  wanting  to  call  forth 
activity,  to  laugh  at  those  who  are  ridiculously 
busy  without  setting  an  example  of  more  rational 
industry,  is  no  less  in  the  power  of  the  meanest 
than  of  the  highest  intellects. 

Our  present  state  has  placed  us  at  once  in  such 
different  relations,  that  every  human  employ- 
ment, which  is  not  a  visible  and  immediate  act 
of  goodness,  will  be  in  some  respect  or  other 
subject  to  contempt:  but  it  is  true,  likewise, 
that  almost  every  act,  which  is  not  directly  vi- 
cious, is  in  some  respect  beneficial -and  laudable. 
"  I  often,"  says  Bruyere,  "  observe  from  my 
window,  two  beings  of  erect  form  and  amiable 
countenance,  endowed  with  the  powers  of  rea- 
son, able  to  clothe  their  thoughts  in  language, 
and  convey  their  notions  to  each  other.  They 
rise  early  in  the  morning,  and  are  every  day 
employed  till  sunset  in  rubbing  two  smooth 
stones  together,  or,  in  other  terms,  in  polishing 
marble." 

"If  lions  could  paint,"  says  the  fable,  "in  the 
room  of  those  pictures  which  exhibit  men  van 


350 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  131. 


quishing  lions,  we  should  see  lions  feeding  upon 
m>n."  If  the  stone-cutte*.  could  have  written 
liks  Bruyere,  what  would  he  have  replied? 

'•  I  look  up,"  says  he,  "  every  day  from  my 
shop  upon  a  man  whom  the  idlers,  who  stand 
still  to  gaze  upon  my  work,  often  celebrate  as  a 
wit  and  a  philosopher.  I  often  perceive  his  face 
clouded  with  care,  and  am  told  that  his  taper  is 
sometimes  burning  at  midnight.  The  sight  of  a 
man  who  works  so  much  harder  than  myself,  ex- 
cited my  curiosity.  I  heard  no  sound  of  tools  in 
his  apartment,  and,  therefore,  could  not  imagine 
what  he  was  doing;  but  was  told  at  last,  that  he 
was  writing  descriptions  of  mankind,  who  when 
he  had  described  them  would  live  just  as  they 
had  lived  before  ;  that  he  sat  up  whole  nights  to 
change  a  sentence,  because  the  sound  of  a  letter 
was  too  often  repeated  :  that  he  was  often  dis- 
quieted with  doubts,  about  the  propriety  of  a 
woi-1  which  every  body  understood ;  that  he 
wjtild  hesitate  between  two  expressions  equally 
proper,  till  he  could  not  fix  his  choice  but  by  con- 
s;i!ii:ig  his  friends;  that  he  will  run  from  one 
end  of  Paris  to  the  other,  for  an  opportunity  of 
reading  a  period  to  a  nice  ear;  that  if  a  single 
line  is  heard  with  coldness  and  inattention,  he 
returns  home  dejected  and  disconsolate;  and 
that  by  all  this  care  and  labour,  he  hopes  only  to 
make  a  little  book,  which  at  last  will  teach  no 
useful  art,  and  which  none  who  has  it  not  will 
perceive  himself  to  want.  I  have  often  wonder- 
ed for  what  end  such  a  being  as  this  was  sent  into 
the  world ;  and  should  be  glad  to  see  those  who 
live  thus  foolishly,  seized  by  an  order  of  the  go- 
vernment, and  obliged  to  labour  at  some  useful 
occupation." 

Thus,  by  a  partial  and  imperfect  representa- 
tion, may  every  thing  be  made  equally  ridicu- 
lous. He  that  gazed  with  contempt  on  human 
beings  rubbing  stones  together,  might  have  pro- 
longed the  same  amusement  by  walking  through 
the  city,  and  seeing  others  with  looks  of  import- 
ance heaping  one  brick  upon  another;  or  by 
rambling  into  the  country,  where  he  might  ob- 
serve other  creatures  of  the  same  kind  driving 
in  pieces  of  sharp  iron  into  the  clay,  or,  in  the 
language  of  men  less  enlightened,  ploughing  the 
field. 

As  it  is  thus  easy  by  a  detail  of  minute  circum- 
stances to  make  every  thing  little,  so  it  is  not 
difficult  by  an  aggregation  of  effects  to  make 
every  thing  great.  The  polisher  of  marble  may 
be  forming  ornaments  for  the  palaces  of  virtue, 
and  the  schools  of  science  :  or  providing  tables 
on  which  the  actions  of  heroes  and  the  disco- 
veries of  sages  shall  be  recorded,  for  the  incite- 
ment and  instruction  of  future  generations.  The 
mason  is  exercising  one  of  the  principal  arts  by 
which  reasoning  beings  are  distinguished  from 
the  brute,  the  art  to  which  life  owes  much  of  its 
safety  and  all  its  convenience,  by  which  we  are 
secured  from  the  inclemency  of  the  seasons,  and 
fortified  against  the  ravages  of  hostility;  and  the 
ploughman  is  changing  the  face  of  nature,  dif- 
fusing plenty  and  happiness  over  kingdoms,  and 
compelling  the  earth  to  give  food  to  her  inha- 
bitants. 

Greatness  and  littleness  are  terms  merely  com- 
parative ;  and  we  err  in  our  estimation  of  things, 
because  we  measure  them  by  some  wrong  stand- 
ard. The  trifler  proposes  to  himself  only  to 
equal  or  excel  some  other  trifler,  and  is  happy 


or  miserable  as  he  succeeds  or  miscarries:  the 
man  of  sedentary  desire  and  unactive  ambition 
sits  comparing  his  power  with  his  wishes  ;  and 
makes  his  inability  to  perform  things  impossible, 
an  excuse  to  himself  for  performing  nothing.  Man 
can  only  form  a  just  estimate  of  his  own  actions, 
by  making  his  power  the  test  of  his  performance, 
by  comparing  what  he  does  with  what  he  can  do. 
Whoever  steadily  perseveres  in  the  exertion  of 
all  his  faculties,  does  what  is  great  with  respect 
to  himself;  and  what  will  not  be  despised  by 
Him,  who  has  given  to  all  created  beings  their 
different  abilities  :  he  faithfully  performs  the  task 
of  life,  within  whatever  limits  his  labours  may  be 
confined,  or  how  soon  soever  they  may  be  for- 
gotten. 

We  can  conceive  so  much  more  than  we  can 
accomplish,  that  whoever  tries  his  own  actions 
by  his  imagination,  may  appear  despicable  in  his 
own  eyes.  He  that  despises  forks  littleness  any 
thing  really  useful,  has  no  pretensions  to  applaud 
the  grandeur  of  his  conceptions ;  since  nothing 
but  narrowness  of  mind  hinders  him  from  see- 
ing, that  by  pursuing  the  same  principles  every 
thing  limited  will  appear  contemptible. 

He  that  neglects  the  care  of  his  family,  whi!i 
his  benevolence  expands  itself  in  scheming  the 
happiness  of  imaginary  kingdoms,  might  with 
equal  reason  sit  on  a  throne  dreaming  of  univer- 
sal empire,  and  of  the  diffusion  of  blessings  over 
all  the  globe :  yet  even  this  globe  is  little,  com- 
pared with  the  system  of  matter  within  our  view; 
and  that  system  barely  something  more  than 
nonentity,  compared  with  the  boundless  regions 
of  space,  to  which  neither  eye  nor  imagination 
can  extend. 

From  conceptions,  therefore,  of  what  we  might 
have  been,  and  from  wishes  to  be  what  we  are 
not,  conceptions  that  we  know  to  be  foolish,  and 
wishes  which  we  feel  to  be  vain,  we  must  neces- 
sarily descend  to  the  consideration  of  what  we 
are.  We  have  powers  very  scanty  in  their  ut- 
most extent,  but  which  in  different  men  are  dif- 
ferently proportioned.  Suitably  to  these  powers 
we  have  duties  prescribed,  which  we  must  nei- 
ther decline  for  the  sake  of  delighting  ourselves 
with  easier  amusements,  nor  overlook  in  idle 
contemplation  of  greater  excellence  or  more  ex- 
tensive comprehension. 

In  order  to  the  right  conduct  of  our  lives,  we 
must  remember  that  we  are  not  born  to  please 
ourselves.  He  that  studies  simply  his  own  satis- 
faction, will  always  find  the  proper  business  of 
his  station  too  hard  or  to  easy  for  him.  But  if 
we  bear  continually  in  mind,  our  relation  to  The 
Father  of  Being,  by  whom  we  are  placed  in  the 
world,  and  who  has  allotted  us  the  part  which 
we  are  to  bear  in  the  general  system  of  life,  we 
shall  be  easily  persuaded  to  resign  our  own  in- 
clinations to  Unerring  Wisdom,  and  do  the  work 
decreed  for  us  with  cheerfulness  and  diligence. 


No.  131.J      TUESDAY,  FEB.  5,  1754. 

Misce 

Ergo  aliquid  nostris  de  moribns.  JUVENAL. 

And  mingle  something  of  our  times  to  please. 

URYDEN,  JUN. 

FONTENELLE,  in  his  panegyric  on  Sir  Isaac  New 
ton,  closes  a  long  enumeration  of  that  gre&i  phi 


ADVENTURER. 


351 


iosopher's  virtues  and  attainments,  with  an  ob- 
servation, that  "  he  was  not  distinguished  from 
other  men  by  any  singularity  either  natural  or 
affected." 

It  13  an  eminent  instance  of  Newton's  superi- 
ority to  the  rest  of  mankind,  that  he  was  able  to 
separate  knowledge  from  those  weaknesses  by 
which  knowledge  is  generally  disgraced  ;  that  he 
was  able  to  excel  in  science  and  wisdom  without 
purchasing  them  by  the  neglect  of  little  things  ; 
and  that  he  stood  alone,  merely  because  he  had 
left  the  rest  of  mankind  behind  him,  not  because 
he  deviated  from  the  beaten  track. 

Whoever,  after  the  example  of  Plutarch, 
should  compare  the  lives  of  illustrious  men, 
might  set  this  part  of  Newton's  character  to 
view  with  great  advantage,  by  opposing  it  to 
that  of  Bacon,  perhaps  the  only  man  of  latter 
ages  who  has  any  pretensions  to  dispute  with 
him  the  palm  of  genius  or  science. 

Bacon,  after  he  had  added  to  a  long  and  care- 
ful contemplation  of  almost  every  other  object  of 
knowledge  a  curious  inspection  into  common- 
life,  and  after  having  surveyed  nature  as  a  philo- 
sopher, had  examined  "  men's  business  and 
bosoms"  as  a  statesman  ;  yet  failed  so  much  in 
the  conduct  of  domestic  affairs,  that,  in  the  most 
lucrative  post  to  which  a  great  and  wealthy  king- 
dom could  advance  him,  he  felt  ell  the  miseries 
of  distressful  poverty,  and  committed  all  the 
crimes  to  which  poverty  incites.  Such  were  at 
once  his  negligence  and  rapacity,  that,  as  it  is 
said,  he  would  gain  by  unworthy  practices  that 
money,  which,  when  so  acquired,  his  servants 
might  steal  from  one  end  of  the  table,  while  he 
sat  studious  and  abstracted  at  the  other. 

As  scarcely  any  man  has  reached  the  excel- 
lence, very  few  have  sunk  to  the  weakness  of 
Bacon:  but  almost  all  the  studious  tribe  as  they 
obtain  any  participation  of  his  knowledge,  feel 
likewise  some  contagion  of  his  defects ;  and  ob- 
struct the  veneration  which  learning  would  pro- 
cure, by  follies  greater  or  less,  to  which  only 
learning  could  betray  them. 

It  has  been  formerly  remarked  by  The  Guar- 
dian, that  the  world  punishes  with  too  great  se- 
verity the  error  of  those,  who  imagine  that  the 
ignorance  of  little  things  may  be  compensated 
by  the  knowledge  of  great ;  for  so  it  is,  that  as 
more  can  detect  petty  failings  than  can  distin- 
guish or  esteem  great  qualifications,  and  as  man- 
tind  is  in  general  more  easily  disposed  to  cen- 
sure than  to  admiration,  contempt  is  often  incur- 
:  cd  by  slight  mistakes,  which  real  virtue  or  use- 
iilness  cannot  counterbalance. 

Yet  such  mistakes  and  inadvertencies,  it  is 
not  easy  for  a  man  deeply  immersed  in  study  to 
avoid  ;  no  man  can  become  qualified  for  the 
common  intercourses  of  life,  by  private  medita- 
tion ;  the  manners  of  the  world  are  not  a  regular 
system,  planned  by  philosophers  upon  settled 
principles,  in  which  every  cause  has  a  congruous 
effect,  and  one  part  has  a  just  reference  to  ano- 
ther. Of  the  fashions  prevalent  in  every  coun- 
try, a  few  have  arisen,  perhaps,  from  particular 
temperatures  of  the  climate ;  a  few  more  from 
the  constitution  of  the  government ;  but  the 
greater  part  have  grown  up  by  chance;  been 
started  by  caprice,  been  contrived  by  affectation, 
or  borrowed  without  any  just  motives  of  choice 
from  other  countries. 
Of  all  these,  the  savage  that  hunts  his  prey 


upon  the  mountains,  and  the  sage  that  specu- 
lates in  his  closet,  must  necessarily  live  in  equal 
ignorance;  yet  by  the  observation  of  these  trifles 
ir.  is,  that  the  ranks  of  mankind  are  kept  in  order 
that  the  address  of  one  to  another  is  regulatrd, 
and  the  general  business  of  the  world  carried  on 
with  facility  and  method. 

These  things,  therefore,  though  small  in  them- 
selves, become  great  by  their  frequency  ;  and  he 
very  much  mistakes  his  own  interest,  who  to 
the  unavoidable  unskil fulness  of  abstraction  and 
retirement,  adds  a  voluntary  neglect  of  common 
forms,  and  increases  the  disadvantages  of  a  stu- 
dious course  of  life  by  an  arrogant  contempt  of 
those  practices,  by  which  others  endeavour  to 
gain  favour  and  multiply  friendships. 

A  real  and  interior  disdain  of  fashion  and  ce- 
remony is,  indeed,  not  very  often  to  be  found; 
much  the  greater  part  of  those  who  pretend  to 
laugh  at  foppery  and  formality,  secretly  wish  to 
have  possessed  those  qualifications  which  they 
pretend  to  despise  ;  and  because  they  find  it  dif- 
ficult to  wash  away  the  tincture  which  they  have 
so  deeply  imbibed,  endeavour  to  harden  them- 
selves in  a  sullen  approbation  of  their  own  co- 
lour. Neutrality  is  a  state  into  which  the  busy 
passions  of  man  cannot  easily  subside ;  and  he 
who  is  in  danger  of  the  pangs  of  envy,  is  gene- 
rally forced  to  recreate  his  imagination  with  an 
effort  of  comfort. 

Some,  however,  may  be  found,  who,  support- 
ed by  the  consciousness  of  great  abilities,  and 
elevated  by  a  long  course  of  reputation  and  ap- 
plause, voluntarily  consign  themselves  to  singu- 
larity, affect  to  cross  the  roads  of  life  because 
they  know  that  they  shall  not  be  jostled,  and  in- 
dulge a  boundless  gratification  of  will  because 
they  perceive  that  they  shall  be  quietly  obeyed. 
Men  of  this  kind  are  generally  known  by  the 
name  of  Humourists,  an  appellation  by  which  he 
that  has  obtained  it,  and  can  be  contented  to 
keep  it,  is  set  free  at  once  from  the  shackles  of 
fashion  :  and  can  go  in  or  out,  sit  or  stand,  bo 
talkative  or  silent,  gloomy  or  merry,  advance  ab- 
surdities or  oppose  demonstration,  without  any 
other  reprehension  from  mankind  than  that  it  is 
his  way,  that  he  is  an  odd  fellow,  and  must  be 
let  alone. 

This  seems  to  many  an  easy  passport  tnrough 
the  various  factions  of  mankind  ;  and  those  on 
whom  it  is  bestowed,  appear  too  frequently  to 
consider  the  patience  with  which  their  caprices 
are  suffered  as  an  undoubted  evidence  of  their 
own  importance,  of  a  genius  to  which  submis- 
sion is  universally  paid,  and  whose  irregularities 
are  only  considered  as  consequences  of  its  vi- 
gour. These  peculiarities,  however,  are  always 
found  to  spot  a  character,  though  they  may  not 
totally  obscure  it ;  and  he  who  expects  from 
mankind,  that  they  should  give  up  established 
customs  in  compliance  with  his  single  will,  and 
exacts  that  deference  which  he  does  not  pay, 
may  be  endured,  but  can  never  be  approved. 

Singularity  is,  I  think,  in  its  own  nature  uni- 
versally and  invariably  displeasing.  In  what- 
ever respect  a  man  differs  from  others,  he  must 
be  considered  by  them  as  either  worse  or  better; 
by  being  better,  it  is  well  known  that  a  man 
gains  admiration  oftener  than  love,  since  all  ap- 
probation of  his  practice  must  necessarily  con- 
demn hirt«  that  gives  it ;  and  though  a  man  often 
pleases  by  inferiority,  there  are  few  who  desire 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No. 


to  give  such  pleasure.  Yet  the  truth  is,  that 
singularity  is  almost  always  regarded  us  a  brand 
of  slight  reproach  ;  and  where  it  is  associated 
with  "auk no wl edged  merit,  serves  as  an  abate- 
ment or  an  allay  of  excellence,  by  which  weak 
eyes  are  reconciled  to  its  lustre,  and  by  which, 
though  kindness  is  not  gained,  at  least  envy  is 
averted. 

But  let  no  man  be  in  haste  to  conclude  his  own 
merit  so  great  or  conspicuous,  as  to  require  or 
justify  singularity  ;  it  is  as  hazardous  for  a  mo- 
derate understanding  to  usurp  the  prerogatives 
of  genius,  as  for  a  common  form  to  play  over  the 
aiis  of  uncontested  beauty.  The  pride  of  men 
will  not  patiently  endure  to  see  one  whose  un- 
derstanding or  attainments  are  but  level  with 
their  own,  break  the  rules  by  which  they  have 
consented  to  be  bound,  or  forsake  the  direction 
which  they  submissively  follow.  All  violation 
of  established  practice  implies  in  its  own  nature 
a  rejection  of  the  common  opinion,  a  defiance 
of  common  censure,  and  an  appeal  from  gene- 
ral laws  to  private  judgment :  he,  therefore,  who 
differs  from  others  without  apparent  advantage, 
ought  not  to  be  angry  if  his  arrogance  is  punish- 
ed with  ridicule  ;  if  those  whose  example  he  su- 
peit;iliously  overlooks,  point  him  out  to  derision, 
and  hoot  him  back  again  into  the  common  road. 

The  pride  of  singularity  is  often  exerted  in  lit- 
tle things,  where  right  and  wrong  are  indetermi- 
nable, and  where,  therefore,  vanity  is  without  ex- 
cuse. But  there  are  occasions  on  which  it  is 
noble  to  dare  to  stand  alone.  To  be  pious 
among  infidels,  to  be  disinterested  in  a  time  of 
general  venality,  to  lead  a  life  of  virtue  and  rea- 
son in  the  midst  of  sensualists,  is  a  proof  of  a 
mind  intent  on  nobler  things  than  the  praise  or 
blame  of  men,  of  a  soul  fixed  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  highest  good,  and  superior  to  the  ty- 
ranny of  custom  and  example. 

In  moral  and  religious  questions  only,  a  wise 
man  will  hold  no  consultations  with  fashion,  be- 
cause these  duties  are  constant  and  immutable, 
and  depend  not  on  the  notions  of  men,  but  the 
commands  of  Heaven  ;  yet  even  of  these,  the 
external  mode  is  to  be  in  some  measure  regu- 
lated by  the  prevailing  taste  of  the  age  in  which 
we  live ;  for  he  is  certainly  no  friend  to  virtue, 
who  neglects  to  give  it  any  lawful  attraction,  or 
suffers  it  to  deceive  the  eye  or  alienate  the  affec- 
tions for  want  of  innocent  compliance  with  fa- 
shionable decorations. 

It  is  yet  remembered  of  the  learned  and  pious 
Nelson,  that  he  was  remarkably  elegant  in  his 
manners,  and  splendid  in  his  dress.  He  knew, 
that  the  eminence  of  his  character  drew  many 
eyes  upon  him ;  and  he  was  careful  not  to  drive 
the  young  or  the  gay  away  from  religion,  by  re- 
presenting it  as  an  enemy  to  any  distinction  or 
enjoyment  in  which  human  nature  may  inno- 
cently delight. 

In  this  censure  of  singularity,  I  have,  there- 
fore, no  intention  to  subject  reason  or  conscience 
to  custom  or  example.  To  comply  with  the  de- 
gree and  practices  of  mankind,  is  in  some  no- 
tions the  duty  of  a  social  being;  because  by  com- 
pliance only  he  can  please,  and  by  pleasing  only 
he  can  become  useful:  but  as  the  end  is  not  to  be 
lost  for  the  sake  of  the  means,  we  are  not  to  give 
up  virtue  to  complaisance  ;  for  the  end  of  com- 
plaisance 13  only  to  gain  the  kindness  of  our  fel- 
low beings,  whose  kindness  is  desirable  only  as 


instrumental  to  happiness,  and  happiness  must 
be  always  lost  by  departure  from  virtue. 


No.  137.]      TUESDAY.  FEB.  26,  1754. 

Ti  &'  I'ftc^a  PVTH. 

What  have  I  been  doing  ? 

As  man  is  a  being  very  sparingly  furnished  with 
the  power  of  prescience,  he  can  provide  for  the 
future  only  by  considering  the  past;  and  as  fu- 
turity is  all  in  which  he  has  any  real  interest,  he 
ought  very  diligently  to  use  the  only  means  by 
which  he  can  be  enabled  to  enjoy  it,  and  fre- 
quently to  revolve  the  experiments  which  he  has 
hitherto  made  upon  life,  that  he  may  gain  wis- 
dom from  his  mistakes,  and  caution  from  his 


mscarraes. 


Though  I  do  not  so  exactly  conform  to  the 
precepts  of  Pythagoras,  as  to  practise  every 
night  this  solemn  recollection,  yet  I  am  not  so 
lost  in  dissipation  as  wholly  to  omit  it;  nor  can 
I  forbear  sometimes  to  inquire  of  myself,  in 
what  employment  my  life  has  passed  away. 
Much  of  my  time  has  sunk  into  nothing,  and 
left  no  trace  by  which  it  can  be  distinguished  ; 
and  of  this  now  I  only  know,  that  it  was  once 
in  my  power,  and  might  once  have  been  im- 
proved. 

Of  other  parts  of  life,  memory  can  give  some 
account  ;  at  some  hours  I  have  been  gay,  and 
at  others  serious  ;  I  have  sometimes  mingled  in 
conversation,  and  sometimes  meditated  in  soli- 
tude ;  one  day  has  been  spent  in  consulting 
the  ancient  sages,  and  another  in  writing  Ad- 
venturers. 

At  the  conclusion  of  any  undertaking,  it  is 
usual  to  compute  the  loss  and  profit.  As  I  shall 
soon  cease  to  write  Adventurers,  I  could  not  for- 
bear lately  to  consider  what  has  been  the  conse- 
quence of  my  labours;  and  whether  I  am  to 
reckon  the  hours  laid  out  in  these  compositions, 
as  applied  to  a  good  and  laudable  purpose,  or 
suffered  to  fume  away  in  useless  evaporations. 

That  I  have  intended  well,  I  have  the  attesta- 
tion of  my  own  heart  :  but  good  intentions  may 
be  frustrated  when  they  are  executed  without 
suitable  skill,  or  directed  to  an  end  unattainable 
in  itself. 

Some  there  are,  who  leave  writers  very  little 
room  for  self-congratulation  :  some  who  affirm, 
that  books  have  no  influence  upon  the  public, 
that  no  age  was  ever  made  better  by  its  authors, 
and  that  to  call  upon  mankind  to  correct  their 
manners,  is,  like  Xerxes,  to  scourge  the  wind,  or 
shackle  the  torrent. 

This  opinion  they  pretend  to  support  by  un 
failing  experience.  The  world  is  full  of  fraud 
and  corruption,  rapine  or  malignity  ;  interest  is 
the  ruling  motive  of  mankind,  and  every  one  is 
endeavouring  to  increase  his  own  stores  of  hap- 
piness by  perpetual  accumulation,  without  re- 
flecting upon  the  numbers  whom  his  superfluity 
condemns  to  want:  in  this  state  of  things  a  book 
of  morality  is  published,  in  which  charity  and 
benevolence  are  strongly  enforced  ;  and  it  is 
proved  beyond  opposition,  that  men  are  happy 
in  proportion  as  they  are  virtuous,  and  rich  as 
they  are  liberal.  The  book  is  applauded,  and 
the  author  is  preferred  j  he  imagines  his  applause 


.  137.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


deserved,  and  receives  less  pleasure  from  the 
acquisition  of  reward  than  the  consciousness  of 
merit.  Let  us  look  again  upon  mankind  ;  in- 
terest is  still  the  ruling  motive,  and  the  world  is 
yet  full  of  fraud  and  corruption,  malevolence  and 
rapine. 

The  difficulty  of  confuting  this  assertion, 
arises  merely  from  its  generality  and  compre- 
hension; to  overthrow  it  by  a  detail  of  distinct 
facts,  requires  a  wider  survey  of  the  world  than 
human  eyes  can  take  ;  the  progress  of  reforma- 
tion is  gradual  and  silent,  as  the  extension  of 
evening  shadows;  we  know  that  they  were  short 
at  noon,  and  are  long  at  sunset,  but  our  senses 
were  not  able  to  discern  their  increase;  we  know 
of  every  civil  nation,  that  it  was  once  savage, 
and  how  was  it  reclaimed  but  by  precept  and 
admonition  ? 

Mankind  are  universally  corrupt,  but  corrupt 
in  different  degrees  ;  as  they  are  universally  ig- 
norant, yet  with  greater  or  less  irradiations  of 
knowledge.  How  has  knowledge  or  virtue  been 
increased  and  preserved  in  one  place  beyond 
another,  but,  by  diligent  inculcation  and  rational 
enforcement? 

Books  of  morality  are  daily  written,  yet  its  in- 
fluence is  still  little  in  the  world  ;  so  the  ground 
is  annually  ploughed,  and  yet  multitudes  are  in 
want  of  bread.  But,  surely,  neither  the  labours 
of  the  moralist  nor  of  the  husbandman  are  vain; 
let  them  for  a  while  neglect  their  tasks,  and  their 
usefulness  will  be  known ;  the  wickedness  that 
is  now  frequent  would  become  universal,  the 
bread  that  is  now  scarce  would  wholly  fail. 

The  power,  indeed,  of  every  individual  is 
small,  and  the  consequence  of  his  endeavours 
imperceptible,  in  a  general  prospect  of  the  world. 
Providence  has  given  no  man  ability  to  do  much, 
that  something  might  be  left  for  every  man  to  do. 
The  business  of  life  is  carried  on  by  a  general 
co-operation ;  in  which  the  part  of  any  single 
man  can  be  no  more  distinguished,  than  the  ef- 
fect of  a  particular  drop  when  the  meadows  are 
floated  by  a  summer  shower;  yet  every  drop 
increases  the  inundation,  and  every  hand  adds 
to  the  happiness  or  misery  of  mankind. 

That  a  writer,  however  zealous  or  eloquent, 
seldom  works  a  visible  effect  upon  cities  or  na- 
tions, will  readily  be  granted.  The  book  which 
is  read  most,  is  read  by  few,  compared  with  those 
that  read  it  not ;  and  of  those  few,  the  greater 
part  peruse  it  with  dispositions  that  very  little 
favour  their  own  improvement. 

It.  is  difficult  to  enumerate  the  several  motives 
which  procure  to  books  the  honour  of  perusal  : 
spite,  vanity,  and  curiosity,  hope  and  fear,  love 
and  hatred,  every  passion  which  incites  to  any 
other  action,  serves  at  one  time  or  other  to  sti- 
mulate a  reader. 

Some  are  fond  to  take  a  celebrated  volume 
into  their  hands,  because  they  hope  to  distinguish 
their  penetration,  by  finding  faults  which  have 
escaped  the  public  ;  others  eagerly  buy  it  in  the 
first  bloom  of  reputation,  that  they  may  join  the 
chorus  of  praise,  and  not  lag,  as  Falstaff  terms 
it,  in  "the  rearward  of  the  fashion." 

Some  read  for  style  and  some  for  argument: 
one  has  little  care  about  the  sentiment,  he  ob- 
serves only  how  it  is  expressed  ;  another  regards 
not  the  conclusion,  but  is  diligent  to  mark  how 
it  is  inferred :  they  read  for  other  purposes  than 
the  attainment  of  practical  knowledge  -,  and  are 
2U 


no  more  likely  to  grow  wise  by  an  examination 
of  a  treatise  of  moral  prudence,  than  an  archi- 
tect to  inflame  his  devotion  by  considering  atten- 
tively the  proportions  of  a  temple. 

Some  read  that  they  may  embellish  their  con- 
versation, or  shine  in  dispute  ;  some  that  they 
may  not  be  detected  in  ignorance,  or  want  the 
reputation  of  literary  accomplishments  :  but  the 
most  general  and  prevalent  reason  of  study  is 
the  impossibility  of  finding  another  amusement 
equally  cheap  or  constant,  equally  independent 
on  the  hour  or  the  weather.  He  that  wants 
money  to  follow  the  chase  of  pleasure  through 
her  yearly  circuit,  and  is  left  at  home  when  the 
gay  world  rolls  to  Bath  or  Tunbridge ;  he  whose 
gout  compels  him  to  hear  from  his  chamber  the 
rattle  of  chariots  transporting  happier  beings  to 
plays  and  assemblies,  will  be  forced  to  seek  in 
books  a  refuge  from  himself. 

The  author  is  not  wholly  useless,  who  provides 
innocent  amusements  for  minds  like  these. 
There  are  in  the  present  state  of  things,  so  many 
more  instigations  to  evil,  than  incitements  to  good, 
that  he  who  keeps  men  in  a  neutral  state,  may 
be  justly  considered  as  a  benefactor  to  Jife. 

But,  perhaps,  it  seldom  happens,  that  study 
terminates  in  mere  pastime.  Books  have  always 
a  secret  influence  on  the  understanding  ;  we 
cannot  at  pleasure  obliterate  ideas :  he  that 
reads  books  of  science,  though  without  any  fixed 
desire  of  improvement,  will  grow  more  knowing; 
he  that  entertains  himself  with  moral  or  religious 
treatises,  will  imperceptibly  advance  in  good- 
ness; the  ideas  which  are  often  offered  to  the 
mind,  will  at  last  find  a  lucky  moment  when  it 
is  disposed  to  receive  them. 

It  is,  therefore,  urged  without  reason,  as  a  dis- 
couragement to  writers,  that  there  are  already 
books  sufficient  in  the  world  ;  that  all  the  topics 
of  persuasion  have  been  discussed,  and  every 
important  question  clearly  stated  and  justly  de- 
cided ;  and  that,  therefore,  there  is  no  room  to 
hope,  that  pigmies  should  conquer  where  heroes 
have  been  defeated,  or  that  the  petty  copiers  of 
the  present  time  should  advance  the  great  work 
of  reformation,  which  their  predecessors  were 
forced  to  leave  unfinished. 

Whatever  be  the  present  extent  of  human 
knowledge,  it  is  not  only  finite,  and  therefore  in 
its  own  nature  capable  of  increase;  but  so  nar- 
row, that  almost  every  understanding  may,  by 
a  diligent  application  of  its  powers,  hope  to  en- 
large it.  It  is,  however,  not  necessary,  that  a 
man  should  forbear  to  write,  till  he  has  disco- 
vered some  truth  unknown  before  ;  he  may  be 
sufficiently  useful,  by  only  diversifying  the  sur- 
face of  knowledge,  and  luring  the  mind  by  a 
new  appearance  to  a  second  view  of  those  beau- 
ties which  it  had  passed  over  inattentively  be- 
fore. Every  writer  may  find  intellects  corre- 
spondent to  his  own,  to  whom  his  expressions 
are  familiar,  and  his  thoughts  congenial ;  and, 
perhaps,  truth  is  often  more  successfully  propa- 
gated by  men  of  moderate  abilities,  who,  adopt- 
ing the  opinions  of  others,  have  no  care  but  to 
explain  them  clearly,  than  by  subtle  ppecnlatists 
and  curious  searchers,  who  exact  from  their 
readers  powers  equal  to  their  own,  and  if  their 
fabrics  of  science  be  strong,  take  no  care  to  ren- 
der them  accessible. 

For  my  part,  I  do  not  regret  the  hours  which 
I  have  laid  out  in  these  little  compositions. 


354 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


[No.  1SS. 


That  the  world  has  grown  apparently  better, 
since  the  publication  of  the  Adventurer,  I  have 
not  observed;  but  am  willing  to  think,  that 
many  have  been  affected  by  single  sentiments, 
of  which  it  is  their  business  to  renew  the  im- 
pression ;  that  many  have  caught  hints  of  truth, 
which  it  is  now  their  duty  to  pursue  ;  and  that 
those  who  have  received  no  improvement,  have 
wanted  not  opportunity  but  intention  to  im- 
prove. 


No.  138.]       SATURDAY,  MARCH  2,  1754. 

Quid  pure  tranqnillet?  honos,  an  dulce  lucellum, 
An  sccretum  iter,  etfallentis  semita  vita  ?      Hon. 

Whether  the  tranquil  mind  and  pure, 

Honours  or  wealth  our  bliss  insure  : 

Or  down  through  life  unknown  to  stray, 

Whare  lonely  leads  the  silent  way.  FRANCIS. 

HAVING  considered  the  importance  of  authors 
to  the  welfare  of  the  public,  I  am  led  by  a  natu- 
ral train  gf  thought,  to  reflect  on  their  condition 
with  regard  to  themselves ;  and  to  inquire 
what  degree  oi  happiness  or  vexation  is  annex- 
ed to  the  difficult  and  laborious  employment 
of  providing  instruction  or  entertainment  for 
mankind. 

In  estimating  the  pain  or  pleasure  of  any  par- 
ticular state,  every  man,  indeed,  draws  his  de- 
cisions from  his  own  breast,  and  cannot  with 
certainty  determine  whether  other  minds  are 
affected  by  the  same  causes  in  the  same  manner. 
Yet  by  this  criterion  we  must  be  content  to 
judge,  because  no  other  can  be  obtained ;  and, 
indeed,  we  have  no  reason  to  think  it  very  fal- 
lacious, for  excepting  here  and  there  an  anoma- 
lous mind,  which  either  does  not  feel  like  others, 
or  dissembles  its  sensibility,  -we  find  men  unani- 
mously concur  in  attributing  happiness  or  misery 
to  particular  conditions,  as  they  agree  in  ac- 
Knowledging  the  cold  of  winter,  and  the  heat  of 
autumn. 

If  we  apply  to  authors  themselves  for  an  ac- 
count of  their  state,  it  will  appear  very  little  to 
deserve  envy:  for  they  have  in  all  ages  been  ad- 
dicted to  complaint.  The  neglect  of  learning, 
the  ingratitude  of  the  present  age,  and  the  ab- 
surd preference  by  which  ignorance  and  dulness 
often  obtain  favour  and  rewards,  have  been  from 
age  to  age  topics  of  invective  ;  and  few  have 
left  their  names  to  posterity,  without  some  ap- 
peal to  future  candour  from  the  perverseness  and 
malice  of  their  own  times. 

I  have,  nevertheless,  been  often  inclined  to 
doubt,  whether  authors,  however  querulous,  are 
in  reality  more  miserable  than  their  fellow-mor- 
tals. The  present  life  is  to  all  a  state  of  infeli- 
city; every  man,  like  an  author,  believes  him- 
self to  merit  more  than  he  obtains,  and  solaces 
the  present  with  the  prospect  of  the  future ; 
others,  indeed,  suffer  those  disappointments  in 
silence,  of  which  the  writer  complains,  to  show 
how  well  he  has  learnt  the  art  of  lamentation. 

There  is  at  least  one  gleam  of  felicity,  of  which 
few  writers  have  missed  the  enjoyment:  he 
whose  hopes  have  so  far  overpowered  his  fears, 
as  that  he  has  resolved  to  stand  forth  a  candidate 
for  fame,  seldom  fails  to  amuse  himself,  before 
his  appearance,  with  pleasing  scenes  of  affluence 


or  honour ;  while  his  fortune  is  yet  under  the 
regulation  of  fancy,  he  easily  models  it  to  his 
wish,  suffers  no  thoughts  of  critics  or  rivals  to 
intrude  upon  his  mind,  but  counts  over  the 
bounties  of  patronage,  or  listens  to  the  voice  of 
praise. 

Some  there  are,  that  talk  very  luxuriously  of 
the  second  period  of  an  author's  happiness,  and 
tell  of  the  tumultuous  raptures  of  invention, 
when  the  mind  riots  in  imagery,  and  the  choice 
stands  suspended  between  different  sentiments. 

These  pleasures,  I  believe,  may  sometimes  be 
indulged  to  those,  who  come  to  a  subject  of  dis- 
quisition with  minds  full  of  ideas,  and  with  fan- 
cies so  vigorous,  as  easily  to  excite,  select,  arid 
arrange  them.  To  write  is,  indeed,  no  unpleas- 
ing  employment,  when  one  sentiment  readily 
produces  another,  and  both  ideas  and  expres- 
sions present  themselves  at  the  first  summons  ; 
but  such  happiness,  the  greatest  genius  does  not 
always  obtain ;  and  common  writers  know  it 
only  to  such  a  degree,  as  to  credit  its  possibility. 
Composition  is,  for  the  most  part,  an  effort  of 
slow  diligence  and  steady  perseverance,  to  which 
the  mind  is  dragged  by  necessity  or  resolution, 
and  from  which  the  attention  is  every  moment 
starting  to  more  delightful  amusements. 

It  frequently  happens,  that  a  design  which, 
when  considered  at  a  distance,  gave  flattering 
hopes  of  facility,  mocks  us  in  the  execution  with 
unexpected  difficulties  ;  the  mind  which,  while 
it  considered  it  in  the  gross,  imagined  itself 
amply  furnished  with  materials,  finds  sometimes 
an  unexpected  barrenness  and  vacuity,  and 
wonders  whither  all  those  ideas  are  vanished, 
which  a  little  before  seemed  struggling  for  emis 
sion. 

Sometimes  many  thoughts  present  themselves- 
but  so  confused  and  unconnected,  that  they  aro 
not  without  difficulty  reduced  to  method  or  con* 
catenated  in  a  regular  and  dependent  series  ; 
the  mind  falls  at  once  into  a  labyrinth,  of  which 
neither  the  beginning  nor  end  can  be  discover- 
ed, and  toils  and  struggles  without  progress  oi 
extrication. 

It  is  asserted  by  Horace,  that  "if  matter  be 
once  got  together,  words  will  be  found  with  very 
little  difficulty  ;"  a  position  which,  though  suffi- 
ciently plausible  to  be  inserted  in  poetical  pre- 
cepts, is  by  no  means  strictly  and  philosophically 
true.  If  words  were  naturally  and  necessarily 
consequential  to  sentiments,  it  would  always 
follow,  that  he  who  has  most  knowledge  must 
have  most  eloquence,  and  that  every  man  would 
clearly  express  what  he  fully  understood :  yet 
we  find,  that  to  think,  and  discourse,  are  often 
the  qualities  of  different  persons :  and  many 
books  might  surely  be  produced,  where  just  and 
noble  sentiments  are  degraded  and  obscured  by 
unsuitable  diction. 

Words,  therefore,  as  well  as  things,  claim  the 
care  of  an  author.  Indeed,  of  many  authors,  and 
those  not  useless  or  contemptible,  words  are  al 
most  the  only  care :  many  make  it  their  study, 
not  so  much  to  strike  out  new  sentiments,  as  to 
recommend  those  which  are  already  known  to 
more  favourable  notice  by  fairer  decorations  : 
but  every  man,  whether  he  copies  or  invents, 
whether  he  delivers  his  own  thoughts  or  those 
of  another,  has  often  found  himself  deficient  in 
the  power  of  expression,  big  with  ideas  which 
he  could  not  utter,  obliged  to  ransack  his  me- 


No.  138.] 


THE  ADVENTURER. 


355 


mory  for  terms  adequate  to  his  conceptions,  and 
at  last  unable  to  impress  upon  his  reader  the 
image  existing  in  his  own  mind. 

It  is  one  of  the  common  distresses  of  a  writer, 
to  be  within  a  word  of  a  happy  period,  to  want 
only  a  single  epithet  to  give  amplification  its  full 
force,  to  require  only  a  correspondent  term  in 
order  to  finish  a  paragraph  with  elegance,  and 
make  one  of  its  members  answer  to  the  other  : 
but  these  deficiences  cannot  always  be  supplied: 
and  after  a  long  study  and  vexation,  the  passage 
is  turned  anew,  and  the  web  unwoven  that  was 
so  nearly  finished. 

But  when  thoughts  and  words  are  collected 
and  adjusted,  and  the  whole  composition  at  last 
concluded,  it  seldom  gratifies  the  author,  when 
he  comes  coolly  and  deliberately  to  review  it, 
with  the  hopes  which  had  been  excited  in  the 
fury  of  the  performance  :  novelty  always  capti- 
vates the  mind  ;  as  our  thoughts  rise  fresh  upon 
us,  we  readily  believe  them  just  and  original, 
which,  when  the  pleasure  of  production  is  over, 
we  find  to  be  mean  and  common,  or  borrowed 
from  the  works  of  others,  and  supplied  by  me- 
mory rather  than  invention. 

But  though  it  should  happen  that  the  writer 
finds  no  such  fault  in  his  performance,  he  is  still 
to  remember,  that  he  looks  upon  it  with  partial 
eyes ;  and  when  he  considers  how  much  men 
who  could  judge  of  others  with  great  exactness, 
have  often  failed  of  judging  of  themselves,  he  will 
be  afraid  of  deciding  too  hastily  in  his  own  fa- 
vour, or  of  allowing  himself  to  contemplate  with 
too  much  complacence,  treasure  that  has  not  yet 
been  brought  to  the  test,  nor  passed  the  only  trial 
that  can  stamp  its  value. 

From  tne  public,  and  only  from  the  public,  is 


he  to  await  a  confirmation  of  his  claim,  and  a 
final  justification  of  self-esteem ;  bat  the  public 
is  not  easily  persuaded  to  favour  an  author.  If 
mankind  were  left  to  judge  for  themselves  it  is 
reasonable  to  imagine,  that  of  such  writing.3,  at 
least,  as  describe  the  movements  of  the  human 
passions,  and  of  which  every  man  carries  the 
archetype  within  him,  a  just  opinion  would  be 
formed  ;  but  whoever  has  remarked  the  fate  of 
books  must  have  found  it  governed  by  other 
causes  than  general  consent  arising  from  general 
conviction.  If  a  new  performance  happens  not 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  some  who  have  courage 
to  tell,  and  authority  to  propagate  their  opinion, 
it  often  remains  long  in  obscurity,  and  perishes 
unknown  and  unexamined.  A  few,  a  very  few, 
commonly  constitute  the  taste  of  the  time  ;  the 
judgment  which  they  have  once  pronounced, 
some  are  too  lazy  to  discuss,  and  some  too  timo- 
rous to  contradict ;  it  may  however  be,  I  think, 
observed,  that  their  power  is  greater  to  depress 
than  exalt,  as  mankind  are  more  credulous  of 
censure  than  of  praise. 

This  perversion  of  the  public  judgment  is  not 
to  be  rashly  numbered  amongst  the  miseries  of 
an  author:  since  it  commonly  serves,  after  mis- 
carriage, to  reconcile  him  to  himself.  Because 
the  world  has  sometimes  passed  an  unjust  sen- 
tence, he  readily  concludes  the  sentence  unjust 
by  which  his  performance  is  condemned ;  because 
some  have  been  exalted  above  their  merits  by 
partiality,  he  is  sure  to  ascribe  the  success  of  a 
rival,  not  to  the  merit  of  his  work,  but  the  zeal  of 
his  patrons.  Upon  the  whole,  as  the  author 
seems  to  share  all  the  common  miseries  of  life, 
he  appears  to  partake  likewise  of  its  lenitives  and 
abatements. 


END  OF  THE  ADVENTURER. 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  IDLER. 


THE  whole  number  of  papers  of  which  the 
IDLER  originally  consisted,  are  contained  in  this 
edition,  although  not  all  the  productions  of  Dr. 
Johnson.  The  authors  of  9,  15,  42,  54,  and  98, 
are  unknown.  Nos.  33,  93,  and  96,  are  by 
WHARTON.  No.  67  by  LANG  TON.  Nos.  76,  79, 
and  82,  by  REYNOLDS. 

Of  the  Essays  written  by  Dr.  Johnson,  those 
contained  in  the  Idler  were  the  most  popular. 
The  Rambler,  though  unquestionably  the  basis 
of  Dr.  Johnson's  great  fame,  did  not  during  the 
author's  lifetime  meet  with  the  success  it  deserved. 
Its  style  was  more  dignified,  and  less  miscella- 
neous than  the  Spectator.  The  Spectator  pleased 
and  charmed  by  its  variety — it  could  not  fail  to  do 
otherwise  ;  for  the  great  wits  of  dueen  Anne's 
reign  were  its  contributors.  The  Rambler  was 
more  uniform  and  less  amusing,  though  not  less 
instructive — partaking  somewhat  of  that  settled 
gloom  which  always  seemed  to  hang  over  the 
author's  mind.  That  it  should  be  wanting  in 
novelty  is  not  to  be  wondered  at ;  for  Dr.  John- 
son stood  alone  in  its  composition.  Yet  it  must 
be  confessed,  that  in  this  collection  the  great 
moral  teachings  of  Dr.  Johnson  are  seldom,  if 
at  all,  equalled  by  any  thing  in  the  Spectator. 
His  observation  upon  men  and  things  shows  an 
acute  observance  of  all  that  was  passing  around 
him.  He  brought  in  all  things,  men  and  their 
actiois,  to  the  test  of  principle  ;  and  made  truth 
and  virtue  the  great  levers  by  which  human 


conduct  should  be  regulated.  The  essays  in 
the  Rambler  might,  indeed,  almost  form  a  body 
of  Ethics. 

Dr.  Johnson  had  probably  become  aware  of 
the  objections  which  had  been  made  to  the  gravity 
and  seeming  pomp  of  diction  which  marked  the 
Rambler ;  and  seems  to  have  studied  to  make 
the  papers  which  constitute  the  Idler,  to  be  in 
keeping  with  its  title.  He  lays  aside  his  auste- 
rity, and  assumes  a  style  more  easy  and  less 
vigorous,  losing  nothing  however  of  the  elegance 
of  composition  which  is  to  be  found  in  all  his 
productions.  Great  depth  of  thought  and  pro- 
found research  into  motives  and  principles,  would 
not  well  become  an  Idler.  He  should  look  upon 
men  and  manners  as  one  desirous  of  passing 
his  life  with  as  little  trouble,  as  would  comport 
with  his  general  character — which  simply  is,  to 
know  something  of  the  motives  and  actions  by 
which  society  is  governed,  without  too  laborioua 
investigation  of  the  one,  or  too  severe  a  criticism 
upon  the  other.  We  accordingly  find  that  wnile 
Dr.  Johnson  still  continues  his  lectures  upon 
human  life,  he  takes  hold  of  the  local  follies  and 
gayeties  of  his  time,  seeks  to  place  common  occur- 
rences in  a  stronger  light,  and  adverts  more  fre- 
quently to  the  ordinary  topics  of  the  day.  He  thua 
made  the  Idler  much  more  popular  at  the  time 
than  the  Rambler.  He,  in  fact,  may  be  said  to 
have  written  the  Rambler  for  posterity — the 
Idler  for  his  own  time  and  himself. 


THE    IDLER. 


No.  1.]     SATURDAT,  APRIL  15,  1758. 

Vacui  sub  umbra 
Lustmus.  HOR. 

THOSE  who  attempt  periodical  essays  seem  to 
be  often  stopped  in  the  beginning  by  the  diffi- 
culty of  finding  a  proper  title.  Two  writers, 
since  the  time  of  the  Spectator,  have  assumed 
his  name,  without  any  pretensions  to  lawful  in- 
heritance ;  an  effort  was  once  made  to  revive 
the  Taller;  and  the  strange  appellations  by 
which  other  papers  have  been  called,  show  that 
the  authors  were  distressed,  like  the  natives  of 
America,  who  come  to  the  Europeans  to  beg  a 
name. 

It  will  be  easily  believed  of  the  Idler,  that  if 
his  title  had  required  any  search,  he  never 
would  have  found  it.  Every  mode  of  life  has 
its  conveniences.  The  Idler  who  habituates 
himself  to  be  satisfied  with  what  he  can  most 
easily  obtain,  not  only  escapes  labours  which 
are  often  fruitless,  but  sometimes  succeeds 
better  than  those  who  despise  all  that  is  within 
their  reach,  and  think  every  thing  more  valua- 
ble as  it  is  harder  to  be  acquired. 

If  similitude  of  manners  be  a  motive  to  kind- 
ness, the  Idler  may  flatter  himself  with  univer- 
sal patronage.  There  is  no  single  character 
under  which  such  numbers  are  comprised. 
Every  man  is,  or  hopes  to  be,  an  Idler.  Even 
those  who  seem  to  differ  most  from  us  are  hast- 
ening to  increase  our  fraternity ;  as  peace  is 
the  end  of  war,  so  to  be  idle  is  the  ultimate 
purpose  of  the  busy. 

There  is  perhaps,  no  appellation  by  which  a 
writer  can  better  denote  his  kindred  to  the  hu- 
man species.  It  has  been  found  hard  to  de- 
scribe man  by  an  adequate  definition.  Some 
philosophers  have  called  him  a  reasonable  ani- 
mal ;  but  others  have  considered  reason  as  a 
quality  of  which  many  creatures  partake.  He 
has  been  termed,  likewise,  a  laughing  animal ; 
but  it  is  said  that  some  men  have  never  laughed. 
Perhaps  man  may  be  more  properly  distin- 
guished as  an  idle  animal ;  for  there  is  no  man 
who  is  not  sometimes  idle.  It  is  at  least  a  de- 
finition from  which  none  that  shall  find  it  in 
this  paper  can  be  excepted  ;  for  who  can  be 
more  idle  than  the  reader  of  the  Idler  ? 

That  the  definition  may  be  complete,  idleness 
must  be  not  only  the  general,  but  the  peculiar 
characteristic  of  man ;  and,  perhaps,  man  is 
the  onl  •  being  that  can  be  properly  called  idle, 


that  does  by  others  what  he  might  do  himself, 
or  sacrifices  duty  or  pleasure  to  the  love  of  ease. 

Scarcely  any  name  can  be  imagined  from 
which  less  envy  or  competition  is  to  be  dreaded. 
The  Idler  has  no  rivals  or  enemies.  The  man 
of  business  forgets  him ;  the  man  of  enterprise 
despises  him ;  and  though  such  as  tread  the 
same  track  of  life  fall  commonly  into  jealousy 
and  discord,  Idlers  are  always  found  to  asso- 
ciate in  peace  ;  and  he  who  is  most  famed  for 
doing  nothing,  is  glad  to  meet  another  as  idle 
as  himself. 

What  is  to  be  expected  from  this  paper, 
whether  it  will  be  uniform  or  various,  learned 
or  familiar,  serious  or  gay,  political  or  moral, 
continued  or  interrupted,  it  is  hoped  that  no 
reader  will  inquire.  That  the  Idler  has  some 
scheme  cannot  be  doubted;  for  to  form  schemes 
is  the  Idler's  privilege.  But  though  he  has 
many  projects  in  his  head,  he  is  now  grown 
sparing  of  communication,  having  observed, 
that  his  hearers  are  apt  to  remember  what  he 
forgets  himself;  that  his  tardiness  of  execution 
exposes  him  to  the  encroachments  of  those  who 
catch  a  hint  and  fall  to  work ;  and  that  very 
specious  plans,  after  long  contrivance  and  pom- 
pous displays,  have  subsided  in  weariness 
without  a  trial,  and  without  miscarriage  have 
been  blasted  by  derision. 

Something  the  Idler's  character  may  be'sup- 
posed  to  promise.  Those  that  are  curious  after 
diminutive  history,  who  watch  the  revolutions 
of  families,  and  the  rise  and  fall  of  characters 
either  male  or  female,  will  hope  to  be  gratified 
by  "this  paper ;  for  the  Idler  is  always  inquisi- 
tive and  seldom  retentive.  He  that  delights  in 
obloquy  and  satire,  and  wishes  to  see  clouds 
gathering  over  any  reputation  that  dazzles  him 
with  its  brightness,  will  snatch  up  the  Idler's 
essays  with  a  beating  heart.  The  Idler  is  na  - 
turally  censorious ;  those  who  attempt  nothing 
themselves,  think  e\ery  thing  easily  perform- 
ed, and  consider  the  unsuccessful  always  as 
criminal. 

I  think  it  necessary  to  give  notice,  that  I 
make  no  contract  nor  incur  any  obligation.  If 
those  who  depend  on  the  Idler  for  intelligence 
and  entertainment,  should  suffer  the  disap- 
pointment which  commonly  follows  ill-placed 
expectations,  they  are  to  lay  the  blame  only  on 
themselves. 

Yet  hope  is  not  wholly  to  be  cast  away. 
The  Idler,  though  sluggish,  is  vet  alive  and 


358 


THE  IDLER. 


may  sometimes  be  stimulated  to  vigour  and 
activity.  He  may  descend  into  profoundness, 
or  towe'r  into  sublimity ;  for  the  diligence  of 
an  Idler  is  rapid  and  impetuous,  as  ponderous 
bodies  forced  into  velocity  move  with  violence 
proportionate  to  their  weight. 

But  these  vehement  exertions  of  intellect  can- 
not be  frequent,  and  he  will  therefore  gladly 
receive  help  from  any  correspondent,  who  shall 
enable  him  to  please  without  his  own  labour. 
He  excludes  no  style,  he  prohibits  no  subject ; 
only  let  him  that  writes  to  the  Idler  remember, 
that  his  letters  must  not  be  long  :  no  words  are 
to  be  squandered  in  declaration  of  esteem,  or 
confessions)of  inability ;  conscious  dullness  has 
little  right  to  be  prolix,  and  praise  is  not  so 
welcome  to  the  Idler  as  quiet. 


No.  2.]     SATURDAY,  APRIL  22,  1758. 

Toto  nix  quater  anno 
Membranam.  HOR. 

MANY  positions  are  often  on  the  tongue,  and 
seldom  in  the  mind  ;  there  are  many  truths 
•  which  every  human  being  acknowledges  and 
forgets.  It  is  generally  known,  that  he  who 
expects  much  will  he  often  disappointed ;  yet 
disappointment  seldom  cures  us  of  expectation, 
or  has  any  other  effect  than  that  of  producing 
a  moral  sentence,  or  peevish  exclamation.  He 
that  embarks  in  the  voyage  of  life,  will  always 
wish  to  advance  rather  by  the  impulse  of  the 
wind,  than  the  strokes  of  the  oar ;  and  many 
founder  in  the  passage,  while  they  lie  waiting 
for  the  gale  that  is  to  waft  them  to  their  wish. 

It  will  naturally  be  suspected  that  the  Idler 
has  lately  suffered  some  disappointment,  and 
that  he  does  not  talk  thus  gravely  for  nothing. 
No  man  is  required  to  betray  his  own  secrets. 
I  will,  however,  confess,  that  I  have  now  been 
a  writer  almost  a  week,  and  have  not  yet  heard 
a  single  word  of  praise,  nor  received  one  hint 
from  any  correspondent. 

Whence  this  negligence  proceeds  I  am  not 
able  to  discover.  Many  of  my  predecessors 
have  thought  themselves  obliged  to  return  their 
acknowledgments  in  the  second  paper,  for  the 
kind  reception  of  the  first,  and  in  a  short  time 
apologies  have  become  necessary  to  those  inge- 
nious gentlemen  and  ladies  whose  performan- 
ces, though  in  the  highest  degree  elegant  and 
learned,  have  been  unavoidably  delayed. 

What  then  will  be  thought  of  me,  who  hav- 
ing experienced  no  kindness,  have  no  thanks 
to  return  ;  whom  no  gentleman  or  lady  has  yet 
enabled  to  give  any  cause  of  discontent,  and 
who  have,  therefore,  no  opportunity  of  showing 
how  skilfully  I  can  pacify  resentment,  extenu- 
ate negligence,  or  palliate  rejection  ? 

I  have  long  known  that  splendour  of  reputa- 
tion is  not  to  be  counted  among  the  necessaries 
of  life,  and  therefore  shall  not  much  repine 
if  praise  be  withheld  till  it  is  better  deserved. 
But  surely  I  may  be  allowed  to  complain  that, 
in  a  nation  of  authors,  not  one  has  thought  me 
worthy  of  notice  after  so  fair  an  invitation. 

At  the  time  when  the  rage  of  writing  had 
seized  the  old  and  the  young,  when  the  cook 
warbles  her  lyrics  in  the  kitchen,  and  the 


thrasher  vociferates  his  heroics  in  the  barn  ; 
when  our  traders  deal  out  knowledge  in  bulky 
volumes,  and  our  girls  forsake  their  samplers 
to  teach  kingdoms  wisdom,  it  may  seem  very 
unnecessary  to  draw  any  more  from  their  pro- 
per occupations,  by  affording  new  opportuni- 
ties of  literary  fame. 

I  should  be,  indeed,  unwilling  to  find  that, 
for  the  sake  of  corresponding  with  the  Idler, 
the  smith's  iron  had  cooled  on  the  anvil,  or  the 
spinster's  distaff  stood  unemployed.  I  solicit 
only  the  contributions  of  those  who  have  al- 
ready devoted  themselves  to  literature,  or,  with- 
out any  determinate  intention,  wander  at  large 
through  the  expanse  of  life,  and  wear  out  the 
day  in  hearing  at  one  place  what  they  utter  at 
another. 

Of  these  the  great  part  are  already  writers. 
One  has  a  friend  in  the  country  upon  whom  he 
ex«rcises  his  powers  ;  whose  passions  he  raises 
and  depresses ;  whose  understanding  he  per- 
plexes with  paradoxes,  or  strengthens  by  argu- 
ment; whose  admiration  he  courts,  whose 
praises  he  enjoys  ;  and  who  serves  him  instead 
of  a  senate  or  a  theatre  ;  As  the  young  soldiers 
in  the  Roman  camp  learned  the  use  of  their 
weapons  by  fencing  against  a  post  in  the  place 
of  an  enemy. 

Another  has  his  pockets  filled  with  essays 
and  epigrams  which  he  reads  from  house  tc 
house,  to  select  parties,  and  which  his  ac 
quaintances  are  daily  entreating  him  to  with- 
hold no  longer  from  the  impatience  of  the 
public. 

If  among  these  any  one  is  persuaded  that, 
by  such  preludes  of  composition,  he  has  quali- 
fied himself  to  appear  in  the  open  world,  and 
is  yet  afraid  of  those  censures  which  they  who 
have  already  written,  and  they  who  cannot 
write,  are  equally  ready  to  fulminate  against 
public  pretenders  to  fame,  he  may,  by  trans- 
mitting his  performances  to  the  Idler,  make  a 
cheap  experiment  of  his  abilities,  and  enjoy 
the  pleasure  of  success,  without  the  hazard  of 
miscarriage. 

Many  advantages  not  generally  known  arise 
from  this  method  of  stealing  on  the  public. 
The  standing  author  of  the  paper  is  always  the 
object  of  critical  malignity.  Whatever  is  mean 
will  be  imputed  to  him,  and  whatever  is  excel- 
lent be  ascribed  to  his  assistants.  It  does  not 
much  alter  the  event,  that  the  author  and  his 
correspondents  are  equally  unknown  ;  for  the 
author,  whoever  he  be,  is  an  individual,  of 
whom  every  reader  has  some  fixed  idea,  and 
whom  he  is,  therefore,  unwilling  to  gratify 
with  applause ;  but  the  praises  given  to  his 
correspondents  are  scattered  in  the  air,  none 
can  tell  on  whom  they  will  light,  and  therefore 
none  are  unwilling  to  bestow  them. 

He  that  is  known  to  contribute  to  a  periodi- 
cal work,  needs  no  other  caution  than  not  to  tell 
what  particular  pieces  are  his  own  ;  sucheecre- 
cy  is,  indeed,  very  difficult ;  but  if  it  can  be 
maintained,  it  is  scarcely  to  be  imagined  at  how 
small  an  expense  he  may  grow  considerable. 

A  person  of  quality,  by  a  single  paper,  may 
engross  the  honour  of  a  volume.  Fame  is,  in 
deed,  dealt  with  a  hand  less  and  less  bounteous 
through  the  subordinate  ranks,  till  it  descends 


THE  IDLER. 


359 


to  the  professed  author,  who  will  find  it  very 
difficult  to  get  more  than  he  deserves  ;  but 
every  man  who  does  not  want  it,  or  who  needs 
not  value  it,  may  have  liberal  allowances  ;  and, 
for  five  letters  in  the  year  sent  to  the  Idler,  of 
which  perhaps  only  two  are  printed,  will  be 
promoted  to  the  first  rank  of  writers  by  those 
who  are  weary  of  the  present  race  of  wits,  and 
wish  to  sink  them  into  obscurity  before  the  lus- 
tre of  a  name  not  yet  known  enough  to  be 
detested. 


No.  3.]     SATURDAY,  APRIL  29,  1758. 

Of/a  Vitas. 
Solamar  cantu.  STAT. 

IT  hag  long  been  the  complaint  of  those  who 
frequent  the  theatre,  that  all  the  dramatic  art 
lias  been  long  exhausted,  and  that  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  fortune,  and  accidents  of  life,  have 
been  shown  in  every  possible  combination,  till 
the  first  scene  informs  us  of  the  last,  and  the 
play  no  sooner  opens,  than  every  auditor  knows 
now  it  will  conclude.  When  a  conspiracy  is 
formed  in  a  tragedy,  we  guess  by  whom  it  will 
be  detected  ;  when  a  letter  is  dropt  in  a  come- 
dy, we  can  tell  by  whom  it  will  be  found. 
Nothing  is  now  left  for  the  poet  but  character 
and  sentiment,  which  are  to  make  their  way 
as  they  can  without  the  soft  anxiety  of  sus- 
pense, or  the  enlivening  agitation  of  surprise. 

A  new  paper  lies  under  the  same  disadvan- 
tages as  a  new  play.  There  is  danger  lest  it 
be  new  without  novelty. 

Aly  earlier  predecessors  had  their  choice  of 
vices  and  follies,  and  selected  such  as  were 
most  likely  to  raise  meriment  or  attract  atten- 
tion ;  they  had  the  whole  field  of  life  before 
them,  untrodden  and  unsurveyed  ;  characters 
of  every  kind  shot  up  in  theff  way,  and  those 
of  the  most  luxuriant  growth,  or  most  conspi- 
cuous colours,  were  naturally  crept  by  the 
first  sickle.  They  that  follow  are  forced  to 
peep  into  neglected  corners,  to  note  the  ca- 
sual varieties  of  the  same  species,  and  to  re- 
commend themselves  by  minute  industry,  and 
distinctions  too  subtle  for  common  eyes. 

Sometimes  it  may  happen  that  the  haste  or 
negligence  of  the  first  inquirers  has  left  enough 
behind  to  reward  another  search ;  sometimes 
new  objects  start  up  under  the  eye,  and  he 
that  is  looking  for  one  kind  of  matter  is  amply 
gratified  by  the  discovery  of  another.  But  still 
it  must  be  allowed  that  as  more  is  taken  less 
can  remain ;  and  every  truth  brought  newly  to 
light  impoverishes  the  mine  from  which  suc- 
ceeding intellects  are  to  dig  their  treasures. 

Many  philosophers  imagine  that  the  ele- 
ments themselves  may  be  in  time  exhausted  ; 
that  the  sun,  by  shining  long,  will  effuse  all 
its  light ;  and  that  by  the  continual  waste  of 
aqueous  particles,  the  whole  earth  will  at  last 
oecome  a  sandy  desert. 

I  would  not  advise  my  readers  to  disturb 
themselves  by  contriving  how  they  shall  live 
without  light  and  water.  For  the  days  of  uni- 
versal thirst  and  perpetual  darkness  are  at  a 
great  dista  ic  •,  The  ocean  and  the  sun  will 


last  our  time,  and  we  may  leave  posterity  to 
shifUfor  themselves. 

But  if  the  stores  of  nature  are  limited,  much 
more  narrow  bounds  must  be  set  to  the  modes 
of  life  ;  and  mankind  may  want  a  moral  or 
amusing  paper,  many  "years  before  they  shall 
be  deprived  of  drink  or  day-light.  This  want, 
which  to  the  busy  and  inventive  may  seem 
easily  remediable  by  some  substitute  or  other, 
the  whole  race  of  Idlers  will  feel  with  all  the 
sensibility  that  such  torpid  animals  can  suffer. 

When  I  consider  the  innumerable  multitudes 
that,  having  no  motive  of  desire,  or  determina- 
tion of  will,  lie  freezing  in  perpetual  inactivity, 
till  some  external  impulse  puts  them  in  motion  ; 
who  awake  in  the  morning  vacant  of  thought, 
with  minds  gaping  for  the  intellectual  food, 
which  some  kind  essayist  has  been  accustomed 
to  supply,  I  am  moved  by  the  commiseration 
with  which  all  human  beings  ought  to  behold 
the  distresses  of  each  other,  to  try  some  expe 
dients  for  their  relief,  and  to  inquire  by  what 
methods  the  listless  may  be  actuated,  and  the 
empty  be  replenished. 

There  are  said  to  be  pleasures  in  madness 
known  only  to  madmen.  There  are  certainly 
miseries  in  idleness  which  the  Idler  only  can 
conceive.  These  miseries  I  have  often  felt 
and  often  bewailed.  I  know  by  experience  how 
welcome  is  every  avocation  that  summons  the 
thoughts  to  a  new  image  ;  and  how  much  lan- 
guor and  lassitude  are  relieved  by  that  officious- 
ness  which  offers  a  momentary  amusement  to 
him  who  is  unable  to  find  it  for  himself. 

It  is  naturally  indifferent  to  this  race  of  men 
what  entertainment  they  receive,  so  they  are 
but  entertained.  They  catch  with  equal  eager- 
ness, at  a  moral  lecture,  or  the  memoirs  of  a 
robber;  a  prediction  of  the  appearance  of  a 
comet,  or  the  calculation  of  the  chances  of  a 
lottery. 

They  might  therefore  easily  be  pleased  if 
they  consulted  only  their  own  minds ;  but  those 
who  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  think  for 
themselves,  have  always  somebody  that  thinks 
for  them  ;  and  the  difficulty  of  writing  is  to 
please  those  from  whom  others  learn  to  be 
pleased. 

Much  mischief  is  done  in  the  world  with  very 
little  interest  or  design.  He  that  assumes  the 
character  of  a  critic,  and  justifies  his  claim  by 
perpetual  censure,  and  imagines  that  he  is  hurt- 
ing none  but  the  author,  and  him  he  considers  as 
a  pestilent  animal,  whom  every  other  being  has 
a  right  to  persecute ;  little  does  he  think  how 
many  harmless  men  he  involves  in  his  own 
guilt,  by  teaching  them  to  be  noxious  without 
malignity,  and  to  repeat  objections  which  they 
do  not  understand  ;  or  how  many  honest  minds 
he  debars  from  pleasure,  by  exciting  an  artificial 
fastidiousness,  and  making  them  too  wise  to 
concur  with  their  own  sensations.  He  who  is 
taught  by  a  critic  to  dislike  that  which  pleased 
him  in  his  natural  state,  has  the  same  reason 
to  complain  of  his  instructor,  as  the  madman 
to  rail  at  his  doctor,  who  when  he  thought  him- 
self master  of  Peru,  physicked  him  to  poverty. 

If  men  will  struggle  against  their  own  ad- 
vantage they  are  not  to  expect  that  the  Idler 
will  take  much  pains  upon  them ;  he  has  him 


260 

sulf  to  please  as  well  as  them,  and  has  long 
learned,  or  endeavoured  to  learn,  not  to  make 
the  pleasure  of  others  too  necessary  to  his  own. 


No.  4.]     SATURDAY,  MAT  6,  1758. 

HdvTas  yap  <pi\haice.  HOM. 

CHARITY,  or  tenderness  for  the  poor,  which  is 
now  justly  considered,  by  a  great  part  of  man- 
kind, as  inseparable  from  piety,  and  in  which 
almost  all  the  goodness  of  the  present  age 
consists,  is,  I  think,  known  only  to  those  who 
enjoy,  either  immediately  or  by  transmission 
the  light  of  revelation. 

Those  ancient  nations  who  have  given  us  the 
wisest  models  of  government  and  the  brightest 
examples  of  patriotism,  whose  institutions  have 
been  transcribed  by  all  succeeding  legislatures, 
and  whose  history  is  studied  by  every  candi- 
date for  political  or  military  reputation,  have 
left  behind  them  no  mention  of  alms-houses,  or 
hospitals,  of  places  where  age  might  repose, 
or  sickness  be  relieved. 

The  Roman  emperors,  indeed,  gave  large 
donations  to  the  citizens  and  soldiers,  but  these 
distributions  were  always  reckoned  rather 
popular  than  virtuous ;  nothing  more  was  in- 
tended than  an  ostentation  of  liberality,  nor 
was  any  recompense  expected,  but  suffrages 
and  acclamations. 

Their  beneficence  was  merely  occasional  ; 
he  that  ceased  to  need  the  favour  of  the  people, 
ceased  likewise  to  court  it ;  and  therefore,  no 
man  thought  it  either  necesfery  or  wise  to 
make  any  standing  provision  for  the  needy,  to 
look  forwards  to  the  wants  of  posterity,  or  to 
secure  successions  of  charity,  for  successions 
of  distress. 

Compassion  is,  by  some  reasoners,  on  whom 
the  name  of  philosophers  has  been  too  easily 
conferred,  resolved  into  an  affection  merely 
selfish  and  involuntary  perception  of  pain  at 
the  involuntary  sight  of  a  being  like  ourselves 
languishing  in  misery.  But  this  sensation,  if 
ever  it  be  felt  at  all  from  the  brute  instinct  of 
uninstructed  nature,  will  only  produce  effects 
desultory  and  transient :  it  will  never  settle 
into  a  principle  of  action  or  extend  relief  to 
calamities  unseen,  in  generations  not  yet  in 
being. 

The  devotion  of  life  or  fortune  to  the  succour 
of  the  poor,  is  a  height  of  virtue  to  which  hu- 
manity has  never  risen  by  its  own  power.  The 
charity  of  the  Mahometans  is  a  precept  which 
their  teacher  evidently  transplanted  from  the 
doctrines  of  Christianity  ;  and  the  care  with 
which  some  of  the  Oriental  sects  attend,  as  it 
is  said,  to  the  necessities  of  the  diseased  and 
indigent,  may  be  added  to  the  other  arguments 
which  prove  Zoroaster  to  have  borrowed  his 
institutions  from  the  law  of  Moses. 

The  present  age,  though  not  likely  to  shine 
hereafter  among  the  most  splendid  periods  of 
history,  has  yet  given  examples  of  charity, 
which  may  be  very  properly  recommended  to 
imitation.  The  equal  distribution  of  wealth, 
which  long  commerce  has  produced,  does  not 
enable  any  single  hand  to  raise  edifices  of  piety 


[No.  4. 

like  fortified  cities,  to  appropriate  manors  to  re- 
ligious uses,  or  deal  out  such  large  and  lasting 
beneficence  as  was  scattered  over  the  land  in 
ancient  times,  by  those  who  possessed  counties 
or  provinces.  But  no  sooner  is  a  new  species 
of  misery  brought  to  view,  and  a  design  of  re- 
lieving it  professed,  than  every  hand  is  open 
to  contribute  something,  every  tongue  is  busi- 
ed in  solicitation,  and  every  art  of  pleasure 
is  employed  for  a  time  in  the  interest  of  virtue. 

The  most  apparent  and  pressing  miseries  in- 
cident to  man,  have  now  their  peculiar  houses 
of  reception  and  relief ;  and  there  are  few  a- 
mong  us,  raised  however  little  above  the  dan- 
ger of  poverty,  who  may  not  justly  claim,  what 
is  implored  by  the  Mahometans  in  their  most 
ardent  benedictions,  the  prayers  of  the  poor. 

Among  those  actions  which  the  mind  can 
most  securely  review  with  unabated  pleasure  is 
that  of  having  contributed  to  an  hospital  for 
the  sick.  Of  some  kinds  of  charity  the  conse- 
quences are  dubious  ;  some  evils  which  benefi- 
cence has  been  busy  to  remedy,  are  not  certain- 
ly known  to  be  very  grievous  to  the  sufferer  or 
detrimental  to  the  community ;  but  no  man  can 
question  whether  wounds  and  sickness  are  not 
really  painful ;  whether  it  be  not  worthy  of  a 
good  man's  care  to  restore  those  to  ease  and 
usefulnesss,  from  whose  labour  infants  and  wo 
men  expect  their  bread,  and  who,  by  a  casual 
hurt,  or  lingering  disease,  lie  pining  in  want 
and  anguish,  burthensome  to  others,  and  weary 
of  themselves. 

Yet,  as  the  hospitals  of  the  present  time  sub- 
sist only  by  gifts  bestowed  at  pleasure,  without 
any  solid  fund  of  support,  there  is  danger  lest 
the  blaze  of  chanty  which  now  burns  wi;h  so 
much  heat  and  splendour,  should  die  away  for 
wanting  of  lasting  fuel  ;  lest  fashion  should 
suddenly  withdraw  her  smile,  and  inconstancy 
transfer  the  public  attention  to  something  which 
may  appear  more^ eligible,  because  it  will  be 
new. 

Whatever  is  left  in  the  hands  of  chance  must 
be  subject  to  vicissitude  ;  and  when  any  estab- 
lishment is  found  to  be  useful,  it  ought  to  bo 
the  next  care  to  make  it  permanent. 

But  man  is  a  transitory  being,  and  his  de- 
signs must  partake  of  the  impeifections  of  their 
author.  To  confer  duration  is  not  always  in 
our  power.  We  must  snatch  the  present  mo- 
ment, and  employ  it  well,  without  too  much 
solicitude  for  the  future,  and  content  ourselves 
with  reflecting  that  our  part  is  performed.  He 
that  waits  for  an  opportunity  to  do  much  at 
once,  may  breathe  out  his  life  in  idle  wishes, 
and  regret,  in  the  last  hour,  his  useless  inten- 
tions, and  barren  zeal. 

The  most  active  promoters  of  the  present 
schemes  of  charity,  cannot  be  cleared  from  some 
instances  of  misconduct,  which  may  awaken 
contempt  or  censure,  and  hasten  that  neglect 
which  is  likely  to  come  too  soon  of  itself.  The 
open  competitions  between  different  hospitals, 
and  the  animosity  with  which  their  patrons 
oppose  one  another,  may  prejudice  weak  minds 
against  them  all.  For  it  will  not  be  easily 
believed,  that  any  man  can,  for  good  reasons 
wish  to  exclude  another  from  doing  good.  The 
spirit  of  charity  can  only  be  continued  bv  a  re- 


THE  IDLER. 


361 


conciliation  of  these  ridiculous  feuds ;  and, 
therefore,  instead  of  contentions  who  shall  be 
the  only  benefactors  to  the  needy,  let  there  be 
no  other  stru°-<rle  than  who  shall  be  the  first. 


No.  5.]       SATURDAY,  MAT  13,  1758. 


KdAXoj 

itav  airavrtav 


OUR  military  operations  are  at  last  begun  ;  our 
troops  are  marching  in  all  the  pomp  of  war,  and 
a  camp  is  marked  out  on  the  Isle  of  Wight ;  the 
heart  of  every  Englishman  now  swells  with 
confidence,  though  somewhat  softened  by  gen- 
erous compassion  for  the  consternationand  dis- 
tresses of  our  enemies. 

This  formidable  armament,  and  splendid 
march,  produce  different  effects  upon  different 
minds,  according  to  the  boundless  diversities 
or  temper,  occupation,  and  habits  of  thought. 

Many  a  tender  maiden  considers  her  lover 
as  already  lost,  because  he  cannot  reach  the 
camp  but  by  crossing  the  soa  ;  men  of  a  more 
political  understanding  are  persuaded  that  we 
shall  now  see,  in  a  few  days,  the  ambassadors 
of  France  supplicating  for  pity.  Some  are 
hoping  for  a  bloody  battle,  because  a  bloody 
battle  makes  a  vendible  narrative ;  some  are 
composing  songs  of  victory  ;  some  planning 
arches  of  triumph  ;  and  some  are  mixing  fire- 
works for  the  celebration  of  a  peace. 

Of  all  extensive  and  complicated  objects  dif- 
ferent parts  are  selected  by  different  eyes  ;  and 
minds  are  variously  affected,  as  they  vary  their 
attention.  The  care  of  the  public  is  now  fixed 
upon  our  soldiers,  who  are  leaving  their  native 
country  to  wander,  none  can  tell  how  long,  in 
the  pathless  deserts  of  the  Isle  of  Wight.  The 
tender  sigh  for  their  sufferings,  and  the  gay 
drink  to  their  success.  I  who  look,  or  believe 
myself  to  look,  with  most  philosophic  eyes  on 
human  affairs,  must  confess,  that  I  saw  the 
troops  march  with  little  emotion  ;  my  thoughts 
ivere  fixed  upon  other  scenes,  and  the  tear  stole 
into  my  eyes,  not  for  those  who  were  going 
away,  but  for  those  who  were  left  behind. 

We  have  no  reason  to  doubt  but  our  troops 
will  proceed  with  proper  caution  ;  there  are 
men  among  them  who  can  take  care  of  them- 
selves. But  how  shall  the  ladies  endure  with- 
out them  ?  By  what  arts  can  they,  who  have 
long  had  no  joy  but  from  the  civilities  of  a  sol- 
dier, now  amuse  their  hours,  and  solace  their 
separation  ? 

Of  fifty  thousand  men,  now  destined  to  diffe- 
rent stations,  if  we  allow  each  to  have  been  oc- 
casionally necessary  only  to  four  women,  a 
short  computation  will  inform  us,  that  two 
hundred  thousand  ladies  are  left  to  languish  in 
distress  ;  two  hundred  thousand  ladies,  who 
'  must  run  to  sales  and  auctions  without  an  at- 
tendant ;  sit  at  the  play  without  a  critic  to  di- 
rect their  opinion  ;  buy  their  fans  by  their  own 
judgment ;  dispose  shells  by  their  own  inven- 
tion ;  Walk  in  the  Mall  without  a  gallant ;  go 
to  the  gardens  without  a  protector ;  and  shuffle 
cards  with  vain  impatience,  for  want  of  a  fourth 
to  complete  the  party. 
2V 


Of  these  ladies,  some,  I  hope,  have  lap-dogs, 
and  some  monkeys  ;  but  they  are  unsatisfactory 
companions.  Many  useful  offices  are  perform- 
ed by  men  of  scarlet,  to  which  neither  dog  nor 
monkey  has  adequate  abilities.  A  parrot,  in- 
deed, is  as  fine  as  a  colonel,  and  if  he  has  been 
much  used  to  good  company,  is  not  wholly 
without  conversation  ;  but  a  parrot,  after  all  is 
a  poor  little  creature,  and  has  neither  sword 
nor  shoulder  knot,  can  neither  dance  nor  play 
at  cards. 

Since  the  soldiers  must  obey  the  call  of  their 
duty,  and  go  to  that  side  of  the  kingdom  which 
faces  France,  I  know  not  why  the  ladies,  who 
cannot  live  without  them,  should  not  follow 
them.  The  prejudices  and  pride  of  man  have 
long  presumed  the  sword  and  spindle  made  for 
different  hands,  and  denied  the  other  sex  to  par- 
take the  grandeur  of  military  glory.  This  no- 
tion may  be  consistently  enough  received  in 
France,  where  the  salique  law  excludes  females 
from  the  throne  ;  but  we,  who  allow  them  to 
be  sovereigns,  may  surely  suppose  them  capa- 
ble to  be  soldiers. 

It  were  to  be  wished  that  some  men,  whose 
experience  and  authority  might  enforce  regard, 
would  propose  that  our  encampments  for  the 
present  year  should  comprise  an  equal  number 
of  men  and  women  who  should  march  and 
fight  in  mingled  bodies.  If  proper  colonels 
were  once  appointed,  and  the  drums  ordered  to 
beat  for  female  volunteers,  our  regiments  would 
soon  be  filled  without  the  reproach  or  cruelty 
of  an  impress. 

Of  these  heroines  some  might  serve  on  foot, 
under  the  denomination  of  the  Female  Buffs, 
and  some  on  horseback,  with  the  title  of  Lady 
Hussars. 

What  objections  can  be  made  to  this  scheme 
I  have  endeavoured  maturely  to  consider,  and 
cannot  find  that  a  modern  soldier  has  any  duties 
except  that  of  obedience,  which  a  lady  cannot 
perform.  If  the  hair  has  lost  its  powder,  a 
lady  has  a  puff;  if  a  coat  be  spotted,  a  lady  has 
a  brush.  Strength  is  of  less  importance  since 
fire-arms  have  been  used ;  blows  of  the  hand  are 
now  seldom  exchanged ;  and  what  is  there  to 
be  done  in  the  charge  or  the  retreat  beyond  the 
powers  of  a  sprightly  maiden  ? 

Our  masculine  squadrons  will  not  suppose 
themselves  disgraced  by  their  auxiliaries,  till 
they  have  done  something  which  women  could 
not  have  done.  The  troops  of  Braddock  never 
saw  their  enemies,  and  perhaps  were  defeated 
by  women.  If  our  American  general  had  head- 
ed an  army  of  girls,  he  might  still  have  built 
a  fort  and  taken  it.  Had  Minorca  been  de- 
fended by  a  female  garrison,  it  might  have 
been  surrendered,  as  it  was,  without  a  breach ; 
and  I  cannot  but  think,  that  seven  thousand 
women  might  have  ventured  to  look  at  Roch- 
fort,  sack  a  village,  rob  a  vineyard,  and  return 
in  safety. 


No.  6.]      SATURDAY,  MAY  20,  1758. 

Tantiov  aperfjj  ytvata  yuvi?.         OR.  PBO. 

THE  lady  who  had  undertaken  to  ride  on  one 
horse  a  thousand  miles  in  a  thousand  hours,  has 


362 


THE  IDLER. 


7. 


completed  her  journey  in  little  more  than  two 
thirds  of  the  time  stipulated,  and  was  conductec 
through  the  last  mile  with  triumphal  honours 
Acclamation  shouted  before  her,  and  all  the 
flowers  of  the  spring  were  scattered  in  her 
way. 

Every  heart  ought  to  rejoice  when  true  merit 
is  distinguished  with  public  notice.  I  am  far 
from  wishing  either  to  the  Amazon  or  her 
horse  any  diminution  of  happiness  or  fame,  anc 
cannot  but  lament  that  they  were  not  more 
amply  and  suitably  rewarded. 

There  once  a  time  when  wreaths  of  bays  or 
oak  were  considered  as  recompenses  equal  to 
the  most  wearisome  labours  and  terrific  dan- 
gers, and  when  the  miseries  of  long  marches 
and  stormy  seas  were  at  once  driven  from  the 
remembrance  by  the  fragrance  of  a  garland. 

If  this  heroine  had  been  born  in  ancienl 
times,  she  might,  perhaps,  have  been  delighted 
with  the  simplicity  of  ancient  gratitude  ;  or,  il 
any  thing  was  wanting  to  full  satisfaction,  she 
might  have  supplied  the  deficiency  with  the 
hope  of  deification,  and  anticipated  the  altars 
that  would  be  raised,  and  the  vows  that  would 
be  made,  by  future  candidates  for  equestrian 
glory,  to  the  patroness  of  the  race,  and  the 
goddess  of  the  stable. 

But  fate  reserved  her  for  a  more  enlightened 
age,  which  has  discovered  leaves  and  flowers  to 
be  transitory  things  ;  which  considers  profit  as 
the  end  of  honour ;  and  rates  the  event  of  every 
undertaking  only  by  the  money  that  is  gained 
or  lost.  In  these  days,  to  strew  the  road  with 
daises  and  lilies  is  to  mock  merit,  and  delude 
hope.  The  toyman  will  not  give  his  jewels,  nor 
the  mercer  measure  out  his  silks  for  vegetable 
coin.  A  primrose,  though  picked  up  under  the 
feet  of  the  most  renowned  courser,  will  neither 
be  received  as  a  stake  at  cards,  nor  procure  a 
seat  at  an  opera,  nor  buy  candles  for  a  rout,  nor 
lace  for  a  livery.  And  though  there  are  many 
virtuosos,  whose  sole  ambition  is  to  possess 
something  which  can  be  found  in  no  other 
hand,  yet  some  are  more  accustomed  to  store 
their  cabinets  by  theft  than  purchase,  and 
none  of  them  would  either  steal  or  buy  one  of 
the  flowers  of  gratulation  till  he  knows"  that  all 
the  rest  are  totally  destroyed. 

Little,  therefore,  did  it  avail  this  wonderful 
lady  to  be  received,  however  joyfully,  with  such 
obsolete  and  barren  ceremonies  of  praise.  Had 
the  way  been  covered  with  guineas,  though  but 
for  the  tenth  part  of  the  last  mile,  she  would 
have  considered  her  skill  and  diligence  as  not 
wholly  lost ;  and  might  have  rejoiced  in  the 
speed  and  perserverance  which  had  left  her  such 
superfluity  of  time,  that  she  could  at  leisure 
gather  her  reward  without  the  danger  of  Ata- 
lanta's  miscarriage. 

So  much  ground  could  not,  indeed,  have  been 
paved  with  gold  but  at  a  large  expense,  and 
we  are  at  present  engaged  in  a  war,  which 
demands  and  enforces  frugality.  But  common 
rules  are  made  only  for  common  life,  and  some 
deviation  from  general  policy  may  be  allowed 
in  favour  of  a  lady  that  rode  a  thousand  miles 
in  a  thousand  hours. 

Since  the  spirit  of  antiquity  so  much  prevails 
amongst  us,  that  even  on  this  great  occasion  we 


have  given  flowers  instead  of  money,  let  us  at 
least  complete  our  imitation  of  tho  ancients,  and 
endeavour  to  transmit  to  posterity  the  memory 
of  that  virtue  which  we  consider  as  superior  to 
pecuniary  recompense.  Let  an  equestrian  sta- 
tue of  this  heroine  be  erected,  near  the  starting- 
post  on  the  heath  of  Newmarket,  to  fill  kindred 
souls  with  emulation,  and  tell  the  grand-daugh- 
ters of  our  grand-daughters  what  an  English 
maiden  has  once  performed. 

As  events,  however  illustrious,  are  soon  ob- 
scured if  they  are  intrusted  to  tradition,  I  think 
it  necessary  that  the  pedestal  should  be  in- 
scribed with  a  concise  account  of  this  great 
performance.  The  composition  of  this  narra- 
tive ought  not  to  be  committed  rashly  to  im- 
proper hands.  If  the  rhetoricians  of  New- 
market, who  may  be  supposed  likely  to  con- 
ceive in  its  full  strength  the  dignity  of  the  sub- 
ject, should  undertake  to  express  it,  there  is 
danger  lest  they  admit  some  phrases  which, 
though  well  understood  at  present,  may  be 
ambiguous  in  another  century.  If  posterity 
should  read  on  a  public  monument,  that  the 
lady  carried  her  horse  a  thousand  miles  in  a  thou- 
sand hours,  they  may  think  that  the  statue  and 
inscription  are  at  variance,  because  one  will 
represent  the  horse  as  carrving  his  lady,  and 
the  other  tell  that  the  lady  carried  her  horse. 

Some  doubts  likewise  may  be  raised  by  spe- 
culatists,  and  some  controversies  be  agitated 
among  historians,  concerning  the  motive  as 
well  as  the  manner  of  the  action.  As  it  will 
be  known  that  this  wonder  was  performed  in 
a  time  of  war,  some  will  suppose  that  the  lady 
was  frightened  by  invaders,  and  fled  to  pre- 
serve her  life  or  her  chastity :  others  will  con- 
jectnre  that  she  was  thus  honoured  for  some 
intelligence  carried  of  the  enemy's  designs : 
some  will  think  that  she  brought  news  of  a  vic- 
tory :  others  that  she  was  commissioned  to  tell 
of  a  conspiracy :  and  some  will  congratulate 
themselves  on  their  acuter  penetration,  and 
find,  that  all  these  notions  of  patriotism  and 
public  spirit  are  improbable  and  chimerical; 
they  will  confidently  tell,  that  she  only  ran 
away  from  her  guardians,  and  the  true  causes 
of  her  speed  were,  fear  and  love. 

Let  it  therefore  be  carefully  mentioned,  that 
by  this  performance  she  icon  her  ivager  ;  and, 
lest  this  should,  by  any  change  of  manners, 
seem  an  inadequateor  incredible  incitement,  let 
it  be  added,  that  at  this  time  the  original  mo- 
tives of  human  actions  had  lost  their  influence; 
that  the  love  of  praise  was  extinct;  the  fear  of 
nfamy  was  become  ridiculous ;  and  the  only 
wish  of  an  Englishman  was,  to  win  his  wager. 


No.  7.]     SATURDAY,  MAT  27,  1758. 

ONE  of  the  principal  amusements  of  the  Id 
ler  is,  to  read  the  works  of  those  minute  his- 
torians the  writers  of  news,  who,  though  con- 
temptuously overlooked  by  the  composers  of 
bulky  volumes,  are  yet  necessary  in  a  nation 
where  much  wealth  produces  much  leisure, 
and  one  part  of  the  people  has  nothing  to  do 
but  to  observe  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  the 
other. 


No.  7. 


THE  IDLER. 


363 


To  us  who  are  regaled  every  morning  and 
evening  with  intelligence,  and  are  supplied 
from  day  to  day  with  materials  for  conversa- 
tion, it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  man  can  sub- 
sist without  a  newspaper,  or  to  what  entertain- 
ment companies  can  assemble  in  those  wide 
regions  of  the  earth  that  have  neither  Chronicles 
nor  Magazines,  neither  Gazettes  nor  Adver- 
tisers, neither  Journals  nor  Evening  Posts. 

There  are  never  great  numbers  in  any  nation, 
whose  reason  or  invention  can  find  employment 
for  their  tongues,  who  can  raise  a  pleasing  dis- 
course from  their  own  stock  of  sentiments  and 
images ;  and  those  few  who  have  qualified  them- 
selves by  speculation  for  general  disquisitions 
are  soon  left  without  an  audience.  The  com- 
mon talk  of  men  must  relate  to  facts  in  which 
the  talkers  have,  or  think  they  have  an  interest; 
and  where  such  facts  cannot  be  known,  the 
pleasures  of  society  will  be  merely  sensual. 
Thus  the  natives  of  the  Mahometan  empires, 
who  approach  most  nearly  to  European  civility, 
have  no  higher  pleasure  at  their  convivial  as- 
sembles than  to  hear  a  piper,  or  gaze  upon  a 
tumbler;  and  no  company  can  keep  together 
longer  than  they  are  diverted  by  sounds  or 
shows. 

All  foreigners  remark,  that  the  knowledge 
of  the  common  people  of  England  is  greater 
than  that  of  any  other  vulgar.  This  superi- 
ority we  undoubtedly  owe  to  the  rivulets  of  intel- 
ligence which  are  continually  trickling  among 
us,  which  every  one  may  catch,  and  of  which 
every  one  partakes. 

This  universal  diffusion  of  instruction  is,  per- 
haps, not  wholly  without  its  inconveniences ; 
it  certainly  fills  the  nation  with  superficial  dis- 
Dutants ;  enables  those  to  talk  who  were  born 
to  work  ;  and  affords  information  sufficient  to 
elate  vanity,  and  stiffen  obstinacy,  but  too  little 
to  enlarge  the  mind  into  complete  skill  for  full 
comprehension. 

Whatever  is  found  to  gratify  the  public  will 
be  multiplied,  by  the  emulation  of  venders,  be- 
yond necessity  or  use.  This  plenty,  indeed, 
produces  cheapnes,  but  cheapness  always 
ends  in  negligence  and  depravation. 

The  compilation  of  newspapers  often  com- 
mitted to  narrow  and  mercenary  minds,  not 
qualified  for  the  task  of  delighting  or  instruct- 
ing ;  who  are  content  to  fill  their  paper,  with 
whatever  matter,  without  industry  to  gather, 
or  discernment  to  select. 

Thus  journals  are  daily  multiplied  without 
increase  of  knowledge.  The  tale  of  the  morn- 
ing paper  is  told  again  in  the  evening,  and  the 
narratives  of  the  evening  are  bought  again  in 
the  morning.  These  repetitions,  indeed,  waste  i 
time,  but  they  do  not  shorten  it.  The  most  I 
eager  peruser  of  news  is  tired  before  he  has 
completed  his  labour;  and  many  a  man,  who 
enters  the  coffee-house  in  his  night-gown  and 
slippers,  is  called  away  to  his  shop,  or  his  din- 
ner, before  he  has  well  considered  the  state  of 
Europe. 

It  is  discovered  by  Reaumur,  that  spiders 
might  make  silk,  if  they  could  be  persuaded  to 
live  in  peace  together.  The  writers  of  news, 
if  they  could  be  confederated,  might  give  more 
pleasure  to  the  public.  The  morning  and  even- 


ing authors  might  divide  an  event  between 
them  ;  a  single  action,  and  that  not  of  much 
importance,  might  be  gradually  discovered,  so 
as  to  vary  a  whole  week  with  joy,  anxiety,  and 
conjecture. 

We  know  that  a  French  ship  of  war  was 
lately  taken  by  a  ship  of  England  ;  but  this 
event  was  suffered  to  burst  upon  us  all  at  once, 
and  then  what  we  knew  already  was  echoed 
from  day  to  day,  and  from  week  to  week. 

Let  us  suppose  these  spiders  of  literature  to 
spin  together,  and  inquire  to  what  an  exten- 
sive web  such  another  event  might  be  regularly 
drawn,  and  how  six  morning  and  six  evening 
writers  might  agree  to  retail  their  articles. 

On  Monday  morning  the  captain  of  a  ship 
might  arrive,  who  left  the  Friseur  of  France, 
and  the  Bull-dog,  captain  Grim,  in  sight  of  one 
another,  so  that  an  engagement  seemed  una- 
voidable. 

Monday  evening.  A  sound  of  cannon  was 
heard  offCape  Finisterre,  supposed  to  be  those 
of  the  Bull-dog  and  Friseur. 

Tuesday  morning.  It  was  this  morning  re- 
ported, that  the  Bull-dog  engaged  the  Friseur, 
yard-arm  and  yard-arm,  three  glasses  and  a 
half,  but  was  obliged  to  sheer  off  for  want  of 
powder.  It  is  hoped  that  inquiry  will  be  made 
into  this  affair  in  a  proper  place. 

Tuesday  evening.  The  account  of  the  en- 
gagement between  the  Bull-dog  and  Friseur 
was  premature. 

Wednesday  morning.  Another  express  is 
arrived,  which  brings  news,  that  the  Friseur 
had  lost  all  her  masts,  and  three  hundred  of 
her  men,  in  the  late  engagement ;  and  that  cap- 
tain Grim  is  come  into  harbour  much  shattered. 
Wednesday  evening.  We  hear  that  the 
brave  captain  Grim,  having  expended  his  pow- 
der, proposed  to  enter  the  Friseur,  sword  in 
hand  ;  but  that  his  lieutenant,  the  nephew  of 
a  certain  nobleman,  remonstrated  against  it. 

Thursday  morning.  We  wait  impatiently 
for  a  full  account  of  the  late  engagement  be- 
tween the  Bull-dog  and  Friseur. 

Thursday  evening.  It  is  said  the  order  of 
the  Bath  will  be  sent  to  captain  Grim. 

Friday  morning.  A  certain  Lord  of  the  Ad- 
miralty has  been  heard  to  say  of  a  certain  cap- 
tain, that  if  he  had  done  his  duty,  a  certain 
French  ship  might  have  been  taken.  It  was 
not  thus  that  merit  was  rewarded  in  the  days  of 
romwell. 

Friday  evening.  There  is  certain  informa- 
tion at  the  Admiralty,  that  the  Friseur  is 
taken,  after  a  resistance  of  two  hours. 

Saturday  morning.  A  letter  from  one  of  the 
gunners  of  the  Bull-dog,  mentions  the  taking  of 
the  Friseur,  and  attributes  their  success  wholly 
to  the  bravery  and  resolution  of  captain  Grim, 
who  never  owed  any  of  his  advancement  to 
borough-jobbers,  or  any  other  corrupters  of  the 
people. 

Saturday  evening.  Captain  Grim  arrived  at 
the  Admiralty,  with  an  account  that  he  engag- 
ed the  Friseur,  a  ship  of  equal  force  with  his 
own,  off  Cape  Finisterre,  and  took  her,  after 
an  obstinate  resistance,  having  killed  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  of  the  French,  with  the  loss  of 
ninety-five  of  his  own  men. 


364  THE  IDLER. 

No.  8.]     SATURDAY,  JUNE  3,  1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 


SIR, 

IN  the  time  of  public  danger,  it  is  every  man's 
duty  to  withdraw  his  thoughts  in  some  measure 
from  his  private  interest,  and  employ  part  of 
his  time  for  the  general  welfare.  National  con- 
duct ought  to  be  the  result  of  national  wisdom, 
a  plan  formed  by  mature  consideration  and 
diligent  selection  out  of  all  the  schemes  which 
may  be  offered,  and  all  the  information  which 
can  be  procured. 

In  a  battle,  every  man  should  fight  as  if  he 
was  the  single  champion ;  in  preparations  for 
war,  every  man  should  think,  as  if  the  last  event 
depended  on  his  counsel.  None  can  tell  what 
discoveries  are  within  his  reach,  or  how  much 
he  may  contribute  to  the  public  safety. 

Full  of  these  considerations,  I  have  carefully 
reviewed  the  process  of  the  war,  and  find,  what 
every  other  man  has  found,  that  we  have 
hitherto  added  nothing  to  our  military  reputa- 
tion :  that  at  one  time  we  have  been  beaten  by 
enemies  whom  we  did  not  see  ;  and,  at  another, 
have  avoided  the  sight  of  enemies  lest  we 
should  be  beaten. 

Whether  our  troops  are  defective  in  disci- 
pline or  in  courage,  is  not  very  useful  to  inquire ; 
they  evidently  want  something  necessary  tc 
success ;  and  he  that  shall  supply  that  want 
will  deserve  well  of  his  country. 

To  learn  of  an  enemy  has  always  been  ac- 
counted politic  and  honourable ;  and,  therefore, 
I  hope  it  will  raise  no  prejudice  against  my 
project,  to  confess  that  I  borrowed  it  from  a 
Frenchman. 

When  the  Isle  of  Rhodes  was,  many  centu- 
ries ago,  in  the  hands  of  that  military  order, 
now  called  the  Knights  of  Malta,  it  was  rava- 
ged by  a  dragon,  who  inhabited  a  den  under  a 
rock,  from  which  he  issued  forth  when  he  was 
hungry  or  wanton,  and  without  fear  or  mercy 
devoured  men  and  beasts  as  they  came  in  his 
way.  Many  councils  were  held,  and  many 
devices  offered,  for  his  destruction ;  but  as  his 
back  was  armed  with  impenetrable  scales, 
none  would  venture  to  attack  him.  At  last 
Dudon,  a  French  knight,  undertook  the  deli- 
verance of  the  island.  From  some  place  of 
security  he  took  a  view  of  the  dragon,  or,  as  a 
modern  soldier  would  say,  reconnoitered  him, 
and  observed  that  his  belly  was  naked  and  vul- 
nerable. He  then  returned  home  to  take  his 
arrangements  ;  and,  by  a  very  exact  imitation 
of  nature,  made  a  dragon  of  pasteboard,  in  the 
belly  of  which  he  put  beef  and  mutton,  and 
accustomed  two  sturdy  mastiffs  to  feed  them- 
selves by  tearing  their  way  to  the  concealed 
flesh.  When  his  dogs  were  well  practised  in 
this  method  of  plunder,  he  marched  out  with 
them  at  his  heels,  and  showed  them  the  dra- 
gon ,  they  rushed  upon  him  in  quest  of  their 
dinner ;  Dudon  battered  his  skull,  while  they 
lacerated  his  belly  ;  and  neither  his  sting  nor 
claws  were  able  to  defend  him. 

Something  like  this  might  be  practised  in 
our  present  state.  Let  a  fortification  be  raised 
on  Salisbury-Plain,  resembling  Brest,  or  Tou- 


|  Ion,  or  Paris  itself,  with  all  the  usual  prepara- 
I  tion  for  defence :  let  the  inclosure  be  filled 
with  beef  and  ale  ;  let  the  soldiers  from  somo 
proper  eminence,  see  shirts  waving  upon 
lines,  and  here  and  there  a  plump  landlady  hur- 
rying about  with  pots  in  their  hands.  When 
they  are  sufficiently  animated  to  advance,  lead 
them  in  exact  order,  with  fife  and  drum,  to  that 
side  whence  the  wind  blows,  till  they  como 
within  the  scent  of  roast  meat  and  tobacco. — 
Contrive  that  they  may  approach  the  place 
fasting,  about  half  an  hour  after  dinner-time, 
assure  them  that  there  is  no  danger,  and  com- 
mand an  attack. 

If  nobody  within  either  moves  or  speaks,  it 
is  not  unlikely  that  they  may  carry  the  place 
by  storm ;  but  if  a  panic  should  seize  them,  it 
will  be  proper  to  defer  the  enterprise  to  a  more 
hungry  hour.  When  they  have  entered,  let 
them  fill  their  bellies  and  return  to  the  camp. 

On  the  next  day  let  the  same  place  be  shown 
them  again,  but  with  some  additions  of  strength 
or  terror.  I  cannot  pretend  to  inform  our  gen- 
erals through  what  gradations  of  danger  they 
should  train  their  men  to  fortitude.  They  best 
know  what  the  soldiers  and  what  themselves 
can  bear.  It  will  be  proper  that  the  warshould 
every  day  vary  its  appearance.  Sometimes, 
as  they  mount  the  rampart,  a  cook  may  throw 
fat  upon  the  fire,  to  accustom  them  to  a  sudden 
biaze ;  and  sometimes  by  the  clatter  of  empty 
pots,  they  may  be  inured  to  formidable  noises. 
But  let  it  never  be  forgotten,  that  victory  must 
repose  with  a  full  belly. 

In  time  it  will  be  proper  to  bring  our  French 
prisoners  from  the  coast,  and  place  them  upon 
the  walls  in  martial  order.  At  their  first  ap- 
pearance their  hands  must  be  tied,  but  they 
may  be  allowed  to  grin.  In  a  month  the  may 
guard  the  place  with  their  hands  loosed,  pro- 
vided that  on  pain  of  death  they  be  forbidden 
to  strike. 

By  this  method  our  army  will  soon  be 
brought  to  look  an  enemy  in  the  face.  But  it 
has  been  lately  observed,  that  fear  is  received 
by  the  ear  as  well  as  the  eyes  ;  and  the  Indian 
war-cry  is  represented  as  too  dreadful  to  be 
endured ;  as  a  sound  that  will  force  the  bra- 
vest veteran  to  drop  his  weapon,  and  desert 
his  rank ;  that  will  deafen  his  ear  and  chill  his 
breast ;  that  will  neither  suffer  him  to  hear  or- 
ders or  to  feel  shame,  or  retain  any  sensibility 
but  the  dread  of  death. 

That  the  savage  clamours  of  naked  barba- 
rians should  thus  terrify  troops  disciplined  to 
war,  and  ranged  in  array  with  arms  in  their 
hands,  is  surely  strange.  But  this  is  no  time 
to  reason.  I  am  of  opinion,  that  by  a  proper 
mixture  of  asses,  bulls,  turkeys,  geese,  and 
tragedians,  a  noise  migkt  be  procured  equallj 
horrid  with  the  war-cry.  When  our  men  have 
been  encouraged  by  frequent  victories,  nolh 
ing  will  remain  but  to  qualify  them  for  ex- 
treme  danger,  by  a  sudden  concert  of  terrific 
vociferation.  When  they  have  endured  this 
last  trial,  let  them  be  led  to  action,  as  men 
who  are  no  longer  to  be  frightened  ;  as  men 
who  can  bear  at  once  the  grimaces  of  (I* 
Gauls,  and  the  howl  of  the  Americans. 


No.  9.] 


THE  IDLER. 


365 


No.9.]     SATURDAY,  JUNE  10,   1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

I  have  read  you  ;  that  is  a  favour  few  authors 
can  boast  of  having  received  from  me  besides 
yourself.  My  intention  in  telling  you  of  it  is 
to  inform  you,  that  you  have  both  pleased  and 
angered  me.  Never  did  writer  appear  so  de- 
lightful to  me  as  you  did  when  you  adopted 
the  name  of  the  Idler.  But  what  a  falling-off 
was  there  when  your  first  production  was 
brought  to  light!  A  natural,  irresistible  at- 
tachment to  that  favourite  passion,  idling,  had 
led  me  to  hope  for  indulgence  from  the  Idler, 
but  I  find  him  a  stranger  to  the  title. 

What  rules  has  he  proposed  totally  to  un- 
brace the  slackened  nerve  ;  to  shade  the  hea- 
vy eye  of  inattention  ;  to  give  the  smooth 
feature  and  the  uncontracted  muscle  ;  or  pro- 
cure insensibility  to  the  whole  animal  compo- 
sition ? 

These  were  some  of  the  placid  blessings  I 
promised  myself  the  enjoyment  of,  when  I  com- 
mitted violence  upon  myself  by  mustering  up 
all  my  strength  to  set  about  reading  you ;  but 
I  am  disappointed  in  them  all,  and  the  stroke 
of  eleven  in  the  morning  is  still  as  terrible  to 
me  as  before,  and  I  find  putting  on  my  clothes 
still  as  painful  and  laborious.  Oh  that  our 
climate  would  permit  that  original  nakedness 
which  the  thrice  happy  Indians  to  this  day  en- 
joy !  How  many  unsolicitous  hours  should  I 
bask  away,  warmed  in  bed  by  the  sun's  glo- 
rious beams,  could  I,  like  them,  tumble  from 
thence  in  a  moment,  when  necessity  obliges 
me  to  endure  the  torment  of  getting  upon  my 
legs! 

But  wherefore  do  I  talk  to  you  upon  subjects 
of  this  delicate  nature  ?  you,  who  seem  igno- 
rant of  the  inexpressible  charms  of  the  elbow- 
chair,  attended  with  a  soft  stool  for  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  feet !  Thus,  vacant  of  thought,  do 
I  indulge  the  live-long  day. 

You  may  define  happiness  as  you  please ; 
I  embrace  that  opinion  which  makes  it  con- 
sist in  the  absence  of  pain.  To  reflect  is  pain  ; 
to  stir  is  pain  ;  therefore  I  never  reflect  or  stir 
but  when  I  cannot  help  it.  Perhaps  you  will 
call  my  scheme  of  life  indolence,  and  therefore 
think  the  Idler  excused  from  taking  any  no- 
tice of  me  :  but  I  have  always  looked  upon  in- 
dolence and  idleness  as  the  same ;  and  so  de- 
sire you  will  now  and  then,  while  you  profess 
yourself  of  our  fraternity,  take  some  notice  of 
me,  and  others  in  my  situation,  who  think  they 
have  a  right  to  your  assistance  ;  or  relinquish 
the  name. 

You  may  publish,  burn,  or  destroy  this,  just 
as  you  are  in  the  humour ;  it  is  ten  to  one  but 
I  forget  that  I  wrote  it  before  it  reaches  you. 
I  believe  you  may  find  a  motto  for  it  in  Ho- 
race, but  I  cannot  reach  him  without  getting 
out  of  my  chair;  that  is  a  sufficient  reason 
for  my  not  affixing  any. — And  being  obliged 
to  sit  upright  to  ring  the  bell  for  my  servant 
to  convey  this  to  the  penny-post,  if  I  slip  the 
opportunity  of  his  being  now  in  the  room, 
makes  be  break  off" abruptly 


THIS  correspondent,  whoever  he  bt;,  is  not 
to  be  dismissed  without  some  tokens  of  re- 
gard. There  is  no  mark  more  certain  of  a 
genuine  Idler  than  uneasiness  without  moles- 
tation, and  complaint  without  a  grievance. 

Yet  my  gratitude  to  the  contributor  of  half 
a  paper  shall  not  wholly  overpower  mysincer- 
ity.  I  must  inform  you,  that,  with  all  his  pre- 
tensions, he  that  calls  for  directions  to  be  idle, 
is  yet  but  in  the  rudiments  of  idleness,  and  has 
attained  neither  the  practice  nor  theory  of  wast- 
ing life.  The  true  nature  of  idleness  he  will 
know  in  time,  by  continuing  to  be  idle.  Vir- 
gil tells  us  of  an  impetuous  and  rapid  being, 
that  acquires  strength  by  motion.  The  Idler 
acquires  weight  by  lying  still. 

The  vis  inertice,  the  quality  of  resisting  all 
external  impulse,  is  hourly  increasing;  the 
restless  and  troublesome  faculties  of  attention 
and  distinction,  reflection  on  the  the  past,  and 
solitude  for  the  future,  by  a  long  indulgence 
of  idleness,  will,  like  tapers  in  unelastic  air,  be 
gradually  extinguished ;  and  the  officious  lo- 
ver, the  vigilant  soldier,  the  busy  trader,  may, 
by  a  judicious  composure  of  his  mind,  sink  in- 
to a  state  approaching  to  that  of  brute  matter ; 
in  which  he  shall  retain  the  consciousness  of 
his  own  existence,  only  by  an  obtuse  langour 
and  drowsy  discontent. 

This  is  the  lowest  stage  to  which  the  favour- 
ites of  idleness  can  descend :  these  regions 
of  undelighted  quiet  can  be  entered  by  few. — 
Of  those  that  are  prepared  to  sink  down  into 
their  shade,  some  are  roused  into  action  by 
avarice  or  ambition,  some  are  awakened  by  the 
voice  of  fame,  some  allured  by  the  smile  of 
beauty,  and  many  withheld  by  the  importuni- 
ties of  want.  Of  all  the  enemies  of  idleness, 
want  is  the  most  formidable.  Fame  is  soon 
found  to  be  a  sound,  and  love  a  dream ;  ava- 
rice and  ambition  may  be  justly  suspected  of 
privy  confederacies  with  idleness ;  for  when 
they  have  for  a  while  protected  their  votaries, 
they  often  deliver  them  up  to  end  their  lives 
under  her  dominion.  Want  always  struggles 
against  idleness,  but  Want  her  herself  is  often 
overcome  ;  and  every  hour  shows  the  careful 
observer  those  who  had  rather  live  in  ease  than 
in  plenty. 

So  wide  is  the  region  of  Idleness,  and  so 
powerful  her  influence.  But  she  does  not  im- 
mediately confer  all  her  gifts.  My  correspon- 
dent, who  seems,  with  all  his  errors,  worthy  of 
advice,  must  be  told,  that,  he  is  calling  too 
hastily  for  the  last  effusion  of  total  insensibili- 
ty. Whatever  he  may  have  been  taught  by 
unskilful  Idlers,  to  believe,  labour  is  necessary 
in  his  initiation  to  idleness.  He  that  never  la- 
bours may  know  the  pains  of  idleness,  but  not 
the  pleasure.  The  comfort  is,  that  if  he  de- 
votes himself  to  insensibility,  he  will  daily 
lengthen  the  intervals  of  idleness,  and  shorten 
those  of  labour,  till  at  last  he  will  lie  down  to 
rest,  and  no  longer  disturb  the  world  or  him- 
self by  bustle  or  competition. 

Thus  I  have  endeavoured  to  give  him  that 
information  which,  perhaps,  after  all,  he  did  not 
want :  for  a  true  Idler  often  calls  for  that  which 
he  knows  is  never  to  be  had,  and  asks  ques- 


366 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  10. 


tions  which  he  does  not  desire  ever  to  be  an- 
swered. 


No.  10.]     SATURDAY,  JUNE  17,  1758. 

CREDULITY,  or  confidence  of  opinion  too  great 
for  the  evidence  from  which  opinion  is  derived, 
we  find  to  be  a  general  weakness  imputed  by 
every  sect  and  party  to  all  others ;  and,  indeed. 
by  every  man  to  every  other  man. 

Of  all  kinds  of  credulity,  the  most  obstinate 
and  wonderful  is  that  of  political  zealots  ;  of 
men,  who  being  numbered,  they  know  not  how 
or  why,  in  any  of  the  parties  that  divide  a  state, 
resign  the  use  of  their  own  eyes  and  ears,  and 
resolve  to  believe  nothing  that  does  not  favour 
those  whom  they  profess  to  follow. 

The  bigot  of  philosophy  is  seduced  by  autho- 
rities which  he  has  not  always  opportunities  to 
examine,  is  entangled  in  systems  by  which  truth 
and  falsehood  are  inextricably  complicated,  or 
undertakes  to  talk  on  subjects  which  nature  did 
not  form  him  able  to  comprehend. 

The  Cartesian,  who  denies  that  his  horse 
feels  the  spur,  or  that  the  hare  is  afraid  when 
the  hounds  approach  her  ;  the  disciple  of  Mal- 
branche,  who  maintains  that  the  man  was  not 
hurt  by  the  bullet,  which,  according  to  vulgar 
apprehension,  swept  away  his  legs ;  the  fol- 
lower of  Berkely,  who,  while  he  sits  writing 
at  his  table,  declares  that  he  has  neither  table, 
paper,  nor  fingers  ;  have  all  the  honour  at  least 
of  being  deceived  by  fallacies  not  easily  de- 
tected, and  may  plead  that  they  did  not  forsake 
truth,  but  for  appearances  which  they  were 
not  able  to  distinguish  from  it. 

But  the  man  who  engages  in  a  party  has  sel- 
dom to  do  with  any  thing  remote  or  abstruse. 
The  present  state  of  things  is  before  his  eyes; 
and,  if  he  cannot  be  satisfied  without  retrospec- 
t'on,  yet  he  seldom  extends  his  views  beyond 
the  historical  events  of  the  last  century.  All 
the  knowledge  that  he  can  want  is  within  his 
attainment,  and  most  of  the  arguments  which 
he  can  hear  are  within  his  capacity. 

Yet  so  it  is  that  an  Idler  meets  every  hour  of 
his  life  with  men  who  have  different  opinions 
upon  every  thing  past,  present,  and  future ; 
who  deny  the  most  notorious  facts,  contradict 
the  most  cogent  truths,  and  persist  in  assert- 
ing to-day  what  they  asserted  yesterday,  in  de- 
fiance of  evidence,  and  contempt  of  confuta- 
tion. 

Two  of  my  companions,  who  are  grown  old 
in  idleness,  are  Tom  Tempest  and  Jack  Sneak- 
er. Both  of  them  consider  themselves  as  neg- 
lected by  their  parties,  and  therefore  entitled 
to  credit ;  for  why  should  they  favour  ingrati- 
tude ?  They  are  both  men  of  integrity,  where 
no  factious  interest  is  to  be  promoted ;  and 
both  lovers  of  truth,  when  they  are  not  heated 
with  political  debate. 

Tom  Tempest  is  a  steady  friend  to  tho 
house  of  Stuart.  He  can  recount  the  pro- 
digies that  have  appeared  in  the  sky,  and  the 
calamities  that  have  afflicted  the  nation  every 
year  from  the  Revolution  ;  and  is  cf  opin- 
ion, that,  if  the  exiled  family  had  continued 
to  reign,  there  would  have  neither  been  worms 


in  our  ships,  nor  caterpillars  in  our  trees.  He 
wonders  that  the  nation  was  not  awakened  by 
the  hard  frost  to  a  revocation  of  the  true  king, 
and  is  hourly  afraid  that  the  whole  island  will 
be  lost  in  the  sea.  He  believes  that  king  Wil- 
liam burnt  Whitehall  that  he  might  steal  the 
furniture  ;  and  that  Tillotson  died  an  atheist. 
Of  queen  Anne  he  speaks  with  more  tenderness, 
owns  that  she  meant  well,  and  can  tell  by 
whom  and  why  she  was  poisoned.  In  the  suc- 
ceeding reigns  all  has  been  corruption,  malice, 
and  design.  He  believes  that  nothing  ill  has 
ever  happened  for  these  forty  years  by  chance 
or  error ;  he  holds  that  the  battle  of  Dittingen 
was  won  by  mistake,  and  that  of  Fontenoy  Tost 
by  contract ;  that  the  Victory  was  sunk  by  a 
private  order ;  that  Cornhill  was  fired  by  emis- 
saries from  the  council ;  and  the  arch  of  West- 
minster-bridge was  so  contrived  as  to  sink,  on 
purpose  that  the  nation  might  be  put  to  charge. 
He  considers  the  new  road  to  Islington  as  an 
encroachment  on  liberty,  and  often  asserts  that 
broad  wheel  will  be  the  ruin  of  England. 

Tom  is  generally  vehement  and  noisy,  but 
nevertheless  has  some  secrets  which  he  always 
communicates  in  a  whisper.  Many  and  many 
a  time  has  Tom  told  me,  in  a  corner,  that  our 
miseries  were  almost  at  an  end,  and  that  we 
should  see,  in  a  month,  another  monarch  on  the 
throne  ;  the  time  elapses  without  a  revolution  ; 
Tom  meets  me  again  with  new  intelligence, 
the  whole  scheme  is  now  settled,  and  we  shall 
see  great  events  in  another  month. 

Jack  Sneakeris  a  hearty  adherent  to  the  pre- 
sent establishment ;  he  has  known  those  who 
saw  the  bed  into  which  the  Pretender  was  con- 
veyed in  a  warming-pan.  He  often  rejoices 
that  the  nation  was  not  enslaved  by  the  Irish. — 
He  believes  that  king  William  never  lost  a  bat- 
tle, and  that  if  he  had  lived  one  year  longer  he 
would  have  conquered  France.  He  holds  that 
Charles  the  First  was  a  Papist  He  allows 
there  were  some  good  men  in  the  reign  of 
queen  Anne,  but  the  peace  of  Utrecht  brought 
a  blast  upon  the  nation,  and  has  been  the  cause 
of  all  the  evil  that  we  have  suffered  to  the  pre- 
sent hour.  He  believes  that  the  scheme  of 
the  South  Sea  was  well  intended,  but  that  it 
miscarried  by  the  influence  of  France.  He 
considers  a  standing  army  as  the  bulwark  of 
liberty  ;  thinks  us  secured  from  corruption  by 
septennial  parliaments ;  relates  how  we  are  en- 
riched and  strengthened  by  the  electoral  do- 
minions, and  declares  that  the  public  debt  is  a 
blessing  to  the  nation. 

Yet,  amidst  all  this  prosperity,  poor  Jack  is 
hourly  disturbed  by  the  dread  of  Popery. — 
He  wonders  that  some  stricter  laws  are  not 
made  against  Papists,  and  is  sometimes  afraid 
that  they  are  busy  with  French  gold  among 
the  bishops  and  Judges. 

He  cannot  believe  that  the  Nonjurors  arc  so 
quiet  for  nothing ;  they  must  certainly  be 
forming  some  plot  for  the  establishment  of 
popery ;  he  does  not  think  the  present  oath  suf- 
ficiently binding,  and  wishes  that  some  better 
security  could  be  found  for  the  succession  of 
Hanover.  He  is  zealous  for  the  naturalization 
of  foreign  Protestants,  and  rejoiced  a.t  the  ad- 
mission of  the  Jews  to  the  English  privileges 


No.  11.] 


THE  IDLER. 


367 


because  he  thought  a  Jew  would  never  be  a 
Papist. 


No.  11.]     SATURDAY,  JUNE  24,  1758. 

IT  is  uncommonly  observed,  that  when  two 
Englishman  meet,  their  first  talk  is  of  the 
weather;  they  are  in  haste  to  tell  each  other, 
what  each  must  already  know,  that  it  is  hot  or 
cold,  bright  or  cloudy,  windy  or  calm. 

There  are,  among  the  numerous  lovers  of 
subtilties  and  paradoxes,  some  who  derive  the 
civil  institutions  of  every  country  from  its  cli- 
mate, who  impute  freedom  and  slavery  to  the 
temperature,  of  the  air,  can  fix  the  meridian 
of  vice  and  virtue,  and  tell  at  what  degree  of 
latitude  we  are  to  expect  courage  or  timidity, 
knowledge  or  ignorance. 

From  these  dreams  of  idle  speculation,  a 
slight  survey  of  life,  and  a  little  knowledge  of 
history,  is  sufficient  to  awaken  any  inquirer, 
whose  ambition  of  distinction  has  not  overpow- 
ered his  love  of  truth.  Forms  of  government 
are  seldom  the  result  of  much  deliberation ; 
they  are  framed  by  chance  in  popular  assem- 
blies, or  in  conquered  countries  by  despotic  au- 
thority. Laws  are  often  occasional,  often  ca- 
pricious, made  always  by  a  few,  and  some- 
times by  a  single  voice.  Nations  have  chang- 
ed their  characters  ;  slavery  is  now  nowhere 
more  patiently  endured,  than  in  countries  once 
inhabited  by  the  zealots  of  liberty. 

But  national  customs  can  arise  only  from 
general  agreement ;  they  are  not  imposed,  but 
chosen,  and  are  continued  only  by  the  continu- 
ance of  their  cause.  An  Englishman's  notice 
of  the  weather,  is  the  natural  censequence  of 
changeable  skies  and  uncertain  seasons.  In 
many  parts  of  the  world,  wet  weather  and  c'ry 
are  regularly  expected  at  certain  periods  ;  but 
in  our  island  every  man  goes  to  sleep,  unable 
to  guess  whether  he  shall  behold  in  the  morn- 
ing a  bright  or  cloudy  atmosphere,  whether 
his  rest  shall  be  lulled  by  a  shower,  or  broken 
by  a  tempest.  We  therefore  rejoice  mutually 
at  good  weather,  as  at  an  escape  from  some- 
thing that  we  feared  ;  and  mutually  complain 
of  bad,  as  of  the  loss  of  something  that  we 
hoped.  Such  is  the  reason  of  our  practice ; 
and  who  shall  treat  it  with  contempt?  Surely 
not  the  attendant  on  a  court,  whose  business 
is  to  watch  the  looks  of  a  being  weak  and  fool- 
ish as  himself,  and  whose  vanity  is,  to  recount 
the  names  of  men  who  might  drop  into  nothing, 
and  leave  no  vacuity  ;  nor  the  proprietor  of 
funds,  who  stops  his  acquaintance  in  the  street 
to  tell  him  of  the  loss  of  half-a-crown  ;  nor  the 
inquirer  after  news,  who  fills  his  head  with  for- 
eign events;  and  talks  of  skirmishes  and  sieg- 
es, of  which  no  consequence  will  ever  reach 
his  hearers  or  himself.  The  weather  is  a  nobler 
and  more  interesting  subject ;  it  is  the  present 
state  of  the  skies  and  of  the  earth,  on  which 
plenty  and  famine  are  suspended,  on  which 
millions  depend  for  the  necessaries  of  life. 

The  weather  is  frequently  mentioned  for  an- 
other reason,  less  honourable  to  my  dear  coun- 
trymen. Our  dispositions  too  frequently 
change  with  the  colour  of  the  sky ;  and  when 


we  find  ourselves  cheerful  and  good-natured, 
we  naturally  pay  our  acknowledgements  to 
the  powers  of  sunshine  ;  or,  if  we  sink  into  dul- 
ness  and  peevishness,  look  round  the  horizon 
for  an  excuse,  and  charge  our  discontent  upon 
an  easterly  wind  or  a  cloudy  day. 

Surely  nothing  is  more  reproachful  to  a  being 
endowed  with  reason,  than  to  resign  its  powers 
to  the  influence  of  the  air,  and  live  in  depen- 
dence on  the  weather  and  the  wind,  for  the  only 
blessings  which  nature  has  put  into  our  power, 
tranquillity  and  benevolence.  To  look  up  to 
the  sky  for  the  nutriment  of  our  bodies,  is  the 
condition  of  nature ;  to  call  upon  the  sun  for 
peace  and  gayety,  to  deprecate  the  clouds  lest 
sorrow  should  overwhelm  us,  is  the  cowardice 
of  idleness,  and  idolatry  of  folly. 

Yet,  even  in  this  age  of  inquiry  and  know- 
ledge, when  superstition  is  driven  away,  and 
omens  and  prodigies  have  lost  their  terrors,  we 
find  this  folly  countenanced  by  frequent  exam- 
ples. Those  that  laugh  at  the  portentous 
glare  of  a  comet,  and  hear  a  crow  with  equal 
tranquillity  from  the  right  or  left,  will  yet  talk 
of  times  and  situations  proper  for  intellectual 
performances,  will  imagine  the  fancy  exalted 
by  vernal  breezes,  and  the  reason  invigorated 
by  a  bright  calm. 

If  men  who  have  given  up  themselves  to  fan 
ciful  credulity,  would  confine  their  conceits 
in  their  own  minds,  they  might  regulate  their 
lives  by  the  barometer,  with  inconvenience  on- 
ly to  themselves  ;  but  to  fill  the  world  with  ac- 
counts of  intellects  subject  to  ebb  and  flow,  of 
one  genius  that  awakened  in  the  spring,  and 
another  that  ripened  in  the  autumn,  of  one 
mind  expanded  in  the  summer,  and  of  another 
concentrated  in  the  winter,  is  no  less  danger- 
ous than  to  tell  children  of  bugbears  and  gob- 
lins. Fear  will  find  every  house  haunted;  and 
idleness  will  wait  for  ever  for  the  moment  of 
illumination. 

This  distinction  of  seasons  is  produced  only 
by  imagination  operating  on  luxury.  To  tern 
perance  every  day  is  bright,  and  every  hour  is 
propitious  to  diligence.  He  that  shall  reso 
lutely  excite  his  faculties,  or  exert  his  virtues, 
will  soon  make  himself  superior  to  the  seasons, 
and  may  set  at  defiance  the  morning  mist,  ana 
the  evening  damp,  the  blasts  of  the  east,  and 
the  clouds  of  the  south. 

It  was  the  boast  of  the  Stoic  philosophy,  to 
make  man  unshaken  by  calamity,  and  unelat- 
ed  by  success  ;  incorruptible  by  pleasure,  and 
invulnerable  by  pain  ;  these  are  heights  of 
wisdom  which  none  ever  attained,  and  to  which 
few  can  aspire  ;  but  there  are  lower  degrees  of 
constancy  necessary  to  common  virtue  ;  and 
every  man,  however  he  may  distrust  himself  in 
the  extremes  of  good  or  evil,  might  at  least 
struggle  against  the  tyranny  of  the  climate, 
and  refuse  to  enslave  his  virtue  or  his  reason 
to  the  most  variable  of  all  variations,  the  chan- 
ges of  the  weather. 


No.   12.]     SATURDAY,  JULY   1,   1758. 

THAT  every  man  is  important  in  his  own  eyes, 
is  a  position  of  which  we  all,  either  voluntarily 


368 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  13 


or  unwarily,  at  least  once  an  hour  confess  the 
truth  ,  and  it  will  unavoidably  follow,  that  eve- 
ry man  believes  himself  important  to  the  public. 

The  rig-lit  which  this  importance  gives  us  to 
general  notice  and  visible  distinction,  is  one  of 
those  disputable  privileges  which  we  have  not 
always  courage  to  assert,  and  which  we  there- 
fore suffer  to  lie  dormant,  till  some  elation  of 
mind,  or  >;cissitude  of  fortune,  incites  us  to  de- 
clare our  pretensions,  and  enforce  our  de- 
mands. And  hopeless  as  the  claim  of  vulgar 
characters  may  seem  to  the  supercilious  and 
sovere,  there  are  few  who  do  not  at  one  time 
or  other  endeavour  to  step  forward  beyond  their 
rank,  who  do  not  make  some  struggles  for 
fame,  and  show  that  they  think  all  other  con- 
reniences  and  delights  imperfectly  enjoyed 
without  a  name. 

To  get  a  name  can  happen  but  to  few.  A 
name,  even  in  the  most  commercial  nation,  is 
one  of  the  few  things  which  cannot  be  bought. 
It  is  the  free  gift  of  mankind,  which  must  be 
deserved  before  it  will  be  granted,  and  is  at 
last  unwillingly  bestowed.  But  this  unwilling- 
ness only  increases  desire  in  him  who  believes 
his  merit  sufficient  to  overcome  it. 

There  is  a  particular  period  of  life  in  which 
this  fondness  for  a  name  seems  principally  to 
predominate  in  both  sexes.  Scarce  any  cou- 
ple comes  together  but  the  nuptials  are  declar- 
ed in  the  newspapers  with  encomiums  on  each 
party.  Many  an  eye,  ranging  over  the  page 
with  eager  curiosity  in  quest  of  statesmen  and 
heroes,  is  stopped  by  a  marriage  celebrated  be- 
tween Mr.  Buckram,  an  eminent  salesman  in 
Threadneedle-street,  and  Miss  Dolly  Juniper, 
the  only  daughter  of  an  eminent  distiller  of  the 
parish  of  St.  Giles's  in  the  Fields,  a  young  lady 
adorned  with  every  accomplishment  that  can 
give  happiness  to  the  married  state.  Or  we 
are  told  amidst  our  impatience  for  the  event  of 
a  battle,  that  on  a  certain  day  Mr.  Winker,  a 
tide-waiter  at  Yarmouth,  was  married  to  Mrs. 
Cackle,  a  widow  lady  of  great  accomplish- 
ments ;  and  that  as  soon  as  the  ceremony  was 
performed  they  set  out  in  a  post  chaise  for 
Yarmouth. 

Many  are  the  inquiries  which  such  intelli- 
gence must  undoubtedly  raise,  but  nothing  in 
the  world  is  lasting.  When  the  reader  has 
contemplated  with  envy,  or  with  gladness,  the 
felicity  of  Mr.  Buckram  and  Mr.  Winker,  and 
ransacked  his  memory  for  the  names  of  Juniper 
and  Cackle,  his  attention  is  diverted  to  other 
thoughts,  by  finding  that  Mirza  will  not  cover 
this  season  ;  or  that  a  spaniel  has  been  lost  or 
stolen,  that  answers  to  the  name  of  Ranger. 

Whence  it  arises  that  on  the  day  of  marriage 
all  agree  to  call  thus  openly  for  honours,  I  am 
not  able  to  discover.  Some,  perhaps,  think  it 
kind  by  a  public  declaration,  to  put  an  end  to 
the  hopes  of  rivalry  and  the  fears  of  jealousy,  to 
let  parents  know  that  they  may  set  their  daugh- 
ters at  liberty  whom  they  have  locked  up  for 
fear  of  of  the  bridegroom,  or  to  dismiss  to  their 
counters  and  their  offices  the  amorous  youths 
that  had  been  used  to  hover  round  the  dwelling 
of  the  bride. 

These  connubial  praises  may  have  another 
cause.  It  may  be  the  intention  of  the  husband 


and  wile  to  dignify  themselves  in  the  eyes  ol 
each  other,  and,  according  to  their  different 
tempers  or  expectations,  to  win  affection,  01 
enforce  respect. 

It  was  said  of  the  family  of  Lucas  that  it 
was  noble,  for  all  the  brothers  were  valiant,  ana 
all  the  sisters  were  virtuous.  What  would  & 
stranger  say  of  the  English  nation,  in  \vhich, 
on  the  day  of  marriage,  all  the  men  are  eminent 
and  all  the  women  beautiful,  accomplished,  and 
rich  1 

How  long  the  wife  will  be  persuaded  of  the 
eminence  of  her  husband,  or  the  husband  con 
tinue  to  believe  that  his  wife  has  the  qualities 
required  to  make  marriage  happy,  may  reason 
ably  be  questioned.  I  am  afraid  that  much 
time  seldom  passes  before  each  is  convinced 
that  praises  are  fallacious,  and,  particularly 
those  praises  which  we  confer  upon  ourselves 

I  should,  therefore,  think  that  this  custom 
might  be  omitted  without  any  loss  to  the  com- 
munity ;  and  that  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
lanes  and  alleys  might  go  hereafter  to  the  next 
church,  with  no  witnesses  of  their  worth  or 
happiness  but  their  parents  and  their  friends  ; 
but  if  they  cannot  be  happy  on  their  bridal  day 
without  some  gratification  of  their  vanity,  I 
hope  they  will  be  willing  to  encourage  a  friend 
of  mine  who  proposes  to  devote  his  powers  to 
their  service. 

Mr.  Settle,  a  man  whose  eminence  was  once 
allowed  by  the  eminent,  and  whose  accomplish- 
ments were  confessed  by  the  accomplished,  in 
the  latter  part  of  a  long  life  supported  himself 
by  an  uncommon  expedient.  He  had  a  stand- 
ing elegy  and  cpithalamium,  of  which  only  the 
first  and  last  leaves  were  varied  occasionally, 
and  the  intermediate  pages  were,  by  general 
terms,  left  applicable  alike  to  every  character 
When  any  marriage  became  known,  Settle 
ran  to  the  bridegroom  with  his  epithalamium ; 
and  when  he  heard  of  any  death,  ran  to  the  heir 
with  his  elegy. 

Who  can  think  himself  disgraced  by  a  trade 
that  was  practised  so  long  by  the  rival  of  Dry- 
den,  by  the  poet  whose  Empress  of  Morocco 
was  played  before  princes  by  ladies  of  the 
court  ? 

My  friend  proposes  to  open  an  office  in  the 
Fleet  for  matrimonial  panegyrics,  and  will  ac- 
commodate all  with  praise  who  think  their  own 
powers  of  expression  inadequate  to  their  merit. 
He  will  sell  any  man  or  woman  the  virtue  or 
qualification  which  is  most  fashionable  or  mosi 
desired  ;  but  desires  his  customers  to  remem- 
ber, that  he  sets  beauty  at  the  highest  price, 
and  riches  at  the  next ;  and  if  he  be  well  paid, 
throws  in  virtue  for  nothing. 


No.   13.]     SATURDAY,  JULY  8,   1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

DEAR  MR.   IDLER, 

THOUGH  few  men  of  prudence  are  much  in- 
clined to  interpose  in  disputes  between  man 
and  wife,  who  commonly  make  peace  at  the 
expense  of  the  arbitrator,  yet  I  will  venture  to 
lay  before  you  a  controversy,  by  which  the 
quiet  of  my  house  has  been  long  disturbed, 


No.  14.] 


THE  IDLER. 


369 


and  which,  unless  you  can  decide  it,  is  likely 
to  produce  lasting  evils,  and  embitter  those 
hours  which  nature  seems  to  have  appropriat- 
ed to  tenderness  and  repose. 

I  married  a  wife  with  no  great  fortune,  but 
of  a  family  remarkable  for  domestic  prudence, 
and  elegant  frugality.  I  lived  with  her  at  ease, 
if  not  with  happiness,  and  seldom  had  any  rea- 
son of  complaint.  The  house  was  always 
clean,  the  servants  very  active  and  regular, 
dinner  was  on  the  table  every  day  at  the  same 
minute,  and  the  ladies  of  the  neighbourhood 
were  frightened  when  I  invited  their  husbands, 
lest  their  own  economy  should  be  less  esteem- 
ed. 

During  this  gentle  lapse  of  life  my  dear 
brought  me  three  daughters.  I  Wished  for  a 
son,  to  continue  the  family  ;  but  my  wife  often 
tells  me,  that  boys  are  dirty  things,  and,  are 
always  troublesome  in  a  house  ;  and  declares 
that  she  has  hated  the  sight  of  them  ever  since 
she  saw  lady  Fondle's  eldest  son  ride  over  a 
carpet  with  his  hobby-horse  all  mire. 

I  did  not  much  attend  to  her  opinion,  but 
knew  that  girls  could  not  be  made  boys  ;  and 
therefore  composed  myself  to  bear  whatl  could 
not  remedy,  and  resolved  to  bestow  that  care  on 
my  daughters  to  which  only  the  sons  are  com- 
monly thought  entitled. 

But  my  wife's  notions  of  education  differ 
widely  from  mine.  She  is  an  irreconcileable 
enemy  to  idleness,  and  considers  every  state 
of  life  as  idleness,  in  which  the  hands  are  not 
employed,  or  some  art  acquired,  by  which  she 
thinks  money  may  be  got  or  saved. 

In  pursuance  of  this  principle,  she  calls  up 
her  daughters  at  a  certain  hour,  and  appoints 
them  a  task  of  needlework  to  be  performed 
before  breakfast.  They  are  confined  in  a  gar- 
ret, which  has  its  window  in  the  roof,  both  be- 
cause the  work  is  best  done  at  a  skylight,  and 
because  children  are  apt  to  lose  time  by  look- 
ing about  them. 

They  bring  down  their  work  to  breakfast, 
and  as  they  deserve  are  commended  or  reprov- 
ed ;  they  are  then  sent  up  with  a  new  task  till 
dinner ;  if  no  company  is  expected,  their 
mother  sits  with  them  the  whole  afternoon,  to 
direct  their  operations,  and  to  draw  patterns, 
and  is  sometimes  denied  to  her  nearest  rela- 
tions, when  she  is  engaged  in  teaching  them 
a  new  stitch. 

By  this  continual  exercise  oftheir  diligence, 
she  has  obtained  a  very  considerable  number  of 
laborious  performances.  We  have  twice  as 
many  fire-screens  as  chimneys,  and  three  flour- 
ished quilts  for  every  bed.  Half  the  rooms  are 
adorned  with  a  kind  of  sutile  pictures,  which 
imitate  tapestry.  But  all  their  work  is  not  set 
out  to  show  ;  she  has  boxes  filled  with  knit  gar- 
ters and  braided  shoes.  She  has  twenty  covers 
for  side-saddles  embroidered  with  silver  flow- 
ers, and  has  curtains  wrought  with  gold  in  va- 
rious figures,  which  she  resolves  some  time  or 
other  to  hang  up.  All  these  she  displays  to 
her  company  whenever  she  is  elate  with  merit, 
and  eager  for  praise  ;  and  amidst  the  the  prai- 
ses which  her  friends  and  herself  bestow  upon 
her  merit,  she  never  fails  to  turn  to  me,  and 

2W 


ask  what  all  these  would  cost,  if  I  had  been  to 
buy  them. 

I  sometimes  venture  to  tell  her  that  many  of 
the  ornaments  are  superfluous;  that  what  is 
done  with  so  much  labour  might  have  been 
supplied  by  a  very  easy  purchase  ;  that  the 
work  is  not  always  worth  the  materials  ;  and 
that  I  know  not  why  the  children  should  be 
persecuted  with  useless  tasks,  or  obliged  to 
make  shoes  that  are  never  worn.  She  an- 
swers with  a  look  of  contempt,  that  men  never 
care  how  money  goes,  and  proceeds  to  tell  of 
a  dozen  new  chairs  for  which  she  is  contriving 
covers,  and  of  a  couch  which  she  intends  to 
stand  as  a  monument  of  needle-work. 

In  the  meantime  the  girls  grow  up  in  total 
ignorance  of  every  thing  past,  present,  and  fu- 
ture. Molly  asked  me  the  other  day,  whether 
Ireland  was  in  France,  and  was  ordered  by  her 
mother  to  mind  her  hem.  Kitty  knows  not, 
at  sixteen,  the  difference  between  a  protestant 
and  a  papist,  because  she  has  been  employed 
three  years  in  filling  a  side  of  a  closet  with  a 
hanging  that  is  to  represent  Cranmer  in  the 
flames.  And  Dolly,  my  eldest  girl,  is  now  un- 
able to  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  having  spent 
all  the  time,  which  other  children  pass  at 
school,  in  working  the  interview  between  Solo 
mon  and  the  queen  of  Sheba. 

About  a  month  ago  Tent  and  Turkey-stitch 
seemed  at  a  stand  ;  my  wife  knew  not  what 
new  work  to  introduce ;  I  ventured  to  propose 
that  the  girls  should  now  learn  to  read  and 
write,  and  mentioned  the  necessity  of  a  little 
arithmetic ;  but,  unhappily,  my  wife  has  dis- 
covered that  linen  wears  out  and  has  bought 
the  girls  three  little  wheels  that  they  may  spin 
huckaback  for  the  servants'  table.  I  remon- 
strated, that  with  larger  wheels  they  might 
despatch  in  an  hour  what  must  now  cost  them 
a  day ;  but  she  told  me,  with  irresistible  au- 
thority, that  any  business  is  better  than  idle- 
ness ;  that  when  these  wheels  are  set  upon  a 
table  with  mats  under  them,  they  will  turn 
without  noise  and  keep  the  girls  upright;  that 
great  wheels  are  not  fit  for  gentlewomen  ;  and 
that  with  these,  small  as  they  are,  she  does 
not  doubt  but  that  the  three  girls,  if  they  are 
kept  close,  will  spin  every  year  as  much  cloth 
as  would  cost  five  pounds  if  one  were  to  buv  it. 


No.  14.]     SATDRDAT,  JULY  15,  1758. 

WHEN  Diogenes  received  a  visit  in  his  tub  from 
Alexander  the  Great,  and  was  asked,  according 
to  the  ancient  forms  of  royal  courtesy,  what 
petition  he  had  to  offer ;  I  have  nothing,  said  he, 
to  ask,  but  that  you  would  remove  to  the  other  side, 
that  you  may  not,  by  intercepting  the  sunshine, 
take  from  me  what  you  cannot  give. 

Such  was  the  demand  of  Diogenes  from  the 
greatest  monarch  of  the  earth,  which  those, 
who  have  less  power  than  Alexander,  may, 
with  yet  more  propriety,  apply  to  themselves. 
He  that  does  much  good,  may  be  allowed  to  do 
sometimes  a  little  harm.  But  if  the  oppor- 
tunities of  beneficence  be  denied  by  fortane, 
innocence  should  at  least  be  vigilantly  pre- 
served 


370 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  15. 


It  is  well  known  that  time  once  past  never 
returns  ;  and  that  the  moment  which  is  lost,  is 
lost  forever.  Time,  therefore,  ought,  above 
all  other  kinds  of  property,  to  be  free  from 
invasion  ;  and  yet  there  is  no  man  who  does 
not  claim  the  power  of  wasting  that  time  which 
is  the  right  of  others. 

This  usurpation  is  so  general,  that  a  very 
small  part  of  the  year  is  spent  by  choice ; 
scarcely  any  thing  is  done  when  it  is  intended, 
or  obtained  when  it  is  desired.  Life  is  contin- 
ually ravaged  by  invaders  ;  one  steals  away  an 
hour,  and  another  a  day :  one  conceals  the  rob- 
bery by  hurrying  us  into  business,  another  by 
lulling  us  with  amusement ;  the  depredation  is 
continued  through  a  thousand  vicissitudes  of 
tumult  and  tranquillity,  till,  having  lost  all, 
we  can  lose  no  more. 

This  waste  of  the  lives  of  men  has  been  very 
frequently  charged  upon  the  Great,  whose  fol- 
lowers linger  from  year  to  year  in  expectations, 
and  die  at  last  with  petitions  in  their  hands. 
Those  who  raise  envy  will  easily  incur  censure. 
I  know  not  whether  statesmen  and  patrons  do 
not  suffer  more  reproaches  than  they  deserve, 
and  may  not  rather  themselves  complain,  that 
they  are  given  up  a  prey  to  pretensions  with- 
out merit,  and  to  importunity  without  shame. 

The  truth  is,  that  the  inconveniences  of  at- 
tendance are  more  lamented  than  felt.  To  the 
greater  number  solicitation  is  its  own  reward. 
To  be  seen  in  good  company,  to  talk  of  fami- 
liarities with  men  of  power,  to  be  able  to  tell 
the  freshest  news,  to  gratify  inferior  circles  with 
predictions  of  increase  or  decline  of  favour,  and 
to  be  regarded  as  a  candidate  for  high  offices, 
are  compensations  more  than  equivalent  to  the 
delay  of  favours,  which,  perhaps,  he  that  begs 
them  has  hardly  confidence  to  expect. 

A  man,  conspicuous  in  a  high  station,  who 
multiplies  hopes  that  he  may  multiply  depen- 
dents, may  be  considered  as  a  beast  of  prey, 
justly  dreaded,  but  easily  avoided  ;  his  den  is 
known,  and  they  who  would  not  be  devoured, 
need  not  approach  it.  The  great  danger  of  the 
waste  of  time  is  from  caterpillars  and  moths, 
who  are  not  resisted,  because  they  are  not 
feared,  and  who  work  on  with  unheeded  mis- 
chiefs, and  invisible  encroachments. 

He  whose  rank  or  merit  procures  him  the 
notice  of  mankind,  must  give  up  himself,  in  a 
great  measure,  to  the  convenience  or  humour  of 
those  who  surround  him.  Every  man  who  is 
sick  of  himself  will  fly  to  him  for  relief;  he 
that  wants  to  speak  will  require  him  to  hear  ; 
and  he  that  wants  to  hear  will  expect  him 
to  speak.  Hour  passes  after  hour,  the  noon 
succeeds  to  morning,  and  the  evening  to  noon, 
while  a  thousand  objects  are  forced  upon  his 
attention,  which  he  rejects  as  fast  as  they  are 
offered,  but  which  the  custom  of  the  world  re- 
quires to  be  received  with  appearance  of  regard. 

If  we  will  have  the  kindness  of  others,  we 
must  endure  their  follies.  He  who  cannot  per- 
suade himself  to  withdraw  from  society,  must 
be  content  to  pay  a  tribute  of  his  time  to  a  mul- 
titude of  tyrants ;  to  the  loiterer,  who  makes  ap- 
pointments which  he  never  keeps ;  to  the  con- 
suiter  who  asks  advice  which  he  never  takes ;  to 
the  boaster  who  blusters  only  to  be  praised ;  to 


the  complainer,  who  whines  only  lo  be  pitied  ; 
to  the  projector,  whose  happiness  is  to  entertain 
his  friends  with  expectations  which  all  but 
himself  know  to  be  vain  ;  to  the  economist, 
who  tells  of  bargains  and  settlements ;  to  the 
politician,  who  predicts  the  fate  of  battles  and 
breach  of  alliances ;  to  the  usurer,  who  com- 
pares the  different  funds  ;  and  to  the  talker, 
who  talks  only  because  he  loves  to  be  talking. 
To  put  every  man  in  possession  of  his  own 
time,  and  rescue  the  day  from  the  succession  of 
usurpers,  is  beyond  my  power,  and  beyond  my 
hope.  Yet  perhaps  some  stop  might  be  put  to 
this  unmerciful  persecution,  if  all  would  seri- 
ously reflect,  that  whoever  pays  a  visit  that  is 
not  desired,  or  talks  longer  than  the  hearer  is 
willing  to  attend,  is  guilty  of  an  injury  which 
he  cannot  repair,  and  takes  away  that  which 
he  cannot  give. 


No.  15.]      SATURDAY,  JULT  22,  1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

I  HAVE  the  misfortune  to  be  a  man  of  business, 
that,  you  will  say,  is  a  most  grievous  one  ;  but 
what  makes  it  the  more  so  to  me  is,  that  my 
wife  has  nothing  to  do  ;  at  least  she  had  too 
good  an  education,  and  the  prospect  of  too 
good  a  fortune  in  reversion  when  I  married 
her,  to  think  of  employing  herself  either  in 
my  shop  affairs,  or  the  management  of  my 
family. 

Her  time,  you  know,  as  well  as  my  own, 
must  be  filled  up  soma  way  or  other.  For  my 
part,  I  have  enough  to  mind  in  weighing  my 
goods  out,  and  waiting  on  my  customers  ;  but 
my  wife  though  she  could  be  of  as  much  use  as 
a  shopman  to  me,  if  she  would  put  her  hand  to 
it,  is  now  only  in  my  way.  She  walks  all  the 
morning  sauntering  about  the  shop,  with  her 
arms  through  her  pocket-holes,  or  stands  gap- 
ing at  the  door-sill,  and  looking  at  every  person 
that  passes  by.  She  is  continually  asking  me 
a  thousand  frivolous  questions  about  every  cus- 
tomer that  comes  in  and  goes  out ;  and  all  the 
while  that  I  am  entering  any  thing  in  my  day- 
book, she  is  lolling  over  the  counter  and  staring 
at  it,  as  if  I  was  only  scribbling  or  drawing 
figures  for  her  amusement.  Sometimes,  indeed, 
she  will  take  a  needle  ;  but  as  she  always  works 
at  the  door,  or  in  the  middle  of  the  shop,  she 
has  so  many  interruptions,  that  she  is  longer 
hemming  a  towel,  or  darning  a  stocking,  than 
I  am  in  breaking  forty  loaves  of  sugar,  and 
making  it  up  into  pounds. 

In  the  afternoon  I  am  sure,  likewise,  to 
have  her  company,  except  she  is  called  upon 
by  some  of  her  acquaintance :  and  then,  as 
we  let  out  all  the  upper  part  of  our  house, 
and  we  have  only  a  little  room  backwards  for 
ourselves,  they  either  keep  such  a  chattering, 
or  else  are  calling  out  every  moment  to  me, 
that  I  cannot  mind  my  business  for  them. 

My  wife,  I  am  sure,  might  do  all  the  little 
matters  our  family  requires  ;  and  I  could  wish 
that  she  would  employ  herself  in  them ;  but,  in- 
stead of  that,  we  have  a  girl  to  do  the  work. 


No.  16.1 


THE  IDLER. 


371 


and  look  after  a  little  boy  about  two  years  old, 
which  I  may  fairly  say  is  the  mothers's  own 
child.  The  brat  must  be  humoured  in  every 
thing  :  he  is,  therefore,  suffered  constantly  to 
play  in  the  shop,  pull  all  the  goods  about,  and 
clamberup  the  shelves  to  get  at  the  plums  and 
sugar.  I  dare  not  correct  him;  because,  if  I 
did,  I  should  have  wife  and  maid  both  upon  me 
at  once.  As  to  the  latter,  she  is  as  lazy  and 
sluttish  as  her  mistress  ;  and  because  she  com- 
plains she  has  too  much  work,  we  can  scarcely 
get  her  to  do  any  thing  at  all ;  nay,  what  is 
worse  than  that,  I  am  afraid  she  is  hardly 
honest;  and  as  she  is  entrusted  to  buy  in  all 
our  provisions,  the  jade,  I  am  sure,  makes  a 
marketpenny  out  of  every  article. 

But  to  return  to  my  deary. — The  evenin_ 
are  the  only  time,  when  it  is  fine  weather,  that 
I  am  left  to  myself;  for  then  she  generally 
takes  the  child  out  to  give  it  milk  in  the  park. 
When  she  comes  home  again  she  is  so  fati- 
gued with  walking,  that  she  cannot  stir  from 
her  chair ;  and  it  is  an  hour  after  shop  is  shut, 
before  I  can  get  a  bit  of  supper,  while  the 
maid  is  taken  up  in  undressing  and  putting  the 
child  to  bed. 

But  you  will  pity  me  much  more  when  I  tell 
you  the  manner  in  which  we  generally  pass 
our  Sundays.  In  the  morning  she  is  common- 
y  too  ill  to  dress  herself  to  go  to  church  ;  she 
therefore,  never  gets  up  till  noon  ;  and  what  is 
still  more  vexatious,  keeps  me  in  bed  with  her, 
when  I  ought  to  be  busily  engaged  in  belter 
employment.  It  is  well  if  she  can  get  her 
things  on  by  dinner-time  ;  and  when  that  is 
over  I  am  sure  to  be  dragged  out  by  her,  either 
to  Georgia,  or  Hornsey  Wood,  or  the  White- 
Conduit  House.  Yet  even  these  near  excur- 
sions are  so  very  fatiguing  to  her,  that,  besides 
what  it  costs  me  in  tea  and  hot  rolls,  and  syl- 
labubs, and  cakes  for  the  boy,  I  am  frequently 
forced  to  take  a  hackney-coach,  or  drive  them 
home  in  a  one-horse  chair.  At  other  times,  as 
my  wife  is  rather  of  the  fattest,  and  a  very 
poor  walker,  besides  bearing  her  whole  weight 
upon  my  arm,  I  am  obliged  to  carry  the  child 
myself. 

Thus,  Sir,  does  she  constantly  drawl  out  her 
time,  without  either  profit  or  satisfaction  ;  and, 
while  I  see  my  neighbours'  wives  helping  in 
the  shop,  and  almost  earning  as  much  as  their 
husbands,  I  have  the  mortification  to  find,  that 
mine  is  nothing  but  a  dead  weight  upon  me. 
In  short,  I  do  not  know  any  greater  misfortune 
can  happen  to  a  plain  hard- working  tradesman, 
as  I  am,  than  to  be  joined  to  such  a  woman, 
who  is  rather  a  clog  than  a  help-mate  to  him. 
I  am,  Sir, 

Your  humble  servant, 

ZACHARY  TREACLE. 


No.  16.]     SATURDAY,  JULY  29,  1758. 

[  PAID  a  visit  yesterday  to  my  old  friend  Ned 
Drugget,  at  his  country  lodgings.  Ned  began 
trade  with  a  very  small  fortune ;  he  took  a 
small  house  in  an  obscure  street,  and  for  some 
years  dealt  only  in  remnants.  Knowing  that 
light  gains  make  a  heavy  purse,  he  was  content 


with  moderate  profit ;  having  observed  or 
heard  the  effects  of  civility,  he  bowed  down 
to  the  counter-edge  at  the  entrance  and  de- 
parture of  every  customer,  listened  without 
impatience  to  the  objections  of  the  ignorant, 
and  refused  without  resentment  the  offers 
of  the  penurious.  His  only  recreation  was, 
to  stand  at  his  own  door  and  look  into  the 
street  His  dinner  was  sent  him  from  a  neigh- 
bouring alehouse,  and  he  opened  and  shut  the 
shop  at  a  certain  hour  with  his  own  hands. 

His  reputation  soon  extended  from  one  end 
of  the  street  to  the  other;  and  Mr.  Drugget's 
exemplary  conduct  was  recommended  by 
every  master  to  his  apprentice,  and  by  every 
father  to  his  son.  Ned  was  not  only  consider- 
ed as  a  thriving  trader,  but  as  a  man  of  ele- 
gance and  politeness,  for  he  was  remarkably 
neat  in  his  dress,  and  would  wear  his  coat 
threadbare  without  spotting  it ;  his  hat  was 
always  brushed,  his  shoes  glossy,  his  wig  nice- 
ly curled,  and  his  stockings  without  a  wrinkle. 
With  such  qualifications  it  was  not  very  diffi- 
cult for  him  to  gain  the  heart  of  Miss  Comfit, 
the  only  daughter  of  Mr.  Comfit  the  confec- 
tioner. 

Ned  is  one  of  those  whose  happiness  mar- 
riage has  increased.  His  wife  had  the  same 
disposition  with  himself;  and  his  method  of 
life  was  very  little  changed,  except  that  he 
dismissed  the  lodgers  of  the  first  floor  and 
took  the  whole  house  into  his  own  hands. 

He  had  already,  by  his  parsimony  accumu- 
lated a  considerable  sum,  to  which  the  fortune 
of  his  wife  was  now  added.  From  this  time 
lie  began  to  grasp  at  greater  acquisitions,  and 
was  always  ready  with  money  in  his  hand,  to 
pick  up  the  refuse  of  a  sale,  or  to  buy  the  stock 
jf  a  trader  who  retired  from  business.  He  soon 
added  his  parlour  to  his  shop,  and  was  obliged 
a  few  months  afterwards,  to  hire  a  warehouse. 
He  had  now  a  shop  splendidly  and  copiously 
furnished  with  every  thing  that  time  had  injur- 
ed, or  fashion  had  degraded,  with  fragments  of 
tissues,  odd  yards  of  brocade,  vast  bales  of  fad- 
ed silk,  and  innumerable  boxes  of  antiquated 
ribbons.  His  shop  was  soon  celebrated  through 
all  quarters  of  the  town,  and  frequented  by 
every  form  of  ostentatious  poverty.  Every  maid 
whose  misfortune  it  was  to  be  taller  than  her 
ady,  matched  her  gown  a  Mr.  Drugget's;  and 
many  a  maiden  who  had  passed  a  winter,  with 
icr  aunt  in  London,  dazzled  the  rustics,  at 
ler  return,  with  cheap  finery  which  Drug- 
get had  supplied.  His  shop  was  often  visited 
n  a  morning  by  ladies  who  left  their  coaches 
n  the  next  street,  and  crept  through  the  alley 
_n  linen  gowns.  Drugget  knows  the  rank  of 
lis  customers  by  their  bashfulness ;  and  when 
ic  finds  them  unwilling  to  be  seen  he  invites 
:hem  up  stairs  or  retires  with  them  to  the 
>ack  window. 

I  rejoiced  at  the  increasing  prosperity  of  my 
friend,  and  imagined  that  as  he  grew  rich,  he 
was  growing  happy.  His  mind  has  partaken 
the  enlargement  of  his  fortune.  When  I  step- 
ped in  for  the  first  five  years,  I  was  welcomed 
_..ly  with  a  shake  of  the  hand ;  in  the  next 
period  of  his  life,  he  beckoned  across  the  way 
or  a  pot  of  beer ;  but  for  six  years  past  h« 


372 


THE  IDLER 


[No.  17. 


invited  me  to  dinnei ;  and  if  he  bespeaks  me 
the  day  before,  never  fails  to  regale  me  with  a 
fillet  of  veal. 

His  riches  neither  make  him  uncivil  nor  neg- 
ligent; he  rose  at  the  same  hour,  attended  with 
the  same  assiduity,  and  bowed  with  the  same 
gentleness.  But  for  some  years'  he  has  been 
much  inclined  to  talk  of  the  fatigues  of  business 
and  the  confinement  of  a  shop,  and  to  wish  that 
he  had  .been  so  happy  as  to  have  renewed  his 
uncle's  lease  of  a  farm,  that  he  might  have  lived 
without  noise  and  hurry,  in  a  pure  air,  in  the 
artless  society  of  honest  villagers,  and  the  con- 
templation of  the  works  of  nature. 

I  soon  discovered  the  cause  of  my  friend's 
philosophy.  He  thought  himself  grown  rich 
enough  to  have  a  lodging  in  the  country,  like 
the  mercers  on  Ludgate-hill,  and  was  resolved 
to  enjoy  himself  in  the  decline  of  life.  This 
was  a  revolution  not  to  be  made  suddenly.  He 
talked  three  years  of  the  pleasures  of  the  coun- 
try, but  passed  every  night  over  his  own  shop. 
But  at  last  he  resolved  to  be  happy,  and  hired  a 
lodging  in  the  country,  that  he  may  steal  some 
hours  in  the  week  from  business  ;  for,  says  he, 
when  a  man  advances  in  life,  he  loves  to  entertain 
himself  sometimes  with  his  own  thoughts. 

I  was  invited  to  this  seat  of  quiet  and  con- 
templation among  those  whom  Mr.  Drugget 
considers  as  his  most  reputable  friends,  and  de- 
sires to  make  the  first  witnesses  of  his  elevation 
to  the  highest  dignities  of  a  shopkeeper.  I 
found  him  at  Islington,  in  a  room  which  over- 
looked the  high  road,  amusing  himself  with 
looking  through  the  window,  which  the  clouds 
of  dust  would  not  suffer  him  to  open.  He  em- 
braced me,  told  me  I  was  welcome  into  the 
country,  and  asked  me,  if  I  did  not  feel  myself 
refreshed.  He  then  desired  that  dinner  might 
be  hastened,  for  fresh  air  always  sharpened 
his  appetite,  and  ordered  me  a  toast  and  a  glass 
of  wine  after  my  walk.  He  told  me  much  of 
the  pleasure  he  found  in  retirement,  and  won- 
dered what  had  kept  him  so  long  out  of  the 
country.  After  dinner,  company  carn,e  in, 
and  Mr.  Drugget  again  repeated  the  praises  of 
the  country,  recommended  the  pleasures  of 
meditation,  and  told  them,  that  he  had  been  all 
the  morning  at  the  window,  counting  the  car- 
riages as  they  passed  before  him. 


No.  17.]     SATURDAY,  AUG.  5,  1758. 

THE  rainy  weather,  which  has  continued  the 
last  month  is  said  to  have  given  great  disturb- 
ance to  the  inspectors  of  barometers.  The  qra- 
culous  glasses  have  deceived  their  votaries ; 
shower  has  succeeded  shower  though  they  pre- 
dicted sunshine  and  dry  skies ;  and  by  fatal  con- 
fidence in  these  fallacious  promises,  many  coats 
nave  lost  their  gloss,  and  many  curls  have  been 
moistened  to  flaccidity. 

This  is  one  of  the  distresses  to  which  mortals 
subject  themselves  by  the  pride  of  speculation. 
I  had  no  part  in  this  learned  disappointment, 
who  am  content  to  credit  my  senses,  and  to  be- 
lieve that  rain  will  fall  when  the  air  blackens, 
and  that  the  weather  will  be  dry  when  the  sun 
is  bright.  My  caution  indeed  does  not  always 


preserve  me  from  a  shower.  To  be  wet,  may 
happen  to  the  genuine  Idler ;  but  to  be  wet  in 
opposition  to  theory,  can  befall  only  the  Idler 
that  pretends  to  be  busy.  Of  those  that  spin 
out  life  in  trifles,  and  die  without  a  memorial, 
many  flatter  themselves  with  high  opinions  of 
their  own  importance,  and  imagine  that  they 
are  every  day  adding  some  improvement  to 
human  life.  To  be  idle  and  to  be  poor,  have 
always  been  reproaches,  and  therefore  every 
man  endeavours,  with  his  utmost  care,  to  hide 
his  poverty  from  others,  and  his  idleness  from 
himself. 

Among  those  whom  I  never  could  persuade 
to  rank  themselves  with  Idlers,  and  who  speak 
with  indignation  of  my  morning  sleeps  and  noc- 
turnal rambles,  one  passes  the  day  in  catching 
spiders,  that  he  may  count  their  eyes  with  a 
microscope  ;  another  erects  his  head,  and  exhi 
bits  the  dust  of  a  marygold  separated  from  the 
flower  with  a  dexterity  worthy  of  Leuwen- 
hoeck  himself.  Some  turn  the  wheel  of  electri- 
city: some  suspend  rings  to  a  loadstone,  and 
find  that  what  they  did  yesterday  they  can  do 
again  to-day.  Some  register  the  changes  of 
the  wind,  and  die  fully  convinced  that  the  wind 
is  changeable. 

There  are  men  yet  more  profound,  who  have 
heard  that  two  colourless  liquors  may  produce 
a  colour  by  union,  and  that  two  cold  bodies  will 
grow  hot  if  they  are  mingled  ;  they  mingle 
them,  and  produce  the  effect  expected,  say  it 
is  strange,  and  mingle  them  again. 

The  Idlers  that  sport  only  with  inanimate  na- 
ture may  claim  some  indulgence ;  if  they  are 
useless,  they  are  still  innocent ;  but  there  are 
others,  whom  I  know  not  how  to  mention  with- 
out more  emotion  than  my  love  of  quiet  will- 
ingly admits.  Among  the  inferior  professors 
of  medical  knowledge,  is  a  race  of  wretches, 
whose  lives  are  only  varied  by  varieties  of 
cruelty ;  whose  favourite  amusement  is,  to 
nail  dogs  to  tables  and  open  them  alive ;  to  try 
how  long  life  may  be  continued  in  various  de- 
grees of  mutilation,  or  with  the  excision  or 
laceration  of  the  vital  parts  ;  to  examine  whe- 
ther burning  irons  are  felt  more  acutely  by 
the  bone  or  tendon  ;  and  whether  the  more 
lasting  agonies  are  produced  by  poison  forced 
into  the  mouth,  or  injected  into  the  veins. 

It  is  not  without  reluctance  that  I  offend  the 
sensibility  of  the  tender  mind  with  images  like 
these.  If  such  cruelties  were  not  practised,  it 
were  to  be  desired  that  they  should  not  be  con- 
ceived ;  but,  since  they  are  published  every  day 
with  ostentation,  let  me  be  allowed  once  to 
mention  them  since  1  mention  them  with  ab- 
horrence. 

Mead  has  invidiously  remarked  of  Wood- 
ward, that  he  gathered  shells  and  stones,  and 
would  pass  for  a  philosopher.  With  preten- 
sionsj  much  less  reasonable,  the  anatomical 
novice  tears  out  the  living  bowels  of  an  animal, 
and  styles  himself  physician,  prepares  himself 
by  familiar  cruelty  for  that  profession  which  he 
is  to  exercise  upon  the  tender  and  the  helpless, 
upon  feeble  bodies  and  broken  minds,  and  by 
which  he  has  opportunities  to  extend  his  arts  of 
torture,  and  continue  those  experiments  upon 


No.  18.] 


THE  IDLER. 


373 


infancy  and  age,  which  he  has  hitherto  tried 
upon  cats  and  doirs. 

What  is  alleged  in  defence  of  these  hateful 
practices,  every  one  knows ;  but  the  truth  is, 
that  by  knives,  fire,  and  poison,  knowledge  is 
not  always  sought,  and  is  very  seldom  attained. 
The  experiments  that  have  been  tried,  are  tried 
again  ;  he  that  burned  an  animal  with  irons  yes- 
terday, will  be  willing  to  amuse  himself  with 
burning  another  to-morrow.  I  know  not,  that 
by  living  dissections  any  discovery  has  been 
made  by  which  a  single  malady  is  more  easily 
cured.  And  if  the  knowledge  of  physiology  has 
been  somewhat  increased,  he  surely  buys 
knowledge  dear,  who  learns  the  use  of  the  lac- 
teals  at  the  expense  of  his  humanity.  It  is 
time  that  universal  resentment  should  arise 
against  these  horrid  operations,  which  tend  to 
harden  the  heart,  extinguish  those  sensations 
which  give  man  confidence  in  man,  and  make 
the  physician  more  dreadful  than  the  gout  or 
stone. 


No.  18.]     SATURDAY,  AUG.  12,  1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

IT  commonly  happens  to  him  who  endeavours 
to  obtain  distinction  by  ridicule,  or  censure,  that 
ne  teacher  others  to  practise  his  own  arts 
against  himself;  and  that,  after  a  short  enjoy- 
ment of  the  applause  paid  to  his  sagacity,  or 
of  the  mirth  excited  by  his  wit,  he  is  doomed 
to  suffer  the  same  severities  of  scrutiny,  to  hear 
inquiry  detecting  his  faults,  and  exaggeration 
sporting  with  his  failings. 

The  natural  discontent  of  inferiority  will  sel- 
dom fail  to  operate  in  some  degree  of  malice 
against  him  who  professes  to  superintend  the 
conduct  of  others,  especially  if  he  seats  him- 
self uncalled  in  the  chair  of  judicature,  and 
exercises  authority  by  his  own  commission. 

You  cannot,  therefore  wonder  that  your  ob- 
servations on  human  folly,  if  they  produce 
laughter  at  one  time,  awaken  criticism  at  ano- 
ther ;  and  that  among  the  numbers  whom  you 
have  taught  to  scoff"  at  the  retirement  of  Drug- 
get there  is  one  who  offers  his  apology. 

The  mistake  of  your  old  friend  is  by  no  means 
peculiar.  The  public  pleasures  of  far  the 
greater  part  of  mankind  are  counterfeit.  Very 
few  carry  their  philosophy  to  places  of  diver- 
sion, or  are  very  careful  to  analyse  their  enjoy- 
ments. The  general  condition  of  life  is  so  full 
of  misery,  that  we  are  glad  to  catch  delight 
without  inquiring  whence  it  comes,  or  by  what 
power  it  is  bestowed. 

The  mind  is  seldom  quickened  to  very  vigor- 
ous operations  but  by  pain,  or  the  dread  of  pain. 
We  do  not  disturb  ourselves  with  the  detection 
of  fallacies  which  do  us  no  harm,  nor  willingly 
H  ecline  a  pleasing  effect  to  investigate  its  cause. 
He  that  is  happy,  by  whatever  means,  desires 
nothing  but  the  continuance  of  happiness,  and 
is  no  more  solicitous  to  distribute  his  sensations 
into  their  proper  species,  than  the  common  ga- 
zer on  the  beauties  of  the  spring  to  separate 
light  into  its  original  rays. 


Pleasure  is  therefore  seldom  such  as  it  ap- 
pears to  others,  nor  often  such  as  we  represent 
it  to  ourselves.  Of  the  ladies  that  sparkle  at  a 
musical  performance,  a  very  small  number  has 
any  quick  sensibility  of  harmonious  sounds.  But 
every  one  that  goes  has  her  pleasure.  She  has 
the  pleasure  of  wearing  fine  clothes  and  of 
showing  them,  of  outshining  those  whom  she 
suspects  to  envy  her;  she  has  the  pleasure  of 
appearing  among  other  ladies  in  a  place  whi- 
ther the  race  of  meaner  mortals  seldom  intrudes, 
and  of  reflecting  that,  in  the  conversations  or" 
the  next  morning,  her  name  will  be  mentioned 
among  those  that  sat  in  the  first  row  ;  she  has 
the  pleasure  of  returning  courtesies  or  refusing 
to  return  them,  of  receiving  compliments 
with  civility,  or  rejecting  them  with  disdain. 
She  has  the  pleasure  of  meeting  some  of  her 
acquaintance,  of  guessing  why  the  rest  are  ab- 
sent, and  of  telling  them  that  she  saw  the  ope- 
ra, on  pretence  of  inquiring  why  they  would 
miss  it.  She  has  the  pleasure  of  being  sup- 
posed to  be  pleased  with  a  refined  amusement, 
and  of  hoping  to  be  numbered  among  the  vo- 
taresses of  harmony.  She  has  the  pleasure  of 
escaping  for  two  hours  the  superiority  of  a 
sister,  or  the  control  of  a  husband  ;  and  from 
all  these  pleasures  she  concludes,  that  heavenly 
music  is  the  balm  of  life. 

All  assemblies  of  gayety  are  brought  together 
by  motives  of  the  same  kind.  The  theatre  is 
not  filled  with  those  that  know  or  regard  the 
skill  of  the  actor,  nor  the  ball-room  by  those 
who  dance,  or  attend  to  the  dancers.  To  all 
places  of  general  resort,  where  the  standard  of 
pleasure  is  erected,  we  run  with  equal  eager- 
ness, or  appearance  of  eagerness,  for  very  diffe- 
rent reasons.  One  goes  that  he  may  say  he  has 
been  there,  another  because  he  never  misses. 
This  man  goes  to  try  what  he  can  find,  and  that 
to  discover  what  others  find.  Whatever  diver- 
sion is  costly  will  be  frequented  by  those  who 
desire  to  be  thought  rich ;  and  whatever  has  by 
any  accident  become  fashionable,  easily  con- 
tinues its  reputation,  because  every  one  is 
ashamed  of  not  partaking  it. 

To  every  place  of  entertainment  we  go  with 
expectation  and  desire  of  being  pleased ;  we 
meet  others  who  are  brought  by  the  same  mo- 
tives ;  no  one  will  be  the  first  to  own  the  disap- 
pointment ;  one  face  reflects  the  smile  of  an- 
other, till  each  believes  the  rest  delighted,  and 
endeavours  to  catch  and  transmit  the  circulat- 
ing rapture.  In  time  all  are  deceived  by  the 
cheat  to  which  all  contribute.  The  fiction  of 
happiness  is  propagated  by  every  tongue,  and 
confirmed  by  every  look,  till  at  last  all  profess 
the  joy  which  they  do  not  feel,  consent  to  yield 
to  the  general  delusion  ;  and  when  the  volunta- 
ry dream  is  at  an  end,  lament  that  bliss  is  of  so 
short  a  duration. 

If  Drugget  pretended  to  pleasures  of  which 
he  had  no  perception,  or  boasted  of  one  amuse- 
ment where  he  was  indulging  anpther,  what  did 
he  which  is  not  done  by  all  those  who  read  his 
story  ?  of  whom  some  pretend  delight  in  con- 
versation, only  because  theydare  not  be  alone  ; 
some  praise  the  quiet  of  solitude,  becase  they 
are  envious  of  sense,  and  impatient  of  folly  j 


374 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  19. 


and  some  gratify  their  pride,  by  writing  cha- 
acters  which  expose  the  vanity  of  life. 
I  am,  Sir, 

Your  humble  Servant. 


No.  19.]     SATURDAY,  AUG.  19,  1758. 

SOME  of  those  ancient  sages  that  have  exercised 
their  abilities  in  the  inquiry  after  the  supreme 
good,  have  been  of  opinion,  that  the  highest  de- 
gree of  earthly  happiness  is  quiet ;  a  calm  re- 
pose both  of  mind  and  body,  undisturbed  by  the 
sight  of  folly  or  the  noise  of  business,  the  tu- 
mults of  public  commotion,  or  the  agitations 
of  private  interest ;  a  state  in  which  the  mind 
has  no  other  employment,  but  to  observe  and 
regulate  her  own  motions,  to  trace  thought 
from  thought,  combine  one  image  with  an- 
other, raise  systems  of  science,  and  form  theo- 
ries of  virtue. 

To  the  scheme  of  these  solitary  speculatists, 
it  has  been  justly  objected,  that  if  they  are  hap- 
py, they  are  happy  only  by  being  useless.  That 
mankind  is  one  vast  republic,  where  every  in- 
dividual receives  many  benefits  from  the  la- 
bours of  others,  which,  by  labouring  in  his 
turn  for  others,  he  is  obliged  to  repay ;  and 
that  where  the  united  efforts  of  all  are  not 
able  to  exempt  all  from  misery,  none  have  a 
right  to  withdraw  from  their  task  of  vigilance, 
or  to  be  indulged  in  idle  wisdom  or  solitary 
pleasures. 

It  is  common  for  c-o.ntrovertists  in  the  heat  of 
disputation,  to  add  one  position  to  another  till 
they  reach  the  extremities  of  knowledge,  where 
truth  and  falsehood  lose  their  distinction.  Their 
admirers  follow  them  to  the  brink  of  absurdity, 
and  then  start  back  from  each  side  towards  the 
middle  point.  So  it  has  happened  in  this  great 
disquisition.  Many  perceive  alike  the  force  of 
the  contrary  arguments,  find  quiet  shameful, 
and  business  dangerous  ;  and  therefore  pass 
their  lives  between  them,  in  bustle  without  bu- 
siness, and  negligence  without  quiet. 

Among  the  principal  names  of  this  moderate 
set  is  that  great  philosopher  Jack  Whirler, 
whose  business  keeps  him  in  perpetual  motion, 
and  whose  motion  always  eludes  his  business ; 
who  is  always  to  do  what  he  never  does,  who 
cannot  stand  still  because  he  is  wanted  in  ano- 
ther place  and  who  is  wanted  in  many  places 
because  he  stays  in  none. 

Jack  has  more  business  than  he  can  conve- 
niently transact  in  one  house;  he  has  therefore 
one  habitation  near  Bow-Church,  and  another 
about  a  mile  distant.  By  this  ingenious  distri- 
bution of  himself  between  two  houses,  Jack  has 
contrived  to  be  found  at  neither.  Jack's  trade 
is  extensive,  and  he  has  many  dealers ;  his  con- 
versation is  sprightly,  and  he  has  many  com- 
panions ;  his  disposition  is  kind  and  he  has 
many  friends.  Jack  neither  forbears  pleasure 
for  business,  nor  omits  business  for  pleasure, 
but  is  equally  invisible  to  his  friends  and  his 
customers  ;  to  him  that  comes  with  an  invita- 
tion to  a  club,  and  to  him  that  waits  to  settle 
an  account. 

When  you  call  at  his  house,  his  clerk  tells 
you,  that  Mr.  Whirler  has  just  slept  out,  but 


will  be  at  home  exactly  at  two  ;  you  wait  at 
a  coffee-house  till  two,  and  then  find  that  he 
has  been  at  home,  and  is  gone  out  again,  but 
left  word  that  he  should  be  at  the  Half-moon 
tavern  at  seven,  where  he  hopes  to  meet  you. 
At  seven  you  go  to  the  tavern.  At  eight  in 
comes  Mr.  Whirler  to  tell  you,  that  he  is  glad 
to  see  you  and  only  begs  leave  to  run  for  a  few 
minutes  to  a  gentleman  that  lives  near  the  Ex- 
change, from  whom  he  will  return  before  sup- 
per can  be  ready.  Away  he  runs  to  the  Ex- 
change, to  tell  those  who  are  waiting  for  him, 
that  he  must  beg  them  to  defer  the  business 
till  to-morrow,  because  his  time  is  come  at 
the  Half-moon. 

Jack's  cheerfulness  and  civility  rank  him 
among  those  whose  presence  never  gives  pain, 
and  whom  all  receive  with  fondness  and  ca- 
resses. He  calls  often  on  his  friends  to  tell 
them,  that  he  will  come  again  to-morrow  ; 
on  the  morrow  he  comes  again,  to  tell  them 
how  an  unexpected  summons  hurries  him 
away.  When  he  enters  a  house,  his  first  decla- 
ration is,  that  he  cannot  sit  down  ;  and  so  short 
are  his  visits,  that  he  seldom  appears  to  have 
come  for  any  other  reason  but  to  say  he  must 

g°- 

The  dogs  of  Egypt,  when  thirst  brings 
them  to  the  Nile  are  said  to  run  as  they  drink 
for  fear  of  the  crocodiles.  Jack  Whirler  al- 
ways dines  at  full  speed.  He  enters,  finds 
the  family  at  table,  sits  familiarly  down  and 
fills  his  plate ;  but  while  the  first  morsel  is  in  his 
mouth,  hears  the  clock  strike,  and  rises;  then 
goes  to  another  house,  sits  down  again,  recol- 
lects another  engagement ;  has  only  time  to 
taste  the  soup,  makes  a  short  excuse  to  the 
company,  and  continues  through  another  street 
his  desultory  dinner. 

But  overwhelmed  as  he  is  with  business,  his 
chief  desire  is  to  have  still  more.  Every  new 
proposal  takes  possession  of  his  thoughts  ;  he 
soon  balances  probabilities,  engages  in  the 
project,  brings  it  almost  to  completion,  and 
then  forsakes  it  for  another,  which  he  catches 
with  some  alacrity,  urges  with  the  same  vehe- 
mence, and  abandons  with  the  same  coldness. 

Everyman  may  be  observed  to  have  a  certain 
strain  of  lamentation,  some  peculiar  theme  of 
complaint  on  which  he  dwells  in  his  moments 
of  dejection.  Jack's  topic  of  sorrow  is  his  want 
of  time.  Many  an  excellent  design  languishes 
in  empty  theory  for  want  of  time.  For  the 
omission  of  any  civilities,  want  of  time  is  his 
plea  to  others  ;  for  the  neglect  of  any  affairs, 
want  of  time  is  his  excuse  to  himself.  That  he 
wants  time  he  sincerely  believes  ;  for  he  once 
pined  away  many  months  with  a  lingering  dis- 
temper, for  want  of  time  to  attend  to  his  health. 

Thus  Jack  Whirler  lives  in  perpetual  fatigues 
without  proportionate  advantage,  because  he 
does  not  consider  that  no  man  can  see  all  with 
his  own  eyes,  or  do  all  with  his  own  hands ; 
that  whoever  is  engaged  in  multiplicity  of  busi- 
ness, must  transact  much  by  substitution,  and 
leave  something  to  hazard  ;  and  that  he  who 
attempts  to  do  all,  will  waste  his  life  in  doino- 
little. 


No.  20.) 


THE  IDLER. 


375 


No.  20.]     SATURDAY,  AUG.  26,  1758. 

THERE  is  no  crime  more  infamous  than  th 
riolation  of  truth.  It  is  apparent  that  men  ca 
be  social  beings  no  longer  than  they  believ 
each  other.  When  speech  is  employed  only  a 
the  vehicle  of  falsehood,  every  man  must  dis 
unite  himself  from  others,  inhabit  his  own  cav 
and  seek  prey  only  for  himself. 

Yet  the  law  of  truth,  thus  sacred  and  neces 
sary,  is  broken  without  punishment,  withou 
censure,  in  compliance  with  inveterate  preji 
dice  and  prevailing  passions.  Men  are  wil. 
ing  to  credit  what  they  wish,  and  encourag 
rather  those  who  gratify  them  with  pleasures 
than  those  that  instruct  them  with  fidelity. 

For  this  reason  every  historian  discovers  hi 
country  ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  read  the  differ 
ent  accounts  of  any  great  event,  without  a  wis" 
that  truth  had  more  power  over  partiality. 

Amidst  the  joy  of  my  countrymen  for  th 
acquisition  of  Louisbourg,  I  could  not  forbea 
to  consider  how  differently  this  revolution  o 
American  power  is  not  only  now  mentioned  b; 
the  contending  nations,  but  will  be  represente 
by  the  writers  of  another  century. 

The  English  historian  will  imagine  himsel 
barely  doing  justice  to  English  virtue,  when  h< 
relates  the  capture  of  Louisbourg  in  the  follow 
ing  manner : — 

"  The  English  had  hitherto  seen,  with  grea 
indignation,  their  attempts  baffled  and  theii 
force  defied  by  an  enemy,  whom  they  consider- 
ed themselves  as  entitled  to  conquer  by  the 
right  of  prescription,  and  whom  many  ages  o 
hereditary  superiority  had  taught  them  to  des- 
pis3.  Their  fleets  were  more  numerous,  anc 
t'.ieir  seamen  braver,  than  those  of  France  ;  ye: 
t!i~y  only  floated  useless  on  the  ocean,  and  the 
French  derided  them  from  their  ports.  Mis- 
fortunes, as  is  usual,  produced  discontent,  the 
people  murmured  at  the  ministers,  and  the 
ministers  censured  the  commanders. 

"  In  the  summer  of  this  year,  the  English 
began  to  find  their  success  answerable  to  their 
causo.  A  fleet  and  an  army  were  sent^to 
America  to  dislodge  the  enemies  from  the  set- 
tlements which  they  had  so  perfidiously  made, 
and  so  insolently  maintained,  and  to  repress 
that  power  which  was  growing  more  every  day 
bv  the  association  of  the  Indians  with  whom 
these  degenerate  Europeans  intermarried,  and 
whom  they  secured  to  their  party  by  presents 
and  promises. 

"  In  the  beginning  of  June  the  ships  of  war 
and  vessels  containing  the  land  forces  appeared 
before  Louisbourg,  a  place  so  secure  by  nature 
that  art  was  almost  superfluous,  and  yet  forti- 
fied by  art  as  if  nature  had  left  it  open.  The 
French  boasted  that  it  was  impregnable,  and 
spoke  with  scorn  of  all  attempts  that  could  be 
made  against  it.  The  garrison  was  numerous, 
the  stores  equal  to  the  longest  siege,  and  their 
engineers  and  commanders  high  in  reputation. 
"  The  mouth  of  the  harbour  was  so  narrow, 
that  three  ships  within  might  easily  defend  it 
against  all  attacks  from  the  sea.  The  French 
had,  with  that  caution  which  cowards  borrow 
from  fear,  and  attribute  to  policy,  eluded  our 
fleets,  and  sent  into  that  port  five  great  ships 


and  six  smaller,  of  which  they  sunk  four  in  the 
mouth  of  the  passage,  having  raised  batteries 
and  posted  troops  at  all  the  places  where  they 
thought  it  possible  to  make  a  descent  The 
English,  however,  had  more  to  dread  from  the 
roughness  of  the  sea,  than  from  the  skill  or 
bravery  of  the  defendants.  Some  days  passed 
before  the  surges,  which  rise  very  high  round 
that  island,  would  suffer  them  to  land.  At  last 
their  impatience  could  be  restrained  no  longer ; 
they  got  possession  of  the  shore  with  little  loss 
by  the  sea,  and  with  less  by  the  enemy.  In  a 
few  days  the  artillery  was  landed,  the  batteries 
were  raised,  and  the  French  had  no  other  hope 
than  to  escape  from  one  post  to  another.  A 
shot  from  the  batteries  fired  the  powder  in  one 
of  their  largest  ships,  the  flame  spread  to  the 
two  next,  and  all  three  were  destroyed ;  the 
English  admiral  sent  his  boats  against  the  two 
large  ships  yet  remaining,  took  them  without 
resistance,  and  terrified  the  garrison  to  an  im- 
mediate capitulation." 

Let  us  now  oppose  to  this  English  narrative 
the  relation  which  will  be  produced,  about  the 
same  time,  by  the  writer  of  the  age  of  Louis  XV. 

"  About  this  time,  the  English  admitted  to  the 
conduct  of  affairs  a  man  who  undertook  to  save 
from  destruction  that  ferocious  and  turbulent 
people,  who  from  the  mean  insolence  of  weal 
thy  traders,  and  the  lawless  confidence  of  suc- 
cessful robbers,  were  now  sunk  in  despair  and 
stupified  with  horror.  He  called  in  the  ships 
which  had  been  dispersed  over  the  ocean  to 
guard  their  merchants,  and  sent  a  fleet  and  an 
army,  in  which  almost  the  whole  strength  of 
England  was  comprised,  to  secure  their  posses- 
sions in  America,  which  were  endangered  alike 
>y  the  French  arms  and  the  French  virtue. 
We  had  taken  the  English  fortresses  by  force, 
and  gained  the  Indian  nations  by  humanit}. 
The  English  wherever  they  come,  are  sure  to 
lave  the  natives  for  their  enemies :  for,  the  only 
motive  of  their  settlements  is  avarice,  and  the 
only  consequence  of  their  success  is  oppression, 
'n  this  war  they  acted  like  other  barbarians, 
and,  with  a  degree  of  outrageous  cruelty  which 
;he  gentleness  of  our  manners  scarcely  suffers 
us  'to  conceive,  offered  rewards  by  open  pro- 
ilamation  to  those  who  should  bring  in  the 
calps  of  Indian  women  and  children.  A  tra- 
ler  always  makes  war  with  the  cruelity  of  a 
irate. 

"  They  had  long  looked  with  envy  and  with 
error  upon  the  influence  which  the  French  ex- 
rted  over  all  the  northern  regions  of  America 
y  the  possession  of  Louisbourg,  a  place  na- 
urally  strong,  and  new  fortified  with  some 
light  outworks.  They  hoped  to  surprise  the 
arrison  unprovided  ;  but  that  sluggishness 
'hich  always  defeats  their  malice,  gave  us  tima 
o  send  supplies,  and  to  station  ships  for  the 
efence  of  the  harbour.  They  came  before 
lOuisbourg  in  June,  and  were  for  some  time  in 
oubt  whether  they  should  land.  But  the  com- 
manders, who  had  lately  seen  an  admiral  be- 
caded  for  not  having  done  what  he  had  not 
ower  to  do,  durst  not  leave  the  place  unassault- 
d.  An  Englishman  has  no  ardour  for  honour, 
or  zeal  for  duty ;  he  neither  values  glory  nor 
ves  his  king,  but  balances  one  danger  with 


376 


THE  IDLER. 


No.  21.] 


another,  and  will  fight  rather  than  be  hangec 
They  therefore  landed,  but  with  great  loss 
their  engineers  had,  in  the  last  war  with  th 
French,  learned  something  of  the  military  sc 
ence,  and  made  their  approaches  with  sufficien 
skill ;  but  all  their  efforts  had  been  without  e 
feet,  had  not  a  ball  unfortunately  fallen  into  th 
powder  of  one  our  ships,  which  communicate 
the  fire  to  the  rest,  and,  by  opening  the  passag 
of  the  harbour,  obliged  the  garrison  to  capi 
tulatc.  Thus  was  Loiiisbourg  lost,  and  ou 
troops  marched  out  with  the  admiration  of  thei 
enemies,  who  durst  hardly  think  themselve 
masters  of  the  place." 


No.  21.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  2,  1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

DEAR  MR.  IDLER, 
THERE  is  a  species  of  misery,  or  of  disease 
for  which  our  language  is  commonly  supposei 
to  be  without  a  name,  but  which  I  think  i 
emphatically  enough  denominated  listlessness 
and  which  is  commonly  termed  a  want  of  some 
thing  to  do. 

Of  the  unhappiness  of  this  state  I  db  riot  ex 
pect  all  your  readers  to  have  an  adequate  idea 
Many  are  overburthened  with  business,  and  can 
imagine  no  comfort  but  in  rest ;  many  have 
minds  so  placid,  as  willingly  to  indulge  a  vo- 
luntary lethargy  ;  or  so  narrow,  as  easily  to  be 
filled  to  their  utmost  capacity.  By  these  T 
shall  not  be  understood,  and  therefore  canno 
be  pitied.  Those  only  will  sympathise  with 
my  complaint,  whose  imagination  is  active  anc 
resolution  weak,  whose  desires  are  ardent,  anc 
whose  choice  is  delicate;  who  cannot  satisfy 
themselves  with  standing  still,  and  yet  cannot 
find  a  motive  to  direct  their  course. 

I  was  the  second  son  of  a  gentleman,  whose 
estate  was  barely  sufficient  to  support  himseli 
and  his  heir  in  the  dignity  of  killing  game.  He 
therefore  made  use  of  the  interest  which  the 
alliances  of  his  family  afforded  him,  to  procure 
me  a  post  in  the  army.  I  passed  some  years 
in  the  most  contemptible  of  all  human  stations, 
that  of  a  soldier  in  time  of  peace.  I  wandered 
with  the  regiment  as  the  quarters  were  chang- 
ed, without  opportunity  for  business,  taste  for 
knowledge,  or  money  for  pleasure.  Wherever 
I  came,  I  was  for  some  time  a  stranger  with- 
out curiosity,  and  afterwards  an  acquaintance 
without  friendship.  Having  nothing  to  hope 
in  these  places  of  fortuitous  residence,  I  re- 
signed my  conduct  to  chance  ;  I  had  no  inten- 
tion to  offend,  I  had  no  ambition  to  delight. 

I  suppose  every  man  is  shocked  when  he 
hears  how  frequently  soldiers  are  wishing  for 
war.  The  wish  is  not  always  sincere  ;  the 
greater  part  are  content  with  sleep  and  lace, 
and  counterfeit  an  ardour  which  they  db  not 
feel ;  but  those  who  desire  it  most  are  neither 
prompted  by  malevolence  nor  patriotism ;  they 
neither  pant  for  laurels  nor  delight  in  blood ; 
but  long  to  be  delivered  from  the  tyranny  of 
idleness,  and  restored  to  the  dignity  of  active 
beings. 

I  never  imagined  myself  to  have  more  cou- 


rage than  other  men,  yet  was  often  involunta- 
rily wishing  for  a  war,  but  of  a  war  at  that  time 
I  had  no  prospect;  and  being  enabled,  by  the 
death  of  an  uncle,  to  live  without  my  pay,  I 
quitted  the  army,  and  resolved  to  regulate  my 
own  motions. 

I  was  pleased,  for  a  while,  with  the  novelty 
of  independence,  and  imagined  that  I  had  now 
found  what  every  man  desires.  My  time  was 
in  my  own  power,  and  my  habitation  was 
wherever  my  choice  should  fix  it.  I  amused 
myself  for  two  years  in  passing  from  place  to 
place,  and  comparing  one  convenience  with 
another ;  but  being  at  last  ashamed  of  inquiry, 
and  weary  of  uncertainty,  I  purchased  a  house, 
and  established  my  family. 

I  now  expected  to  begin  to  be  happy,  and 
was  happy  for  a  short  time  with  that  expecta- 
tion. But  I  soon  perceived  my  spirits  to  sub- 
side, and  my  imagination  to  grow  dark.  The 
gloom  thickened  every  day  around  me.  I  won- 
dered by  what  malignant  power  my  peace  was 
blasted,  till  I  discovered  at  last  that  I  had  no 
thing  to  do. 

Time,  with  all  its  celerity,  moves  slowly  to 
him  whose  whole  employment  is  to  watch  its 
flight.  I  am  forced  upon  a  thousand  shifts  to 
enable  me  to  endure  the  tediousness  of  the 
day.  I  rise  when  I  can  sleep  no  longer,  and 
take  my  morning  walk  ;  I  see  what  I  have 
seen  before,  and  return.  I  set  down  and  per- 
suade myself  that  I  sit  down  to  think,  find  it 
impossible  to  think  without  a  subject,  rise  up 
to  inquire  after  news,  and  endeavour  to  kindle 
in  myself  an  artificial  impatience  for  intelli- 
ence  of  events,  which  will  never  extend  any 
consequence  to  me,  but  that  a  few  minutes 
they  abstract  me  from  myself. 

When  I  have  heard  any  thing  that  may  gra- 
tify curiosity,  I  am  busied  for  a  while  in  run- 
ning to  relate  it.  I  hasten  from  one  place  of 
concourse  to  another,  delighted  with  my  own 
'mportance,  and  proud  to  think  that  I  am  do- 
ng  something,  though  I  know  that  another 
lour  would  spare  my  labour. 

had  once  a  round  of  visits,  which  I  paid 
very  regularly ;  but  I  have  now  tired  most  of 
my  friends.  When  I  have  sat  down  I  forget  to 
rise,  and  have  more  than  once  overheard  one 
asking  another  when  I  would  be  gone.  I  per- 
ceive the  company  tired,  I  observe  the  mistress 
f  the  family  whispering  to  her  servants,  I  find 
orders  given  to  put  off  business  till  to-morrow, 
see  the  watches  frequently  inspected,  and  yet 
cannot  withdraw  to  the  vacuity  of  solitude,  01 
venture  myself  in  my  own  company. 

Thus  burthensome  to  myself  and  others,  I 
orm  many  schemes  of  employment  which  may 
make  my  life  useful  or  agreeable,  and  exempt 
le  from  the  ignominy  of  living  by  sufferance. 
This  new  course  I  have  long  designed,  but 
lave  not  yet  begun.  The  present  moment  is 
lever  proper  for  the  change,  but  there  is  al- 
ways a  time  in  view  when  all  obstacles  will  be 
emoved,  and  I  shall  surprise  all  that  know  me 
vith  a  new  distribution  of  my  time.  Twenty 
ears  have  passed  since  I  have  resolved  a 
omplete  amendment,  and  twenty  years  have 
een  lost  in  delays.  Age  is  coming  upon  me; 
nd  I  should  look  back  with  rage  and  despair 


No.  22.] 


THE  IDLER. 


377 


upon  the  waste  of  life,  but  that  I  am  now  be- 
ginning in  earnest  to  begin  a  reformation. 
I  am,  Sir, 

Your  humble  servant, 

DICK  LINGER. 


No.  22.  J     SATURDAY  SEPT.  16   1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

As  I  was  passing  lately  under  one  of  the  gates 
of  this  city,  I  was  struck  with  horror  by  a  rue- 
ful cry  which  summoned  me  to  remember  the 
poor  debtors. 

The  wisdom  and  justice  of  the  English  laws 
are,  by  Englishmen  at  least  loudly,  celebrated : 
but  scarcely  the  most  zealous  admirers  of  our 
institutions  can  think  that  law  wise,  which, 
when  men  are  capable  of  work,  obliges  them 
to  beg ;  or  just,  which  exposes  the  liberty  of 
one  to  the  passions  of  another. 

The  prosperity  of  a  people  is  proportionate 
to  the  number  of  hands  and  minds  usefully  em- 
ployed. To  the  community,  sedition  is  a  fever, 
corruption  is  a  gangrene,  and  idleness  is  an 
atrophy.  What  ever  body,  and  whatever  society 
wastes  more  than  it  acquires,  must  gradually 
dscay;  and  every  being  that  continues  to  be 
i\'d,  and  ceases  to  labour,  takes  away  some- 
thing from  the  public  stock. 

The  confinement,  therefore,  of  any  man  in 
the  sloth  and  darkness  of  a  prison,  is  a  loss  to 
the  nation,  and  no  gain  to  the  creditor.  For  of 
the  multitudes  who  are  pining  in  those  cells  of 
misery,  a  very  small  part  is  suspected  of  any 
fraudulent  act  by  which  they  retain  what  be- 
longs to  others.  The  rest  are  imprisoned  by 
the  wantonness  of  pride,  the  malignity  of  re- 
venge, or  the  acrimony  of  dissappointed  ex- 
pectation. 

If  those,  who  thus  rigorously  exercise  the 
power  which  the  law  has  put  into  their  hands, 
be  asked,  why  they  continue  to  imprison  those 
whom  they  know  to  be  unable  to  pay  them  ? 
one  will  answer,  that  his  debtor  once  lived  bet- 
ter than  himself;  another,  that  his  wife  looked 
above  her  neighbours,  and  his  children  went  in 
silk  clothes  to  the  dancing-school ;  and  another, 
that  he  pretended  to  be  a  joker  and  a  wit.  Some 
will  reply,  that  if  they  were  in  debt,  they  should 
meet  with  the  same  treatment ;  some,  that  they 
owe  no  more  than  they  can  pay,  and  need  there- 
fore give  no  account  of  their  actions.  Some 
will  confess  their  resolution  that  their  debtors 
shall  rot  in  gaol ;  and  some  will  discover,  that 
they  hope,  by  cruelty,  to  wring  the  payment 
from  their  friends. 

The  end  of  all  civil  regulations  is,  to  secure 
private  happiness  from  private  malignity;  to 
keep  individuals  from  the  power  of  one  another : 
but  this  end  is  apparently  neglected,  when  a 
man,  irritated  with  loss,  is  allowed  to  be  the 
judge  of  his  own  cause,  and  to  assign  the  pu- 
nishment of  his  own  pain ;  when  the  distinc- 
tion between  guilt  and  happiness,  between 
casualty  and  design,  is  entrusted  to  eyes  blind 
with  interest,  to  understandings  depraved  by 
resentment. 


Since  poverty  is  punished  among  us  as  a 
crime,  it  ought  at  least  to  be  treated  with  the 
same  lenity  as  other  crimes :  the  offender  ought 
not  to  languish  at  the  will  of  him  whom  he 
has  offended,  but  to  be  allowed  some  appeal 
to  the  justice  of  his  country.  There  can  be  no 
reason  why  any  debtor  should  be  imprisoned, 
but  that  he  may  be  compelled  to  payment ;  and 
a  term  should  therefore  be  fixed,  in  which  the 
creditor  should  exhibit  his  accusation  of  con- 
cealed property.  If  such  property  can  be  dis- 
covered, let  it  be  given  to  the  creditor;  if  the 
charge  is  not  offered,  or  cannot  be  proved,  let 
the  prisoner  be  dismissed. 

Those  who  made  the  laws  have  apparently 
supposed,  that  every  deficiency  of  payment  is 
the  crime  of  the  debtor.  But  the  truth  is,  that 
the  creditor  always  shares  the  act,  and  often 
more  than  shares  the  guilt  of  improper  trust. 
It  seldom  happens  that  any  man  imprisons  an- 
other but  for  debts  which  he  suffered  to  be  con- 
tracted in  hope  of  advantage  to  himself,  and 
for  bargains  in  which  he  proportioned  his  pro- 
fit to  his  own  opinion  of  the  hazard ;  and  there 
is  no  reason  why  one  should  punish  the  other 
for  a  contract  in  which  both  concurred. 

Many  of  the  inhabitants  of  prisons  may  justly 
complain  of  harder  treatment.  He  that  once 
owes  more  than  he  can  pay,  is  often  obliged  to 
bribe  his  creditor  to  patience,  by  increasing  hi 
debt.  Worse  and  worse  commodities,  at  a 
higher  and  higher  price,  are  forced  upon  him  ; 
he  is  impoverished  by  compulsive  traffic,  and 
at  last  overwhelmed,  in  the  common  recepta- 
cles of  misery,  by  debts,  which,  without  his  own 
consent,  were  accumulated  on  his  head.  To 
the  relief  of  this  distress,  no  other  objection 
can  be  made,  but  that  by  an  easy  dissolution  of 
debts,  fraud  will  be  left  without  punishment, 
and  imprudence  without  awe;  and  that  when 
insolvency  should  be  no  longer  punishable, 
credit  will  cease. 

The  motive  to  credit  is  the  hope  of  advan- 
tage. Commerce  can  never  be  at  a  stop,  while 
one  man  wants  what  another  can  supply  ;  and 
credit  will  never  be  denied,  while  it  is  likely  to 
be  repaid  with  profit.  He  that  trusts  one  whom 
he  designs  to  sue,  is  criminal  by  the  act  of  trust- 
the  cessation  of  such  insiduous  traffic  is  to  be 
desired,  and  no  reason  can  be  given  why  a 
change  of  the  law  should  impair  any  other. 

We  see  nation  trade  with  nation,  where  no 
payment  can  be  compelled.  Mutual  convene 
ence  produces  mutual  confidence ;  and  the  mer- 
chants continue  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  each 
other,  though  they  have  nothing  to  dread  but 
the  loss  of  trade. 

It  is  vain  to  continue  an  institution,  which 
experience  shows  to  be  ineffectual.  We  have 
now  imprisoned  one  generation  of  debtors  after 
another,  but  we  do  not  find  that  their  numbers 
lessen.  We  have  now  learned  that  rashness 
and  imprudence  will  not  be  deterred  from  tak- 
ing credit ;  let  us  try  whether  fraud  and  ava- 
rice may  be  more  easily  restrained  from  giv- 
ing it. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 


873  THE  IDLER. 


[No.  23 


No.  23.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  23,  1758. 

LIFE  has  no  pleasure  higher  or  nobler  than 
that  of  friendship.  It  is  painful  to  consider, 
that  this  sublime  enjoyment  may  be  impaired 
or  destroyed  by  innumerable  causes,  and  that 
there  is  no  human  possession  of  which  the 
duration  is  less  certain. 

Many  have  talked,  in  very  exalted  language, 
of  the  perpetuity  of  friendship,  of  invincible 
constancy,  and  unalienable  kindness ;  and 
some  examples  have  been  seen  of  men  who 
have  continued  faithful  to  their  earliest  choice, 
and  whose  affection  has  predominated  over 
changes  of  fortune,  and  contrariety  of  opinion. 

But  these  instances  are  memorable,  because 
they  are  rare.  The  friendship  which  is  to  be 
practised  or  expected  by  common  mortals,  must 
take  its  rise  from  mutual  pleasure,  and  must 
end  when  power  ceases  of  delighting  each 
other. 

Many  accidents  therefore  may  happen,  by 
which  the  ardour  of  kindness  will  be  abated, 
without  criminal  baseness  or  contemptible  in- 
constancy on  either  part.  To  give  pleasure  is 
not  always  in  our  power ;  and  little  does  he 
know  himself,  who  believes  that  he  can  be  al- 
ways able  to  receive  it. 

Those  who  would  gladly  pass  their  days  to- 
gether may  be  separated  by  the  different  course 
of  their  affairs:  and  friendship,  like  love,  is 
destroyed  by  long  absence,  though  it  may  be 
increased  by  short  intermissions.  What  we 
have  missed  long  enough  to  want  it,  we  value 
more  when  it  is  regained  ;  but  that  which  has 
been  lost  till  it  is  forgotten,  will  be  found  at 
last  with  little  gladness,  and  with  still  less,  if 
a  substitute  has  supplied  the  place.  A  man 
deprived  of  the  companion  to  whom  he  used  to 
open  his  bosom,  and  with  whom  he  shared  the 
hours  of  leisure  and  merriment,  feels  the  day 
at  first  hanging  heavy  on  him  ;  his  difficul- 
ties oppress,  and  his  doubts  distract  him ; 
he  sees  time  come  and  go  without  his  wonted 
gratification,  and  all  is  sadness  within  and 
solitude  about  him.  But  this  uneasiness  never 
lasts  long  ;  necessity  produces  expedients,  new 
amusements  are  discovered,  and  new  conver- 
sation is  admitted. 

No  expectation  is  more  frequently  disap- 
pointed, than  that  which  naturally  arises  in  the 
mind  from  the  prospect  of  meeting  an  old 
friend  after  long  separation.  We  expect  the 
attraction  to  be  revived,  and  the  coalition  to  be 
renewed ;  no  man  considers  how  much  altera- 
tion time  has  made  in  himself,  and  very  few 
inquire  what  effect  it  has  had  upon  others.  The 
first  hour  convinces  them,  that  the  pleasure 
which  they  have  formerly  enjoyed,  is  forever 
at  an  end  ;  different  scenes  have  made  differ- 
ent impressions ;  the  opinions  of  both  are 
changed  ;  and  that  similitude  of  manners  and 
sentiment  is  lost  which  confirmed  them  both 
in  the  approbation  of  themselves. 

Friendship  is  often  destroyed  by  opposition 
of  interest,  not  only  by  the  ponderous  and  visi- 
ble interest  which  the  desire  of  wealth  and 
greatness  forms  and  maintains,  but  by  a  thou- 
sand secret  and  slight  competitions,  scarcely 
known  to  the  mina  upon  which  they  ope- 


rate. There  is  scarcely  any  man  without  some 
favourite  trifle  which  he  values  above  greate. 
attainments,  some  desire  of  petty  praise  which 
he  cannot  patiently  suffer  to  be  frustrated.  This 
minute  ambition  is  sometimes  crossed  before 
it  is  known,  and  sometimes  defeated  by  wan- 
ton petulance  ;  but  such  attacks  are  seldom 
made  without  the  loss  of  friendship  ;  for  who- 
ever has  once  found  the  vulnerable  part  will 
always  be  feared,  and  the  resentment  will  burn 
on  in  secret,  of  which  shame  hinders  the  dis- 
covery. 

This,  however,  is  a  slow  malignity,  which  a 
wise  man  will  obviate  as  inconsistent  with 
quiet,  and  a  good  man  will  repress  as  contrary 
to  virtue;  but  human  happiness  is  sometimes 
violated  by  some  more  sudden  strokes. 

A  dispute  begun  in  jest  upon  a  subject  which 
a  moment  before  was  on  both  parts  regarded 
with  careless  indifference,  is  continued  by  the 
desire  of  conquest,  till  vanity  kindles  into  rage, 
and  opposition  rankles  into  enmity.  Against 
this  hasty  mischief,  I  know  not  what  security 
can  be  obtained ;  men  will  be  sometimes  sur- 
prised into  quarrels ;  and  though  they  might 
both  hasten  to  reconciliation,  as  soon  as  their 
tumult  had  subsided,  yet  two  minds  will  seldom 
be  found  together,  which  can  at  once  subdue 
their  discontent,  or  immediately  enjoy  the 
sweets  of  peace,  without  remembering  the 
wounds  of  the  conflict. 

Friendship  has  other  enemies.  Suspicion  is 
always  hardening  the  cautious,  and  disgust  re- 
pelling the  delicate.  Very  slender  differences 
will  sometimes  part  those  whom  long  recipro- 
cation of  civility  or  beneficence  has  united. 
Lonelove  and  Ranger  retired  into  the  country 
to  enjoy  the  company  of  each  other,  and  re- 
turned in  six  weeks  cold  and  petulant :  Ran- 
ger's pleasure  was,  to  walk  in  the  fields,  and 
Lonelove's  to  sit  in  a  bower  ;  each  had  com- 
plied with  the  other  in  his  turn,  and  each  was 
angry  that  compliance  had  been  exacted. 

The  most  fatal  disease  of  friendship  is  grad- 
ual decay,  or  dislike  hourly  increased  by  cau- 
ses too  slender  for  complaint  and  too  numerous 
for  removal.  Those  who  are  angry  may  be  re- 
conciled ;  those  who  have  been  injured  may 
receive  a  recompense  ;  but  when  the  desire 
of  pleasing  and  willingness  to  be  pleased  is 
silently  diminished,  the  renovation  of  friendship 
is  hopeless ;  as,  when  the  vital  powers  sink 
into  langour,  there  is  no  longer  any  use  of  the 
physician. 


No-  24.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  30,   1758. 

WHEN  man  sees  one  of  the  inferior  creatures 
perched  upon  a  tree  or  basking  in  the  sunshine, 
without  any  apparent  endeavour  or  pursuit,  he 
often  asks  himself,  or  his  companion,  On  what 
that  animal  can  be  supposed  to  be  thinking  1 

Of  this  question  since  neither  bird  nor  beast 
can  answer  it,  we  must  be  content  to  live  with- 
out the  resolution.  We  know  not  how  much 
the  brutes  recollect  of  the  past,  or  anticipate  ot 
the  future;  what  power  they  have  of  comparing 
and  preferring ;  or  whether  their  faculties  may 
not  rest  in  motionless  indifference,  till  they  are 


No.  25.] 


THE  IDLER. 


379 


moved  by  the  presence  of  their  proper  object, 
or  stimulated  to  act  by  corporal  sensations. 

I  am  the  less  inclined  to  these  superfluous  in- 
quiries, because  I  have  always  been  able  to 
find  sufficient  matter  for  curiosity  in  my  own 
species.  It  is  useless  to  go  far  in  quest  of  that 
•which  may  be  found  at  home  ;  a  very  narrow 
circle  of  observation  will  supply  a  sufficient 
number  of  men  and  women,  who  might  be 
asked,  with  equal  propriety,  On  what  they  can 
be  thinking  ? 

It  is  reasonable  to  believe,  that  thought,  like 
every  thing  else,  has  its  causes  and  effects  ;  that 
it  must  proceed  from  something  known,  done, 
or  suffered  ;  and  must  produce  some  action  or 
event.  Yet  how  great  is  the  number  of  those 
in  whose  minds  no  source  of  thought  has  ever 
been  opened,  in  whose  life  no  thought  of  conse- 
quence is  ever  discovered  ;  who  have  learned 
nothing  upon  which  they  can  reflect ;  who  have 
neither  seen  nor  felt  any  thing  which  could 
leave  its  traces  on  the  memory  ;  who  neither 
foresee  nor  desire  any  change  of  their  condi- 
tion, and  have  therefore  neither  fear  hope,  nor 
design,  and  yet  are  supposed  to  be  thinking 
beings. 

To  every  act  a  subject  is  required.  He  that 
thinks  must  think  upon  something.  But  tell 
me,  ye  that  pierce  deepest  into  nature,  ye  that 
take  the  widest  surveys  of  life,  inform  me,  kind 
shades  of  Malbranche  and  of  Locke,  what 
that  something  can  be,  which  excites  and  con- 
tinues thought  in  maiden  aunts  with  small  for- 
tunes ;  in  younger  brothers  that  live  upon  an- 
nuities ;  in  traders  retired  from  business  ;  in 
soldiers  absent  from  their  regiments;  or  in 
widows  that  have  no  children  ? 

Life  is  commonly  considered  as  either  active 
or  contemplative  ;  but  surely  this  division,  how 
long  soever  it  has  been  received,  is  inadequate 
and  fallacious.  There  are  mortals  whose  life 
is  certainly  not  active  for  they  do  neither  good 
nor  evil ;  and  whose  life  cannot  be  properly  call- 
ed contemplative,  for  they  never  attend  either 
to  the  conduct  of  men,  or  the  works  of  nature, 
but  rise  in  the  morning,  look  round  them  till 
night  in  careless  stupidity,  go  to  bed  and  sleep, 
and  rise  again  in  the  morning. 

It  has  been  lately  a  celebrated  question  in  the 
schools  of  philosophy,  Whether  the  soul  always 
thinks  ?  Some  have  denned  the  soul  to  be  the 
power  of  thinking  ;  concluded  that  its  essence 
consists  in  act ;  that,  if  it  should  cease  to  act, 
it  would  cease  to  be ;  and  that  cessation  of 
thought  is  but  another  name  for  extinction  of 
mind.  This  argument  is  subtile,  but  not  con- 
clusive ;  because  it  supposes  what  cannot  be 
proved,  that  the  nature  of  mind  is  properly 
denned.  Others  affect  to  disdain  subtilty, 
when  subtilty  will  not  serve  their  purpose, 
and  appeal  to  daily  experience.  We  spend 
many  hours,  they  say,  in  sleep,  without  the 
least  remembrance  of  any  thoughts  which 
then  passed  in  our  minds ;  and  since  we  can 
only  by  our  own  consciousness  be  sure  that 
we  think,  why  thould  we  imagine  that  we  have 
had  thought  of  which  no  consciousness  re- 
mains? 

This  argument,  which  appeals  to  experience, 
may  from  experience  be  confuted.  We  every 


day  do  something  which  we  forget  when  it  is 
done,  and  know  to  have  been  done  only  by  con- 
sequence. The  waking  hours  are  not  denied  to 
have  been  passed  in  thought ;  yet  he  that  shall 
endeavour  to  recollect  on  one  day  the  ideas  of 
the  fonner,  will  only  turn  the  eye  of  reflection 
upon  vacancy ;  he  will  find,  that  the  greater 
part  is  irrevocably  vanished,  and  wonder  how 
the  moments  could  come  and  go,  and  leave  so 
little  behind  them. 

To  discover  only  that  the  arguments  on  both 
sides  are  defective,  and  to  throw  back  the 
tenet  into  its  former  uncertainty,  is  the  sport  of 
wanton  or  malevolent  scepticism,  delighting 
to  see  the  sons  of  philosophy  at  work  upon  a 
task  which  never  can  be  decided.  I  shall 
suggest  an  argument  hitherto  overlooked, 
which  may  perhaps  determine  the  controversy. 

If  it  be  impossible  to  think  without  materials, 
there  must  necessarily  be  minds  that  do  not 
always  think  ;  and  whence  shall  we  furnish 
materials  for  the  meditation  of  the  glutton  be- 
tween his  meals,  of  the  sportsman  in  a  rainy 
month,  of  the  annuitant  between  the  days  of 
quarterly  payment,  of  the  politician  when  the 
mails  are  detained  by  contrary  winds  ? 

But  how  frequent  soever  may  be  the  exam- 
ples of  existence  without  thought,  it  is  certainly 
a  state  not  much  to  be  desired.  He  that  lives 
in  torpid  insensibility,  wants  nothing  of  a  car- 
cass but  putrefaction.  It  is  the  part  of  every 
inhabitant  of  the  earth  to  partake  the  pains  and 
pleasures  of  his  fellow-beings  ;  and,  as  in  a 
road  through  a  country  desert  and  uniform,  the 
traveller  languishes  for  want  of  amusement,  so 
the  passage  of  life  will  be  tedious  and  irksome 
to  him  who  does  not  beguile  it  by  diversified 
ideas. 


No.  25.]     SATURDAY,  OCT.  7,  1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

I  AM  am  a  very  constant  frequenter  of  the  play- 
house, a  place  to  which  I  suppose  the  Idler  not 
much  a  stranger,  since  he  can  have  no  where 
else  so  much  entertainment  with  so  little  con- 
currence of  his  own  endeavour.  At  all  other 
assemblies  he  that  comes  to  receive  delight, 
will  be  expected  to  give  it ;  but  in  the  theatre 
nothing  is  necessary  to  the  amusement  of  two 
hours,  but  to  sit  down  and  be  willing  to  be 
pleased. 

The  last  week  has  offered  two  new  actors  to 
the  town.  The  appearance  and  retirement  of 
actors  are  the  great  events  of  the  theatrical 
world  ;  and  their  first  performance  fills  the  pit 
with  conjecture  and  prognostication,  as  the  first 
actions  of  a  new  monarch  agitate  nations  with 
hope  or  fear. 

What  opinion  I  have  formed  of  ths  future 
excellence  of  these  candidates  for  dramatic 
glory,  it  is  not  necessary  to  declare.  Their  en- 
trance gave  me  a  higher  and  nobler  pleasure 
than  any  borrowed  character  can  afford.  I  saw 
the  ranks  of  the  theatre  emulating  each  other 
in  candour  and  humanity,  and  contending  who 
should  most  effectually  assist  the  struggles  of 


£80 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  26. 


endeavour,  dissipate  the  blush  of  diffidence, 
and  still  the  flutter  of  timidity. 

This  behaviour  is  such  as  becomes  a  people, 
too  tender  to  repress  those  who  wish  to  please, 
too  generous  to  insult  those  who  can  make  no 
resistance.  A  public  performer  is  so  much  in 
the  power  of  spectators,  that  all  unnecessary 
severity  is  restrained  by  that  general  law  of 
humanity  which  forbids  us  to  be  cruel,  where 
there  is  nothing  to  be  feared. 

In  every  new  performer  something  must  be 
pardoned.  No  man  can  by  any  force  of  reso- 
lution, secure  to  himself  the  full  posession  of 
his  own  powers  under  the  eye  of  a  large  assem- 
bly. Variation  of  gesture,  and  flexion  of  voice, 
are  to  be  obtained  only  by  experience. 

There  is  nothing  for  which  such  numbers 
think  themselves  qualified  as  for  theatrical  ex- 
hibition. Every  human  being  has  an  action 
graceful  to  his  own  eye,  a  voice  musical  to  his 
own  ear,  and  a  sensibility  which  nature  forbids 
him  to  know  that  any  other  bosom  can  excel. 
An  art  in  -which  such  numbers  fancy  them- 
selves excellent,  and  which  the  public  liberally 
rewards,  will  excite  many  competitors,  and  in 
many  attempts  there  must  be  many  miscar- 
riages. 

The  care  of  the  critic  should  be  to  distinguish 
error  from  inability,  faults  of  inexperience  from 
defects  of  nature.  Action  irregular  and  turbu- 
lent may  be  reclaimed  ;  vociferation  vehement 
and  confused  may  be  restrained  and  modulated ; 
the  stalk  of  the  tyrant  may  become  the  gait  of 
the  man ;  the  yell  of  inarticulate  distress  may 
be  reduced  to  human  lamentation.  All  these 
faults  should  be  for  a  time  overlooked,  and  af- 
terwards censured  with  gentleness  and  can- 
dour. But  if  in  an  actor  there  appears  an  utter 
vacancy  of  meaning,  a  frigid  equality,  a  stupid 
languor,  a  torbid  apathy,  the  greatest  kindness 
that  can  be  shown  him,  is  a  speedy  sentence 
of  expulsion. 

1  am,  Sir  &c. 

The  plea  which  my  correspondent  has  offered 
for  young  actors,  I  am  very  far  from  wishing  to 
invalidate.  I  always  considered  those  combina- 
tions which  are  sometimes  formed  in  the  play- 
house, as  acts  of  fraud  or  of  cruelty  ;  he  that 
applauds  him  who  does  not  deserve  praise,  is 
endeavouring  to  deceive  the  public  :  he  that 
hisses  in  malice  or  sport,  is  an  oppressor  and 
a  robber. 

But  surely  this  laudable  forbearance  might  be 
justly  extended  to  youn  g  poets.  The  art  of  the 
writer,  like  that  of  the  player,  is  attained  by 
slow  degrees.  The  power  of  distinguishing  and 
discriminating  comic  characters,  or  of  filling 
tragedy  with  poetical  images,  must  be  the  gift 
of  nature,  which  no  instruction  nor  labour  can 
supply ;  but  the  art  of  dramatic  disposition,  the 
contexture  of  the  scenes,  the  opposition  of  cha- 
.  racters,  the  involution  of  the  plot,  the  expedi- 
ents of  suspension,  and  the  stratagems  of  sur- 
prise are  to  be  learned  by  practice;  and  it  is 
cruel  to  discourage  a  poet  for  ever,  because  he 
has  not  from  genius  what  only  experience  can 
bestow. 

Life  is  a  stage.  Let  me  likewise  solicit  can- 
dour for  the  young  actor  on  the  stage  of  life. 


They  that  enter  into  the  world  are  too  often 
treated  with  unreasonable  rigour  by  those  that 
were  once  as  ignorant  and  heady  as  themselves; 
and  distinction  is  not  always  made  between  the 
faults  which  require  speedy  and  violent  eradica- 
tion, and  those  that  will  gradually  drop  away 
in  the  progression  of  life.  Vicious  solicitations 
of  appetite,  if  not  checked  will  grow  more 
importunate;  and  mean  arts  of  profit  or  ambi- 
tion will  gather  strength  in  the  mind,  if  they 
are  not  early  suppressed.  But  mistaken  notions 
of  superiority,  desires  of  useless  show,  pride 
of  little  accomplishments,  and  all  the  train  of 
vanity,  will  be  brushed  away  by  the  wing  of 
Time. 

Reproof  should  not  exhaust  its  power  upon 
petty  failings ;  let  it  watch  diligently  against 
the  incursion  of  vice,  and  leave  foppery  and 
futility  to  die  of  themselves. 


No.  26.]      SATURDAY,  OCT.  14,   1758. 

MR.  IDLER, 

I  NEVER  thought  that  I  should  write  any  thing 
to  be  printed  ;  but  having  lately  seen  your  firs 
essay,  which  was  sent  down  into  the  kitchen, 
with  a  great  bundle  of  gazettes  and  uselss  pa- 
pers, I  find  that  you  are  willing  to  admit  any 
correspondent,  and  therefore  hope  you  will  not 
reject  me.  If  you  publish  my  letter,  it  may 
encourage  others,  in  the  same  condition  with 
myself,  to  tell  their  stories,  which  may  be  per 
haps  as  useful  as  those  of  great  ladies. 

I  am  a  poor  girl.  I  was  bred  in  the  countrj 
at  a  charity-school,  maintained  by  the  contri 
butions  of  wealthy  neighbours.  The  ladies,  or 
patronesses,  visited  us  from  time  to  time,  ex- 
amined how  we  were  taught,  and  saw  that  our 
clothes  were  clean.  We  lived  happily  enough, 
and  were  instructed  to  be  thankful  to  those  at 
whose  cost  we  were  educated.  I  was  always 
the  favourite  of  my  mistress  ;  she  used  to  call 
me  to  read,  and  show  my  copy-book  to  all 
strangers,  who  never  dismissed  me  without 
commendation,  and  very  seldom  without  a 
shilling. 

At  last  the  chief  of  our  subscribers,  having 
passed  a  winter  in  London,  came  dawn  full  of 
an  opinion  new  and  strange  to  the  whole  coun- 
try. She  held  it  little  less  than  criminal  to 
teach  poor  girls  to  read  and  write.  They  who 
are  born  to  poverty,  said  she,  are  born  to  igno- 
rance, and  will  work  the  harder  the  less  they 
know. 

She  told  her  friends,  that  London  was  in 
confusion  by  the  insolence  of  servants ;  that 
scarcely  a  wench  was  to  be  got  for  allwork,  since 
education  had  made  such  numbers  of  fine  la- 
dies, that  nobody  would  now  accept  a  lower  title 
than  that  of  a  waiting-maid  or  something  that 
might  qualify  her  to  wear  laced  shoes  and  long 
ruffles,  and  to  sit  at  work  in  the  parlour  win- 
dow. But  she  was  resolved,  for  her  part,  to 
spoil  no  more  girls  ;  those,  who  were  to  live  by 
their  hands,  should  neither  read  nor  write  out 
of  her  pocket ;  the  world  was  bad  enough  al- 
ready, and  she  would  have  no  part  in  making 
it  worse. 

She  was  for  a  short  time  wamly  opposed 


No.  27.] 


THE  IDLER. 


381 


but  she  persevered  in  her  notions,  and  with 
drew  her  subscription.  Few  listen  without 
desire  of  conviction  to  those  who  advise  them  t 
spare  their  money.  Her  example  and  her  ar 
guments  gained  ground  daily ;  and  in  less  tha 
a  year  the  whole  parish  was  convinced,  tha 
the  nation  would  be  ruined,  if  the  children  o 
the  poor  were  taught  to  read  and  write. 

Our  school  was  now  dissolved  ;  my  mistres 
kissed  me  when  we  parted,  and  told  me,  that 
being  old  and  helpless,  she  could  not  assist  me 
advised  me  to  seek  a  service,  and  charged  m 
not  to  forget  what  I  had  learned. 

My  reputation  for  scholarship,  which  hai 
hitherto  recommended  me  to  favour,  was,  b1 
the  adherents  to  the  new  opinion,  considered  as 
a  crime ;  and,  when  I  offered  myself  to  an] 
mistress,  I  had  no  other  answer  than  Sure 
child,  you  would  not  work  !  hard  work  is  not  fi 
for  a  pen-woman  ;  a  scrubbing  brush  would  spot 
your  hand,  child  ! 

I  could  not  live  at  home  ;  and  while  I  was 
considering  to  what  I  should  betake  me,  one  o 
the  girls,  who  had  gone  from  our  school  to  Lon- 
don, came  down  in  a  silk  gown  and  told  her 
acquaintance  how  well  she  lived,  what  fine 
things  she  saw,  and  what  great  wages  she  re- 
ceived. I  resolved  to  try  my  fortune,  and  took 
my  passage  in  the  next  week's  wagon  to  Lon- 
don. 1  had  no  snares  laid  for  me  at  my  arrival, 
but  came  safe  to  a  sister  of  my  mistress,  who 
undertook  to  get  me  a  place.  She  knew  only 
the  families  of  mean  tradesmen  ;  and  I,  having 
no  high  opinion  of  my  own  qualifications,  wa 
willing  to  accept  the  first  offer. 

My  first  mistress  was  wife  of  a  working 
watchmaker,  who  earned  more  than  was  suffi- 
cient to  keep  his  family  in  decency  and  plenty ; 
out  it  was  their  constant  practice  to  hire  a 
cnaise  on  Sunday,  and  spent  half  the  wages  of 
the  week  on  Richmond  Hill ;  of  Monday  he 
commonly  lay  half  in  bed,  and  spent  the  other 
half  in  merriment;  Tuesday  and  Wednesday 
consumed  the  rest  of  his  money  ;  and  three 
days  every  week  were  passed  in  extremity  of 
want  by  us  who  were  left  at  home,  while  my 
master  lived  on  trust  at  an  ale-house.  You 
may  be  sure,  that  of  the  sufferers,  the  maid  suf- 
fered most ;  and  I  left  them,  after  three  months, 
rather  than  be  starved. 

I  was  then  maid  to  a  hatter's  wife.  There 
was  no  want  to  be  dreaded,  for  they  lived  in 
perpetual  luxury.  My  mistress  was  a  diligent 
woman,  and  rose  early  in  the  morning  to  set 
the  journeymen  to  work  ;  my  master  was  a 
man  much  beloved  by  his  neighbours,  and  sat 
at  one  club  or  other  every  night.  I  was  obliged 
to  wait  on  my  master  at  night,  and  on  my 
mistress  in  the  morning.  He  seldom  came 
home  before  two,  and  she  rose  at  five.  I  could 
no  more  live  without  sleep  than  without  food, 
and  therefore  entreated  them  to  look  out  for 
another  servant. 

My  next  removal  was  to  a  linen-draper's, 
who  had  six  children.  My  mistress,  when  I 
first  entered  the  house,  informed  me,  that  I 
must  never  contradict  the  children,  nor  suffer 
them  to  cry.  I  had  no  desire  to  offend,  and 
readily  promised  to  do  my  best.  But  when  I 
gave  them  their  breakfast,  I  could  not  help  all 


first ;  when  I  was  playing  with  one  in  my  lap, 
I  was  forced  to  keep  the  rest  in  expectation. 
That  which  was  not  gratified  always  resented 
the  injury  with  a  loud  outcry,  M'hich  put  my 
mistress  in  a  fury  at  me,  and  procured  sugar- 
plums to  the  child.  I  could  not  keep  six  chil- 
dren quiet,  who  were  bribed  to  be  clamorous  ; 
and  was  therefore  dismissed,  as  a  girl  honest, 
but  not  good-natured. 

I  then  lived  with  a  couple  that  kept  a  petty 
shop  of  remnants  and  cheap  linen.  I  was  quali- 
fied to  make  a  bill  or  keep  a  book  ;  and  being 
therefore  often  called,  at  a  busy  time,  to  serve 
the  customers,  expected  that  I  should  now  be 
happy,  in  proportion  as  I  was  useful.  But 
my  mistress  appropriated  every  day  part  of  the 
profit  to  some  private  use,  and,  as  she  grew 
bolder  in  her  theft,  at  last  deducted  such  sums, 
that  my  master  began  to  wonder  how  he  sold 
so  much,  and  gained  so  little.  She  pretended 
to  assist  his  inquiries,  and  began,  very  gravely, 
to  hope  that  Betty  was  honest,  and  yet  those  sharp 
girls  were  apt  to  be  light  fingered.  You  will  be- 
lieve that  I  did  not  stay  there  much  longer. 

The  rest  of  my  story  I  will  tell  you  in  ano- 
ther letter ;  and  only  beg  to  be  informed  in  some 
paper,  for  which  of  my  places,  except  perhaps 
the  last,  I  was  disqualified  by  my  skill  in  read- 
ing and  writing. 

I  am,  Sir, 

Your  verv  humble  servant, 

BETTY  BROOM. 


No.  27.]     SATURDAY,  OCT.  21,  1758. 

[T  has  been  the  endeavour  of  all  those  whom 
the  world  has  reverenced  for  superior  wisdom, 
to  persuade  man  to  be  acquainted  with  himself, 
to  learn  his  own  powers  and  his  own  weakness, 
to  observe  by  what  evils  he  is  most  dangerously 
ieset,  and  by  what  temptations  most  easily 
overcome. 

This  counsel  has  been  often  given  with  seri- 
ous dignity,  and  often  received  with  appearance 
of  conviction  ;  but,  as  very  few  can  search  deep 
nto  their  own  minds  without  meeting  what 
;hey  wish  to  hide  from  themselves,  scarcely 
my  man  persists  in  cultivating  such  disagreea- 
>le  acquaintance,  but  draws  the  veil  again  be- 
,ween  his  eyes  and  his  heart,  leaves  his  passions 
ind  appetites  as  he  found  them,  and  advises 
•thers  to  look  into  themselves. 

This  is  the  common  result  of  inquiry  even 
among  those  that  endeavour  to  grow  wiser  or 
>etter  ;  but  this  endeavour  is  far  enough  from 
requency  ;  the  greater  part  of  the  multitudes 
hat  swarm  upon  the  earth  have  never  been  dis- 
urbed  by  such  uneasy  curiosity,  but  deliver 
hemselves  up  to  business  or  to  pleasure,  plunge 
nto  the  current  of  life,  whether  placid  or  tur- 
iulent,  and  pass  on  from  one  point  of  prospect 
o  another,  attentive  rather  to  any  thing  than 
he  state  of  their  minds  ;  satisfied,  at  an  easy 
ate,  with  an  opinion,  that  they  are  no  worse 
'jan  others,  that  every  man  must  mind  his  own 
nterest,  or  that  their  pleasures  hurt  only  them- 
elves,  and  are  therefore  no  proper  subjects  of 
ensure 
Some,  however,  there  are,  whom  the  intrn 


£62 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  2? 


sion  of  scruples,  the  recollection  of  better  no- 
tions or  the  latent  reprehension  of  good  exam- 
ples, will  not  suffer  to  live  entirely  contented 
with  their  own  conduct ;  these  are  forced  to  pa- 
cify the  mutiny  of  reason  with  fair  promises,  and 
quiet  their  thoughts  with  designs  of  calling 
all  their  actions  to  review,  and  planning  a  new 
scheme  for  the  time  to  come. 

There  is  nothing  which  we  estimate  so  falla- 
ciously as  the  force  of  our  own  resolutions,  nor 
any  fallacy  which  we  so  unwillingly  and  tardi- 
ly detect  He  that  has  resolved  a  thousand 
times,  and  a  thousand  times  deserted  his  own 
purpose,  yet  suffers  no  abatement  of  his  confi- 
dence, but  still  believes  himself  his  own  master ; 
and  able,  by  innate  vigour  of  soul,  to  press  for- 
ward to  his  end  through  all  the  obstructions 
that  inconveniences  or  delights  can  put  in  his 
way. 

That  this  mistake  should  prevail  for  a  time  is 
very  natural.  When  conviction  is  present,  and 
temptation  out  of  sight,  we  do  not  easily  con- 
ceive how  any  reasonable  being  can  deviate 
from  his  true  interest.  What  ought  to  be  done, 
while  it  yet  hangs  only  in  speculation,  is  so  plain 
and  certain,  that  there  is  no  place  for  doubt ; 
the  whole  soul  yields  itself  to  the  predominance 
of  truth,  and  readily  determines  to  do  what, 
when  the  time  of  action  comes,  will  be  at  last 
omitted. 

I  believe  most  men  may  review  all  the  lives 
that  have  past  within  their  observation,  without 
remembering  one  efficacious  resolution,  or  be- 
ing able  to  tell  a  single  instance  of  a  course  of 
practice  suddenly  changed  in  consequence  of  a 
change  of  opinion,  or  an  establishment  of  deter- 
mination. Many,  indeed,  alter  their  conduct, 
and  are  not  at  fifty  what  they  were  at  thirty ; 
but  they  commonly  varied  imperceptibly  from 
themselves,  followed  the  train  of  external 
causes,  and  rather  suffered  reformation  than 
made  it. 

It  is  not  uncommon  to  charge  the  difference 
between  promise  and  performance,  between 
profession  and  reality,  upon  deep  design  and 
studied  deceit ;  but  the  truth  is,  that  there  is  very 
little  hypocrisy  in  the  world:  we  do  not  so 
often  endeavour  or  wish  to  impose  on  others  as 
on  ourselves  ;  we  resolve  to  do  right,  we  hope 
to  keep  our  resolutions,  we  declare  them  to  con- 
firm our  own  hope,  and  fix  our  own  inconstan- 
cy by  calling  witnesses  of  our  actions ;  but 
at  last  habit  prevails,  and  those,  whom  we 
invited  to  our  triumph,  laugh  at  our  defeat. 

Custom  is  commonly  too  strong  for  the  most 
resolute  resolver,  though  furnished  for  the  as- 
sault with  all  the  weapons  of  philosophy.  "  He 
that  endeavours  to  free  himself  from  an  ill 
habit,"  says  Bacon, "  must  not  change  too  much 
at  a  time,  lest  he  should  be  discouraged  by  diffi- 
culty ;  nor  too  little,  for  then  he  will  make  but 
slow  advances."  This  is  a  precept  which  may 
be  applauded  in  a  book,  but  will  fail  in  the  trial, 
in  which  every  change  will  be  found  too  great 
or  too  little.  Those  who  have  been  able  to  con- 
quer habjt,  are  like  those  that  are  fabled  to 
have  returned  from  the  realms  of  Pluto  : 

Pauci,  quos  cequvs  amavit 
Jupiter,  atque  araens  etexil  ail  cethtra  *-irtus. 


They  are  sufficient  to  give  hope  but  not  seco 
rity ;  to  animate  the  contest,  but  not  to  pro 
mise  victory. 

Those  who  are  in  the  power  of  evil  habits, 
must  conquer  them  as  they  can ;  and  conquered 
they  must  be,  or  neither  wisdom  nor  happiness 
can  be  attained;  but  those  who  are  not  yet 
subject  to  their  influence  may,  by  timely  cau- 
tion, preserve  their  freedom  ;  they  may  effectu- 
ally resolve  to  escape  the  tyrant,  whom  they 
will  very  vainly  resolve  to  conquer. 


No.  28.]     SATURDAY,  OCT.  23,  1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

IT  is  very  easy  for  a  man  who  sits  idle  at  home, 
and  has  nobody  to  please  but  himself,  to  ridi- 
cule or  to  censure  the  common  practices  of  man- 
kind ;  and  those  who  have  no  present  tempta- 
tion to  break  the  rules  of  propriety,  may  ap- 
plaud hia  judgment,  and  join  in  his  merriment ; 
but  let  the  author  or  his  readers  mingle  with 
common  life,  they  will  find  themselves  irre- 
sistibly borne  away  by  the  stream  of  custom, 
and  must  submit  after  they  have  laughed  at 
others,  to  give  others  the  same  opportunity  of 
laughing  at  them. 

There  is  no  paper  published  by  the  Idler  which 
I  have  read  with  more  approbation  than  that 
which  censures  the  practice  of  recording  vulgai 
marriages  in  the  newspapers.  I  carried  it 
about  in  my  pocket,  and  read  it  to  all  those 
whom  I  suspected  of  having  published  their 
nuptials,  or  of  being  inclined  to  publish  them, 
and  sent  transcripts  of  it  to  all  the  couples  that 
transgressed  your  precepts  for  the  next  fort- 
night. I  hoped  that  they  were  all  vexed, 
and  pleased  myself  with  imagining  their 
misery. 

But  short  is  the  triumph  of  malignity.  I 
was  married  last  week  to  Miss  Mohair,  the 
daughter  of  a  salesman  ;  and,  at  my  first  ap- 
pearance after  the  wedding  night,  was  asked 
by  my  wife's  mother  whether  I  had  sent  our 
marriage  to  the  Advertiser ;  I  endeavoured  to 
show  how  unfit  it  was  to  demand  the  attention 
of  the  public  to  our  domestic  affairs  ;  but  she 
told  me  with  great  vehemence,  "That  she 
would  not  have  it  thought  to  be  a  stolen  match; 
that  the  blood  of  the  Mohairs  should  never  be 
disgraced  ;  that  her  husband  had  served  all 
the  parish  offices  but  one  ;  that  she  had  lived 
five-and-thirty  years  at  the  same  house,  and 
paid  every  body  twenty  shillings  in  the  pound, 
and  would  have  me  know,  though  she  was  not 
as  fine  and  as  flaunting  as  Mrs.  Gingham,  the 
deputy's  wife,  she  was  not  ashamed  to  tell  her 
name,  and  would  show  her  face  with  the  best 
of  them,  and  since  I  had  married  her  daughter 
"  At  this  instant  entered  my  father-in- 
law,  a  grave  man,  from  whom  I  expected  sue 
cour:  but  upon  hearing  the  case,  he  told  me, 
"  That  it  would  be  very  imprudent  to  miss 
such  an  opportunity  of  advertising  my  shop  ; 
and  that  when  notice  was  given  of  my  mar- 
riage, many  of  mv  wife's  friends  would  think 
themselves  obligeJ  to  be  my  customers."  I  waa 


No.  29.] 


THE  IDLER. 


383 


subdued  by  clamour  on  one  side,  and  gravity  on 
the  other,  and  shall  be  obliged  to  tell  the  town 
that  three  days  ago  Timothy  Mushroon,  an  eminent 
oilman  in  Sea- Coal-lane,  was  married  to  Miss 
Polly  Mohair,  of  Lothbury,  a  beautiful  young  lady 
with  a  large  fortune. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 


I  AM  the  unfortunate  wife  of  the  grocer  whose 
letter  you  published  about  ten  weeks  ago,  in 
which  he  complains  like  a  sorry  fellow,  that  I 
loiter  in  me  shop  with  my  needle-work  in  my 
hand,  and  that  I  oblige  him  to  take  me  out  on 
Sundays,  and  keep  a  girl  to  look  after  the  child. 
Sweet  Mr.  Idler,  if  you  did  but  know  all,  you 
would  give  no  encouragement  to  such  an  un- 
reasonable grumbler.  I  brought  him  three 
hundred  pounds,  which  set  him  up  in  a  shop, 
and  bought  in  a  stock,  on  which,  with  good 
management,  we  might  live  comfortably ;  but 
now  I  have  given  him  a  shop,  I  am  forced  to 
watch  him  and  the  shop  too.  I  will  tell  you, 
Mr.  Idler,  how  it  is.  There  is  an  alehouse 
over  the  way,  with  a  nine-pin  alley,  to  which 
he  is  sure  to  run  when  I  turn  my  back,  and 
there  he  loses  his  money,  for  he  plays  at  nine- 
pins as  he  does  every  thing  else.  While  he  is 
at  this  favourite  sport,  he  sets  a  dirty  boy  to 
watch  his  door,  and  call  him  to  his  customers  ; 
but  he  is  so  long  in  coming,  and  so  rude  when 
he  comes,  that  our  custom  falls  off  every  day. 

Those  who  cannot  govern  themselves,  must 
be  governed  ;  I  am  resolved  to  keep  him  for  the 
future  behind  his  counter,  and  let  him  bounce 
at  his  customers  if  he  dares.  I  cannot  be  aboVe 
stairs  and  below  at  the  same  time,  and  have 
therefore  taken  a  girl  to  look  after  the  child,  and 
dress  the  dinner ;  and,  after  all,  pray  who  is 
to  blame  ? 

On  a  Sunday,  it  is  true,  I  make  him  walk 
abroad,  and  sometimes  carry  the  child  ; — 1  won- 
der who  should  carry  it!  But  I  never  take 
him  out  till  after  church-time,  nor  would  I  do  it 
then,  but  that  if  he  is  left  alone,  he  will  be 
upon  the  bed.  On  a  Sunday,  if  he  stays  at 
home  he  has  six  meals  ;  and,  when  he  can  eat 
no  longer,  has  twenty  stratagems  to  escape  from 
me  to  the  ale-house ;  but  I  commonly  keep  the 
door  locked,  till  Monday  produces  something 
for  him  to  do. 

This  is  the  true  state  of  the  case,  and  these 
are  the  provocations  for  which  he  has  written 
his  letter  to  you.  I  hope  you  will  write  a 
paper  to  show  that  if  a  wife  must  spend  her 
whole  time  in  watching  her  husband,  she  can- 
not conveniently  tend  her  child,  or  sit  at  her 
needle. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 


SIR, 

THERE  is  in  this  town  a  species  of  oppression 
which  the  law  has  not  hitherto  prevented  or  re- 
dressed. 

I  am  a  chairman.     You  know,  Sir,  we  come 
when  we  are  called,  and  are  expected  to  carry 


all  who  require  our  assistance.  It  is  common 
for  men  of  the  most  unwieldy  corpulence  to 
crowd  themselves  into  a  chair,  and  demand  to 
be  carried  for  a  shilling  as  far  as  an  airy  young 
lady  whom  we  scarcely  feel  upon  our  poles. 
Surely  we  ought  to  be  paid  like  all  other  mor- 
tals, in  proportion  to  our  labour.  Engines 
should  be  fixed  in  proper  places  to  weigh  chairs 
as  they  weigh  wagons ;  and  those,  whom  ease 
and  plenty  have  made  unable  to  carry  them- 
selves, should  give  part  of  their  superfluities  to 
those  who  carry  them. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 


No.  29.]       SATURDAY,  Nov.  4,  1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

I  HAVE  often  observed  that  friends  are  lost  by 
discontinuance  of  intercourse,  without  any  of- 
fence on  either  part,  and  have  long  known,  that 
it  is  more  dangerous  to  be  forgotten  than  to  be 
blamed ;  I  therefore  make  haste  to  send  you 
the  rest  of  my  story,  lest,  by  the  delay  of 
another  fortnight,  the  name  of  Betty  Broom 
might  be  no  longer  rememberd  by  you  or  your 
readers. 

Having  left  the  last  place  in  haste,  to  avoid 
the  charge  or  the  suspicion  of  theft,  I  had  not 
secured  another  service,  and  was  forced  to  take 
a  lodging  in  a  back  street.  I  had  now  got  good 
clothes.  The  woman  who  lived  in  the  garret 
opposite  to  mine  was  very  officious,  and  offered 
to  take  care  of  my  room  and  clean  it,  while  I 
went  round  to  my  acquaintance  to  inquire  for 
a  mistress.  I  knew  not  why  she  was  so  kind, 
nor  how  I  could  recompense  her;  but  in  a  few 
days  I  missed  some  of  my  linen,  went  to 
another  lodging,  and  resolved  not  to  have 
another  friend  in  the  next  garret. 

In  six  weeks  I  became  under-maid  at  the 
house  of  a  mercer  in  Cornhill,  whose  son  was 
his  apprentice.  The  young  gentleman  used  to 
sit  late  at  the  tavern,  without  the  knowledge  of 
his  father  ;  and  I  was  ordered  by  my  mistress 
to  let  him  in  silently  to  his  bed  under  the  coun- 
ter, and  to  be  very  careful  to  take  away  his  can- 
dle. The  hours  which  I  was  obliged  to  watch, 
whilst  the  rest  of  the  family  was  in  bed,  I 
considered  as  supernumerary,  and,  having  no 
business  assigned  for  them,  thought  myself  at 
liberty  to  spend  them  my  own  way :  I  kept 
myself  awake  with  a  book,  and  for  some  time 
liked  my  state  the  better  for  this  opportunity  of 
reading.  At  last,  the  upper-maid  found  ray 
book,  and  showed  it  to  my  mistress,  who  told 
me,  that  wenches  like  me  might  spend  their 
time  better  ;  that  she  never  knew  any  of  the 
readers  that  had  good  designs  in  their  heads  ; 
that  she  could  always  find  something  else  to 
do  with  her  time,  than  to  puzzle  over  books  ; 
and  did  not  like  that  such  a  fine  lady  should 
sit  up  for  her  young  master. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  I  found  it  thought 
criminal  or  dangerous  to  know  how  to  read. 
I  was  dismissed  decently,  lest  I  should  tell 
tales,  and  had  a  small  gratuity  above  my 
wages. 


3£4 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  30. 


I  then  lived  witn  a  gentlewoman  of  a  small 
fortune.  This  was  the  only  happy  part  of  a 
my  life.  My  mistress,  for  whom  public  diver- 
sions were  too  expensive,  spent  her  time  with 
books,  and  was  pleased  to  rind  a  maid  who 
could  partake  her  amusements.  I  rose  early 
in  the  morning,  that  I  might  have  time  in  the 
afternoon  to  read  or  listen,  and  was  suffered 
to  tell  my  opinion,  or  express  my  delight.  Thus 
fifteen  months  stole  away,  in  which  I  did  not 
repine  that  I  was  born  to  servitude.  But  a 
burning  fever  seized  my  mistress,  of  whom  I 
shall  say  no  more,  than  that  her  servant  wept 
upon  her  grave. 

I  had  lived  in  a  kind  of  luxury  which  made 
me  very  unfit  for  another  place  ;  and  was 
rather  too  delicate  for  the  conversation  of  a 
kitchen  ;  so  that  when  I  was  hired  in  the  fami- 
ly of  an  East  India  director,  my  behaviour 
was  so  different,  as  they  said,  from  that  of  a 
common  servant,  that  they  concluded  me  a 
gentlewoman  in  disguise,  and  turned  me  out  in 
three  weeks,  on  suspicion  of  some  design 
which  they  could  not  comprehend. 

I  then  fled  for  refuge  to  the  other  end  of  the 
town,  where  I  hoped  to  find  no  obstruction 
from  my  new  accomplishments,  and  was  hired 
under  the  housekeeper  in  a  splendid  family. 
Here  I  was  too  wise  for  the  maids,  and  too 
nice  for  the  footman  ;  yet  I  might  have  lived 
on  without  much  uneasiness,  had  not  my  mis- 
tress, the  housekeeper,  who  used  to  employ 
me  in  buying  necessaries  for  the  family,  found 
a  bill  which  I  had  made  of  one  day's  expense. 
I  suppose  it  did  not  quite  agree  with  her  own 
book,  for  she  fiercely  declared  her  resolution, 
that  there  should  be  no  pen  and  ink  in  that 
kitchen  but  her  own. 

She  had  the  justice,  or  the  prudence,  not  to 
injure  my  reputation ;  and  I  was  easily  admit- 
ted into  another  house  in  the  neighbourhood, 
where  my  business  was,  to  sweep  the  rooms 
and  make  the  beds.  Here  I  was  for  some  time 
the  favourite  of  Mrs.  Simper,  my  lady's  wo- 
man, who  could  not  bear  the  vulgar  girls,  and 
was  happy  in  the  attendance  of  a  young  woman 
of  some  education.  Mrs.  Simper  loved  a  no- 
vel, though  she  could  not  read  hard  words,  and 
therefore  when  her  lady  was  abroad,  we  always 
laid  hold  on  her  books.  At  last,  my  abilities 
became  so  much  celebrated,  that  the  house- 
steward  used  to  employ  me  in  keeping  his  ac- 
counts. Mrs.  Simper  then  found  out,  that  my 
Bauciness  was  grown  to  such  a  height  that  no- 
body could  endure  it,  and  told  my  lady,  that 
there  had  never  been  a  room  well  swept  since 
Betty  Broom  came  into  the  house. 

I  was  then  hired  by  a  consumptive  lady,  who 
wanted  a  maid  that  could  read  and  write.  I 
attended  her  four  years,  and  though  she  was 
never  pleased,  yet  when  I  declared  my  resolu- 
tion to  leave  her,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  told 
me  that  I  must  bear  the  peevishness  of  a  sick 
bed,  and  I  should  find  myself  remembered  in 
her  will.  I  complied,  and  a  codicil  was  added 
in  my  favour ;  but  in  less  than  a  week,  when  I 
set  her  gruel  before  her,  I  laid  the  spoon  on  the 
left  side,  and  she  thew  her  will  into  the  fire. 
In  two  days  she  made  another,  which  she  burnt 
in  the  same  manner,  because  she  could  not  eat 


her  chicken.  A  third  was  made,  and  destroyed 
because  she  heard  a  mouse  within  the  wainscot, 
and  was  sure  that  I  should  suffer  her  to  be  car- 
ried away  alive.  After  this  I  was  for  some 
time  out  of  favour,  but  as  her  illness  grew  upon 
her,  resentment  and  sullenness  gave  way  to 
kinder  sentiments.  She  died,  and  left  me  five 
hundred  pounds ;  with  this  fortune  I  am  going 
to  settle  in  my  native  parish,  where  I  resolve 
to  spend  some  hours  every  day  in  teaching 
poor  girls  to  read  and  write. 
I  am,  Sir, 

Your  humb.e  servant, 

BETTY  BROOM. 


No.  30.]     SATURDAY,  Nov.  11,  1758. 

THE  desires  of  man  increase  with  his  acqui- 
sitions ;  every  step  which  he  advances  brings 
something  within  his  view,  which  he  did  not 
see  before,  and  which,  as  soon  as  he  sees  it, 
he  begins  to  want.  Where  necessity  ends, 
curiosity  begins  ;  and  no  sooner  are  we  sup- 
plied with  everything  that  nature  can  demand, 
than  we  sit  down  to  contrive  artificial  appe- 
tites. 

By  this  restlessness  of  mind,  every  populous 
and  wealthy  city  is  filled  with  innumerable  em- 
ployments, for  which  the  greater  part  of  man- 
kind is  without  a  name  ;  with  artificers,  whose 
labour  is  exerted  in  producing  such  petty  con- 
veniences, that  many  shops  are  furnished  with 
instruments  of  which  the  use  can  hardly  be 
found  without  inquiry,  but  which  he  that  once 
knows  them  quickly  learns  to  number  among 
necessary  things. 

Such  is  the  diligence  with  which,  in  coun- 
tries completely  civilized,  one  part  of  mankind 
labours  for  another,  that  wants  are  supplied 
faster  than  they  can  be  formed,  and  the  idle  and 
luxurious  find  life  stagnate  for  want  of  some 
desire  to  keep  it  in  motion.  This  species  of 
distress  furnishes  a  new  set  of  occupations  ; 
and  multitudes  are  busied  from  day  to  day,  in 
finding  the  rich  and  the  fortunate  something  to 
do. 

It  is  very  common  to  reproach  those  artists 
as  useless,  who  produce  only  such  superfluities 
as  neither  accommodate  the  body,  nor  improve 
the  mind ;  and  of  which  no  other  effect  can  be 
imagined,  than  that  they  are  the  occasions  of 
spending  money  and  consuming  time. 

But  this  censure  will  be  mitigated  when  it  is 
seriously  considered  that  money  and  time  are 
the  heaviest  burdens  of  life,  and  that  the  un- 
happiest  of  all  mortals  are  those  who  have  moro 
of  either  than  they  know  how  to  use.  To  set 
himself  free  from  these  incumbrances,  one 
hurries  to  Newmarket ;  another  travels  over 
Europe  ;  one  pulls  down  his  house  and  calls 
architects  about  him  ;  anotfter  buys  a  seat  in 
the  country,  and  follows  his  hounds  over  hedges 
and  through  rivers  ;  one  makes  collections  of 
shells  ;  and  another  searches  the  world  for  tu- 
lips and  carnations. 

He  is  surely  a  public  benefactor  who  finds 
employment  for  those  to  whom  it  is  thus  diffi- 
cult to  find  it  for  themselves.  It  is  true,  that 
this  is  seldom  done  merely  from  generosity  or 


No.  31.] 


THE  IDLER. 


385 


compassion  j  almost  every  man  seeks  his  own 
idvantage  in  helping  others,  and  therefore  it 
te  too  common  for  mercenary  officiousness  to 
tonsider  rather  what  is  grateful,  than  what  is 
fight. 

We  all  know  that  it  is  more  profitable  to  be 
loved  than  esteemed  ;  and  ministers  of  plea- 
sure will  always  be  found,  who  study  to  make 
themselves  necessary,  and  to  supplant  those 
who  are  practising  the  same  arts. 

One  of  the  amusements  of  idleness  is  read- 
ing without  the  fatigue  of  close  attention  ;  and 
the  world,  therefore,  swarms  with  writers  whose 
wish  is  not  to  be  studied,  but  to  be  read. 

No  species  of  literary  men  has  lately  been 
so  much  multiplied  as  the  writers  of  news. 
Not  many  years  ago  the  nation  was  content 
with  one  gazette  ;  but  now  we  have  not  only  in 
the  metropolis  papers  for  every  morning  and 
every  evening,  but  almost  every  large  town  has 
its  weekly  historian,  who  regularly  circulates 
his  periodical  intelligence,  and  fills  the  villages 
of  his  district  with  conjectures  on  the  events 
of  war,  and  with  debates  on  the  true  interests 
of  Europe. 

To  write  news  in  its  perfection  requires  such 
a  combination  of  qualities,  that  a  man  com- 
pletely fitted  for  the  task  is  not  always  to  be 
found.  In  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  jocular  defini- 
tion, Jin  ambassador  is  said  to  be  a  man  of  vir- 
tue sent  abroad  to  tell  lies  for  the  advantage  of 
his  country  ;  a  newswriter  is  a  man  without  vir- 
tue, who  writes  lies  at  home  for  his  own  profit. 
To  these  compositions  is  required  neither 
genius  nor  knowledge,  neither  industry  nor 
sprightliness ;  but  contempt  of  shame,  and 
indifference  to  truth,  are  absolutely  necessary. 
He  who  by  a  long  familiarity  with  infamy  has 
obtained  these  qualities,  may  confidently  tell 
to-day  what  he  intends  to  contradict  to-mor- 
row ;  he  may  affirm  fearlessly  what  he  knows 
that  he  shall  be  obliged  to  recant,  and  may 
write  letters  from  Amsterdam  or  Dresden  to 
himself. 

In  a  time  of  war  the  nation  is  always  of  one 
mind,  eager  to  hear  something  good  of  them- 
selves, and  ill  of  the  enemy.  At  this  time  the 
task  of  news-writers  is  easy ;  they  have  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  tell  that  the  battle  is  expected, 
and  afterwards  that  a  battle  has  been  fought, 
in  which  we  and  our  friends,  whether  conquer- 
ing or  conquered,  did  all,  and  our  enemies  did 
nothing. 

Scarcely  anything  awakens  attention  like  a 
tale  of  cruelty.  The  writer  of  news  never 
fails  in  the  intermission  of  action  to  tell  how 
the  enemies  murdered  children  and  ravished 
virgins  ;  and  if  the  scene  of  action  be  some- 
what distant,  scalps  half  the  inhabitants  of  a 
province. 

Among  the  calamities  of  war,  may  be  justly 
numbered  the  diminution  of  the  love  of  truth, 
by  the  falsehoods  which  interest  dictates,  and 
credulity  encourages.  A  peace  will  equally 
leave  the  warrior  and  relator  of  wars  destitute 
of  employment ;  and  I  know  not  whether  more 
is  to  be  dreaded  from  streets  filled  with  soldiers 
accustomed  to  plunder,  or  from  garrets  filled 
with  scribblers  accustomed  to  lie. 

2Y 


No.  31.]     SATURDAY,  Nov.  18,  1758. 

MANY  moralists  have  remarked,  that  pride  has 
of  all  human  vices  the  widest  dominion,  appears 
in  the  greatest  multiplicity  of  forms,  and  lies 
hid  under  the  greatest  variety  of  disguises ;  of 
disguises  which,  like  the  moon's  veil  of  bright- 
ness, are  both  its  lustre  and  its  shade,  and  be- 
tray it  to  others,  though  they  hide  it  from  our 
selves. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  degrade  pride  from 
this  pre-eminence  of  mischief;  yet  I  know  not 
whether  idleness  may  not  maintain  a  very 
doubtful  and  obstinate  competition. 

There  are  some  that  profess  idleness  in  its 
full  dignity,  who  call  themselves  the  Idle  as  Bu- 
siris  in  the  play  calls  himself  the  Proud;  who 
boast  that  they  can  do  nothing,  and  thank 
their  stars  that  they  have  nothing  to  do  ;  who 
sleep  every  night  till  they  can  sleep  no  longer, 
and  rise  only  that  exercise  may  enable  them  to 
sleep  again ;  who  prolong  the  reign  of  darkness 
by  double  curtains ;  and  never  see  the  sun  but 
to  tell  him  how  they  hate  his  beams  ;  whose  whole 
labour  is  to  vary  the  posture  of  indulgence,  and 
whose  day  differs  from  their  night  but  as  a 
couch  or  chair  differs  from  a  bed. 

These  are  the  true  and  open  votaries  of  idle 
ness,  for  whom  she  weaves  the  garlands  of  pop 
pies,  and  into  whose  cup  she  pours  the  waters 
of  oblivion;  who  exist  in  a  state  of  unruffled 
stupidity  forgetting  and  forgotten  ;  who  have 
long  ceased  to  live,  and  at  whose  death  the  sur- 
vivors can  only  say  that  they  have  ceased  to 
breathe. 

But  idleness  predominates  in  many  lives 
where  it  is  not  suspected  ;  for,  being  a  vice 
which  terminates  in  itself,  it  may  be  enjoyed 
without  injury  to  others;  and  it  is  therefore 
not  watched  like  fraud,  which  endangers  pro- 
perty ;  or  like  pride,  which  naturally  seeks  its 
gratifications  in  another's  inferiority.  Idleness 
is  a  silent  and  peaceful  quality,  that  neither 
raises  envy  by  ostentation,  nor  hatred  by  opposi- 
tion ;  and  therefore  nobody  is  busy  to  censure 
or  detect  it. 

As  pride  sometimes  is  hid  under  humility, 
idleness  is  often  covered  by  turbulence  and 
hurry.  He  that  neglects  his  known  duty  and 
real  employment,  naturally  endeavours  to 
crowd  his  mind  with  something  that  may  bar 
out  the  remembrance  of  his  own  folly,  and  does 
av.y  thing  but  what  he  ought  to  do  with  eager 
diligence,  that  he  may  keep  himself  in  his  own 
favour. 

Some  are  always  in  a  state  of  preparation, 
occupied  in  previous  measures,  forming  plans, 
accumulating  materials,  and  providing  for  the 
main  affair.  These  are  certainly  under  the  se- 
cret power  of  idleness.  Nothing  is  to  be  expect- 
ed from  the  workman  whose  tools  are  for  ever 
to  be  sought.  I  was  once  told  by  a  great  mas- 
ter that  no  man  ever  excelled  in  painting,  who 
was  eminently  curious  about  pencils  and  co- 
lours. 

There  are  others  to  whom  idleness  dictates 
another  expedient,  by  which  life  may  be  passed 
unprofitably  away  without  the  tediousness  of 
many  vacant  hours.  The  art  is,  to  fill  the  day 
with  petty  business,  to  have  always  something 


386 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  32 


in  hand  which  may  raise  curiosity,  but  not 
solicitude,  and  keep  the  mind  in  a  state  of  ac- 
tion, but  not  of  labour. 

This  art  has  for  many  years  been  practised 
by  my  old  friend  Sober  with  wonderful  success. 
'(Sober  is  a  man  of  strong  desires  and  quick 
imagination,  so  exactly  balanced  by  the  love  of 
ease,  that  they  can  seldom  stimulate  him  to  any 
difficult  undertaking  ;  they  have,  however,  so 
much  power,  that  they  will  not  suffer  him  to  lie 
quite  at  rest ;  and  though  they  do  not  make 
him  sufficiently  useful  to  others,  they  make  him 
at  least  weary  of  himself. 

Mr.  Sober's  chief  pleasure  is  conversation  ; 
there  is  no  end  of  his  talk  or  his  attention  ;  to 
speak  or  to  hear  is  equally  pleasing  ;  for  he 
still  fancies  that  he  is  teaching  or  learning 
something,  and  is  free  for  the  time  from  his 
own  reproaches. 

But  there  is  one  time  at  night  when  he  must 
go  home,  that  his  friends  may  sleep  ;  and  ano- 
ther time  in  the  morning,  when  all  the  world 
agrees  to  shut  out  interruption.  These  are  the 
moments  of  which  poor  Sober  trembles  at  the 
thought.  But  the  misery  of  these  irksome  inter- 
vals he  has  many  means  of  alleviating.  He  has 
persuaded  himself  that  the  manual  arts  are  un- 
deservedly overlooked  ;  he  has  observed  in 
many  trades  the  effects  of  close  thought,  and 
just  ratiocination.  From  speculation  he  pro- 
ceeded to  practice,  and  supplied  himself  with 
the  tools  of  a  carpenter,  with  which  he  mended 
hiscoalbox  very  successfully,  and  which  he  still 
continues  to  employ,  as  he  finds  occasion. 

He  has  attempted  at  other  times  the  crafts  of 
shoe-maker,  tinman,  plumber,  and  potter;  in 
all  these  arts  he  has  failed,  and  resolves  to  quali- 
fy himself  for  them,  by  better  information. 
But  his  daily  amusement  is  chemistry.  He 
has  a  small  furnace  which  he  employs  in  distil- 
lation, and  which  has  long  been  the  solace  of 
his  life.  He  draws  oils  and  waters  and  essen- 
ces and  spirits,  which  he  knows  to  be  of  no  use, 
sits  and  counts  the  drops  as  they  come  from  his 
retort,  and  forgets  that  whilst  a  drop  is  falling, 
a  moment  flies  away. 

Poor  Sober !  I  have  often  teased  him  with 
reproof,  and  he  has  often  promised  reformation; 
for  no  man  is  so  much  open  to  conviction  as  the 
Idler,  but  there  is  none  on  which  it  operates  so 
little.  What  will  be  the  effect  of  this  paper  I 
know  not ;  perhaps  he  will  read  it  and  laugh, 
and  light  the  fire  in  his  furnace  ;  but  my  hope 
is  that  he  will  quit  his  trifles,  and  betake  him- 
self to  rational  and  useful  diligence. 


No.  32.]     SATURDAY,  Nov.  25,  1758. 

AMONG  the  innumerable  mortifications  that 
waylay  human  arrogance  on  every  side,  may 
well  be  reckoned  our  ignorance  of  the  most 
common  objects  and  effects  a  defect  of  which 
we  become  more  sensible,  by  every  attempt  to 
supply  it.  Vulgar  and  inactive  minds  confound 
familiarity  with  knowledge,  and  conceive  them- 
selves informed  of  the  whole  nature  of  things, 
when  they  are  shown  their  form  or  told  their 
use ;  but  the  speculatist,  who  is  not  content 
with  superficial  views,  harrasses  himself  with 


fruitless  curiosity,  and  slill  as  he  acquires  more, 
perceives  only  that  he  knows  less. 

Sleep  is  a  state  in  which  a  great  part  of  every 
life  is  passed.  No  animal  has  yet  been  discov- 
ered, whose  existence  is  not  varied  with  inter- 
vals of  insensibility;  and  some  late  philosophers 
have  extended  the  empire  of  sleep  over  the 
vegetable  world. 

Yet  of  this  change,  so  frequent,  so  great,  so 
general,  and  so  necessary,  no  searcher  has  yet 
found  either  the  efficient  or  final  cause  ;  or  can 
tell  by  what  power  the  mind  and  body  are 
thus  chained  down  in  irresistible  stupefaction  ; 
or  what  benefits  the  animal  receives  from  this 
alternate  suspension  of  its  active  powers. 

Whatever  may  be  the  multiplicity  or  contra- 
riety of  opinions  upon  this  subject,  Nature 
has  taken  sufficient  care  that  theory  shall  have 
little  influence  on  practice.  The  most  diligent 
inquirer  is  not  able  long  to  keep  his  eyes 
open  ;  the  most  eager  disputant  will  begin 
about  midnight  to  desert  his  argument ;  and 
once  in  four-and-twenty  hours,  the  gay  and  the 
gloomy,  the  witty  and  the  dull,  the  clamorous 
and  the  silent,  the  busy  and  the  idle,  arc  all 
overpowered  by  the  gentle  tyrant,  and  all  lie 
down  in  the  equality  of  sleep. 

Philosophy  has  often  attempted  to  repress 
insolence,  by  asserting  that  all  conditions  are 
levelled  by  death  ;  a  position  which,  however  it 
may  deject  the  happy,  will  seldom  afford  much 
comfort  to  the  wretched.  It  is  far  more  pleas- 
ing to  consider,  that  sleep  is  equally  a  leveller 
with  death  ;  -that  the  time  is  never  at  a  great 
distance,  when  the  balm  of  rest  shall  be  diffused 
alike  upon  every  head,  when  the  diversities  of 
life  shall  stop  their  operation,  and  the  high  and 
low  shall  lie  down  together. 

It  is  somewhere  recorded  of  Alexander,  that 
in  the  pride  of  conquests,  and  intoxication  of 
flattery,  he  declared  that  he  only  perceived  him- 
self to  be  a  man  by  the  necessity  of  sleep. 
Whether  he  considered  sleep  as  necessary  to 
his  mind  or  body  it  was  indeed  a  sufficient  evi- 
dence of  human  infirmity  ;  the  body  which  re- 
quired such  frequency  of  renovation,  gave  but 
faint  promises  of  immortality ;  and  the  mind 
which  from  time  to  time,  sunk  gladly  into  in- 
sensibility, had  made  no  very  near  approaches 
to  the  felicity  of  the  supreme  and  self-sufficient 
nature. 

I  know  not  what  can  tend  more  to  repress  all 
the  passions  that  disturb  the  peace  of  the  world, 
than  the  consideration  that  there  is  no  height 
of  happiness  or  honour  from  which  man  does 
not  eagerly  descend  to  a  state  of  unconcious  re- 
pose ;  that  the  best  condition  of  life  is  such, 
that  we  contentedly  quit  its  good  to  be  disen- 
tangled from  its  evils  ;  that  in  a  few  hours 
splendour  fades  before  the  eye,  and  praise  itself 
deadens  in  the  ear;  the  senses  withdraw  from 
their  objects,  and  reason  favours  the  retreat. 

What  then  are  the  hopes  and  prospects  o. 
covetousness,  ambition,  and  rapacity  ?  Let  him 
that  desires  most  have  all  his  desires  gratified, 
he  never  shall  attain  a  state  which  he  can  for  a 
day  and  a  night  contemplate  with  satisfaction, 
or  from  which,  if  he  had  the  power  of  perpetual 
vigilance,  he  would  not  long  for  periodical 
separations 


No.  33.] 


THE  IDLER. 


887 


AH  envy  would  be  extinguished,  if  it  were 
universally  known  that  there  are  none  to  be 
envied,  and  surely  none  can  be  much  envied 
who  are  not  pleased  with  themselves.  There  is 
reason  to  suspect,  that  the  distinctions  of  man- 
kind have  more  show  than  value,  when  it  is 
found  that  all  agree  to  be  weary  alike  of  plea- 
sures and  of  cares  ;  that  the  powerful  and  the 
weak,  the  celebrated  and  obscure,  join  in  one 
common  wish,  and  implore  from  nature's  hand 
the  nectar  of  oblivion. 

Snoh  is  our  desire  of  abstraction  from  our- 
selves, that  very  few  are  satisfied  with  the 
quantity  of  stupefaction  which  the  needs  of  the 
body  force  upon  the  mind.  Alexander  himself 
added  intemperance  to  sleep,  and  solaced  with 
the  fumes  of  wine  the  sovereignty  of  the  world; 
and  almost  every  man  has  some  art  by  which 
he  steals  his  thoughts  away  from  his  present 
state. 

It  is  not  much  of  life  that  is  spent  in  close 
attention  to  any  important  duty.  Many  hours 
of  every  day  are  suffered  to  fly  away  without 
any  traces  left  upon  the  intellects.  We  suffer 
phantoms  to  rise  up  before  us,  and  amuse  our- 
selves with  the  dance  of  airy  images,  which, 
after  a  time,  we  dismiss  forever,  and  know  not 
how  we  have  been  busied. 

Many  have  no  happier  moments  than  those 
that  they  pass  in  solitude,  abandoned  to  their 
own  imagination,  which  sometimes  puts  scep- 
tres in  their  hand  or  mitres  on  their  heads, 
shifts  the  scene  of  pleasure  with  endless  variety, 
bids  all  the  forms  of  beauty  sparkle  before  them, 
and  gluts  them  with  every  change  of  visionary- 
luxury. 

It  is  easy  in  these  semi-slumbers  to  collect 
all  the  possibilities  of  happiness,  to  alter  the 
course  of  the  sun,  to  bring  back  the  past,  and 
anticipate  the  future,  to  unite  all  the  beauties 
of  all  seasons,  and  all  the  blessings  of  all  cli- 
mates, to  receive  and  bestow  felicity,  and  for- 
get that  misery  is  the  lot  of  man.  All  this  is  a 
voluntary  dream,  a  temporary  recession  from 
the  realities  of  life  to  airy  fiction ;  an  habitual 
subjection  of  reason  to  fancy. 

Others  are  afraid  to  be  alone,  and  amuse 
themselves  by  a  perpetual  succession  of  com- 
panions ;  but  the  difference  is  not  great  :  in 
solitude  we  have  our  dreams  to  ourselves,  and 
in  company  we  agree  to  dream  in  concert. 
The  end  sought  in  both  is,  forgetfulness  of 
ourselves. 


No.  33.]     SATURDAY,  DEC.  2,  1758. 

[  I  hope  the  author  of  the  following  letter  will 
excuse  the  omission  of  some  parts,  and  al- 
low me  to  remark,  that  the  Journal  of  the 
Citizen  in  the  Spectatorhas  almost  precluded 
the  attempt  of  any  future  writer.] 


-Non  ita  Romuli 


Prcescriptum,  if  intonsi  Catonis 
Jluspiciis,  •ceterumquc  norma.  HOE. 

SIR, 

You  have  often   solicited  correspondence.     I 
have  sent  you  the  Journal  of  a  Senior  Fellow, 


or  Genuine  Idler,  just  transmitted  from  Cam- 
bridge  by  a  facetious  correspondent,  and  war- 
ranted to  have  been  transcribed  from  the  com- 
mon-place book  of  the  journalist. 

Monday,  nine  o'clock.  Turned  off  my  bed- 
maker  for  waking  me  at  night.  Weather  rainy. 
Consulted  my  weather-glass.  No  hopes  of  a 
ride  before  dinner. 

Ditto,  ten.  After  breakfast  transcribed  half 
a  sermon  from  Dr.  Hickman.  N.  B.  Never  to 
transcribe  any  more  from  Calamy  ;  Mrs.  Pil- 
cocks,  at  my  curacy,  having  one  volume  of 
that  author  lying  in  her  parlour-window. 

Ditto,  eleven.  Went  down  into  my  cellar, 
Mem.  My  mountain  will  be  fit  to  drink  in  a 
month's  time.  N.  B.  To  remove  the  five  year 
old  port  into  the  new  bin  on  the  left  hand. 

Ditto,  twelve.  Mended  a  pen.  Looked  at 
my  weather-glass  again,  duicksilver  very  low. 
Shaved.  Barber's  hand  shakes. 

Ditto,  one.  Dined  alone  in  my  room  on  a 
soal.  N.  B.  The  shrimp-sauce  not  so  good  as 
Mr.  H.  of  Peterhouse  and  I  used  to  eat  in 
London  last  winter,  at  the  Mitre  in  Fleet-street 
Sat  down  to  a  pint  of  Madeira.  Mr.  H.  sur- 
prised me  over  it.  We  finished  two  bottles 
of  port  together,  and  were  very  cheerful.  Mem. 
To  dine  with  Mr.  H.  at  Peterhouse  next  Wed- 
nesday. One  of  the  dishes  a  leg  of  pork  and 
pease,  by  my  desire. 

Ditto,  six.  Newspaper  in  the  common 
room. 

Ditto,  seven.  Returned  to  my  room.  Made 
a  tiff  of  warm  punch,  and  to  bed  before  nine ; 
did  not  fall  asleep  till  ten,  a  young  fellow-com- 
moner being  very  noisy  over  my  head. 

Tuesday,  nine.  Rose  squeamish.  A  fine 
morning.  Weather-glass  very  high. 

Ditto,  ten.  Ordered  my  horse,  and  rode  to 
the  five-mile  stone  on  the  Newmarket  road. 
Appetite  gets  better.  A  pack  of  hounds  in  full 
cry  crossed  the  road,  aud  startled  my  horse. 

Ditto,  twelve.  Dressed.  Found  a  letter  on 
my  table  to  be  in  London  the  19th  inst  Be- 
spoke a  new  wig. 

Ditto,  one.  At  dinner  in  the  hall.  Too  much 
water  in  the  soup.  Dr.  Dry  always  orders  the 
ieef  to  be  salted  too  much  for  me. 

Ditto,  two.  In  the  common-room.  Dr. 
Dry  gave  us  an  instance  of  a  gentleman  who 
sept  the  gout  out  of  his  stomach  by  drinking 
old  Madeira.  Conversation  chiefly  on  the  ex- 
aeditions.  Company  broke  up  at  four.  Dr. 
Dry  and  myself  played  at  back-gammon  for  a 
jrace  of  snipes.  Won. 

Ditto,  five.  At  the  coffee-house.  Met  Mr. 
EL  there.  Could  not  get  a  sight  of  the  Moni- 

r. 

Ditto,  seven.  Returned  home,  and  stirred 
my  fire.  Went  to  the  common-room,  and  sup- 
ped on  the  snipes  with  Dr.  Dry. 

Ditto,  eight.  Began  the  evening  in  the  com- 
mon-room. Dr.  Dry  told  several  stories. 
Were  very  merry.  Our  new  fellow  that 
studie  physic,  very  talkative  toward  twelv% 
Pretends  he  will  bring  the  youngest  Miss 
,o  drink  tea  with  me  soon.  Impertinent  block- 
lead! 

Wednesday,  nine.  Alarmed  with  a  pain  in 
my  ankle.  Q..  The  gout  ?  Fear  I  can't  din» 


388 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  34. 


at  Peterhouse  ;  but  hope  a  ride  will  set  all  to 
rights.     Weather-glass  below  fair. 

Ditto,  ten.  Mounted  my  horse,  thought  the 
weather  suspicious.  Pain  in  my  ankle  entirely 

gone.  Catched  in  a  shower  coming  back, 
onvinced  that  my  weather-glass  is  the  best  in 
Cambridge. 

Ditto,  twelve.  Dressed.  Sauntered  up  to  the 
Fishmonger's-hill.  Met  Mr.  H.  and  went 
with  him  to  Peterhouse.  Cook  made  us  wait 
thirty-six  minutes  beyond  the  time.  The  com- 
pany; some  of  my  Emanuel  friends.  For  din- 
ner, a  pair  of  soals,  a  leg  of  pork  and  peas 
among  other  things.  Mem.  Peas-pudding  not 
boiled  enough.  Cook  reprimanded  and  sconced 
in  my  presence. 

Ditto,  after  dinner.  Pain  in  my  ankle  re- 
turns. Dull  all  the  afternoon.  Rallied  for  be- 
ing no  company.  Mr.  H.  's  account  of  the  ac- 
commodations on  the  road  in  his  Bath  journey. 

Ditto,  six.  Got  into  spirits.  Never  was 
more  chatty.  We  sat  late  at  whist.  Mr.  H. 
and  self  agreed  at  parting  to  take  a  gentle 
ride,  and  dine  at  the  old  house  on  the  London 
road  to-morrow. 

Thursday,  nine.  My  semptress.  She  has 
lost  the  measure  of  my  wrist.  Forced  to  be 
measured  again.  The  baggage  has  got  a  trick 
of  smiling. 

Ditto,  ten  to  eleven.  Made  some  rappee- 
snuff.  Read  the  magazines.  Received  a  pre- 
sent of  pickles  from  Miss  Pilcocks.  Mem. 
To  send  in  return  some  collared  eel,  which  I 
know  both  the  old  lady  and  miss  are  fond  of. 

Ditto,  eleven.  Glass  very  high.  Mounted 
at  the  gate  with  Mr.  H.  Horse  skittish  and 
wants  exercise.  Arrive  at  the  old  house.  All 
the  provision  bespoke  by  some  rakish  fellow- 
commoner  in  the  next  room,  who  had  been  on 
a  scheme  to  Newmarket.  Could  get  nothing 
but  mutton  chops  off  the  worst  end.  Port 
very  new.  Agree  to  try  some  other  house  to- 
morrow. 

HERE  the  Journal  breaks  off:  for  the  next 
morning,  as  my  friend  informs  me,  our  genial 
academic  was  waked  with  a  severe  fit  of  the 
gout ;  and,  at  present,  enjoys  all  the  dignity  of 
that  disease.  But  I  believe  we  have  lost  no- 
thing by  this  interruption ;  since  a  continuation 
of  the  remainder  of  the  Journal,  through  the 
remainder  of  the  week,  would  most  probably 
have  exhibited  nothing  more  than  a  repeated 
relation  of  the  same  circumstances  of  idling 
and  luxury. 

I  hope  it  will  not  be  concluded,  from  this 
specimen  of  academic  life,  that  I  have  attempt- 
ed to  decry  our  universities.  If  literature  is  not 
the  essential  requisite  of  the  modern  academic, 
I  am  yet  persuaded  that  Cambridge  and  Ox- 
ord,  however  degenerated,  surpass  the  fashion- 
able academies  of  our  metropolis,  and  the 
gymnasia  of  foreign  countries.  The  number 
of  learned  persons  in  these  celebrated  seats  is 
still  considerable,  and  more  conveniences  and 
opportunities  for  study  still  subsist  in  them, 
than  in  any  other  place.  There  is  at  least  one 
very  powerful  incentive  to  learning ;  I  mean 
the  Genius  of  the  place.  It  is  a  sort  of  inspir- 
ing deity,  which  every  youth  of  quick  sensi- 


bility and  ingenious  disposition  creates  to  him 
self,  by  reflecting,  that  he  is  placed  under 
those  venerable  walls,  where  a  Hooker  and  a 
Hammond,  a  Bacon  and  a  Newton,  once  pur- 
sued the  sone  course  of  science,  and  from 
whence  they  soared  to  the  most  elevated 
heights  of  literary  fame.  This  is  that  incite- 
ment which  Tully,  according  to  his  own  tes- 
timony, experienced  at  Athens,  when  he  con- 
templated the  porticos  where  Socrates  sat,  and 
the  laurel  groves  where  Plato  disputed.  But 
there  are  other  circumstances,  and  of  the  high- 
est importance,  which  render  our  college  su 
perior  to  all  other  places  of  education.  Their 
institutions,  although  somewhat  fallen  from 
their  primeval  simplicity,  are  such  as  influence, 
in  a  particular  manner,  the  moral  conduct  of 
their  youth ;  and  in  this  general  depravity  of 
manners  and  laxity  of  principles,  pure  religion 
is  no  where  more  strongly  inculcated.  The 
academies,  as  they  are  presumptuously  styled, 
are  too  low  to  be  mentioned :  and  foreign 
seminaries  are  likely  to  prejudice  the  unwary 
mind  with  Calvinism.  But  English  universi- 
ties render  their  students  virtuous,  at  least  by 
excluding  all  opportunities  of  vice  :  and,  by 
teaching  them  the  principles  of  the  church 
of  England,  confirm  them  in  those  of  true 
Christianity. 


No.  34.]      SATURDAY,  DEC.  9,  1758. 

To  illustrate  one  thing  by  its  resemblance  to 
another,  has  been  always  the  most  popular 
and  efficacious  art  of  instruction,  there  is,  in- 
deed, no  other  method  of  teaching  that  of  which 
any  one  is  ignorant,  but  by  means  of  some- 
thing already  known  ;  and  a  mind  so  enlarged 
by  contemplation  and  inquiry,  that  it  has  al- 
ways many  objects  within  its  view,  will  seldom 
be  long  without  some  near  and  familiar  image 

ough  which  an  easy  transition  maybemaur. 
to  truths  more  distant  and  obscure. 

Of  the  parallels  which  have  been  drawn  by 
wit  and  curiosity,  some  are  literal  and  real, 
as  between  poetry  and  painting,  two  arts  which 
pursue  the  same  end,  by  the  operation  of  the 
same  mental  faculties,  and  which  differ  only  as 
the  one  represents  things  by  marks  permanent 
and  natural,  the  other  by  signs  accidental  and 
arbitrary.  The  one  therefore  is  more  easily 
and  generally  understood,  since  similitude  of 
form  is  immediately  perceived  ;  the  other  is 
capable  of  conveying  more  ideas ;  frr  men 
have  thought  and  spoken  of  many  things  which 
they  do  not  see. 

Other  parallels  are  fortuitous  and  fanciful, 
yet  these  have  sometimes  been  extended  to 
many  particulars  of  resemblance  by  a  lucky 
concurrence  of  diligence  and  chance.  The 
animal  body  is  composed  of  many  members, 
united  under  the  direction  of  one  mind  ;  any 
number  of  individuals,  connected  for  some 
common  purpose,  is  therefore  called  a  body. 
From  his  participation  of  the  same  appel- 
lation arose  the  comparison  of  the  body  na- 
tural and  body  politic,  of  which,  how  far  so- 
ever it  has  been  deduced,  no  end  has  hitherto 
been  found. 


No.  35.] 


THE  IDLER. 


389 


In  these  imaginary  similitudes,  the  same 
word  is  used  at  once  in  its  primitive  and  me 
taphorical  sense.  Thus  health,  ascribed  t 
the  body  natural,  is  opposed  to  sickness  ;  bu 
attributed  to  the  body  politic  stands  as  contrarj 
to  adversity.  These  parallels,  therefore,  have 
more  of  genius,  but  less  of  truth  ;  they  often 
please,  but  they  never  convince. 

Of  this  kind  is  a  curious  speculation  frequent 
ly  indulged  by  a  philosopher  of  my  acquain 
tance,  who  had  discovered,  the  qualities  re. 
quisite  to  conversation  are  very  exactly  repre- 
sented by  a  bowl  of  punch. 

Punch,  says  this  profound  investigator,  is  a 
liquor  compounded  of  spirit  and  acid  juices 
sugar  and  water.  The  spirit,  volatile  and  fiery, 
is  the  proper  emblem  of  vivacity  and  wit;  the 
acidity  of  the  lemon  will  very  aptly  figure  pun- 
gency of  raillery,  and  acrimony  of  censure ; 
sugar  is  the  natural  representative  of  luscious 
adulation  and  gentle  complaisance  ;  and  water 
is  the  proper  hieroglyphic  of  easy  prattle,  inno- 
1  cent  and  tasteless. 

Spirit  alone  is  too  powerful  for  use.  It  will 
produce  madness  rather  than  merriment ;  and 
instead  of  quenching  thirst  will  inflame  the 
blood.  Thus  wit,  too  copiously  poured  out, 
agitates  the  hearer  with  emotions  rather  violent 
than  pleasing;  every  one  shrinks  from  the  force 
of  its  oppression,  the  company  sits  entranced 
and  overpowered  ;  all  are  astonished  but  no- 
body is  pleased. 

The  acid  juices  give  this  genial  liquor  all  its 
power  of  stimulating  the  palate.  Conversation 
would  become  dull  and  vapid,  if  negligence 
were  not  sometimes  roused,  and  sluggishness 
quickened  by  due  severity  of  reprehension. 
But  acids  unmixed  will  distort  the  face  and 
torture  the  palate ;  and  he  that  has  no  other 
qualities  than  penetration  and  aspersity,  he 
whose  constant  employment  is  detection  and 
censure,  who  looks  only  to  find  faults,  and 
speaksonly  to  publish  them,  will  soon  be  dread- 
ed, hated,  and  avoided. 

The  taste  of  sugar  is  generally  pleasing,  but 
it  cannot  long  be  eaten  by  itself.  Thus  meek- 
ness and  courtesy  will  always  recommend  the 
first  address,  but  soon  pall  and  nauseate,  unless 
they  are  associated  with  more  sprightly  quali- 
ties. The  chief  use  of  sugar  is  to  temper  the 
taste  of  other  substances  ;  and  softness  of  be- 
haviour in  the  same  manner  mitigates  the 
roughness  of  contradiction,  and  allays  the  bit- 
terness of  unwelcome  truth. 

Water  is  the  universal  vehicle  by  which  are 
conveyed  the  particles  necessary  to  sustenance 
and  growth,  by  which  thirst  is  quenched,  and 
all  the  wants  of  life  and  nature  are  supplied. 
Thus  all  the  business  of  the  world  is  transacted 
by  artless  and  easy  talk,  neither  sublimed  by 
fancy,  nor  discoloured  by  affectation,  without 
either  the  harshness  of  satire,  or  the  luscious- 
ness  of  flattery.  By  this  limpid  vein  of  lan- 
guage, curiosity  is  gratified,  and  all  the  know- 
ledge is  conveyed  which  one  man  is  required 
to  impart  for  the  safety  or  convenience  of 
another.  Water  is  the  only  ingredient  in  punch 
which  can  be  used  alone,  and  with  which  man 
is  content  till  fancy  has  framed  an  artificial 
want.  Thus  while  we  only  desire  to  have  our 


ignorance  informed  we  are  most  delighted 
with  the  plainest  diction  ;  and  it  is  only  in 
the  moments  of  idleness  or  pride,  that  we  call 
for  the  gratifications  of  wit  or  flattery. 

He  only  will  please  long,  who  by  tempering 
the  acidity  of  satire  with  the  sugar  of  civility, 
and  allaying  the  heat  of  wit  with  the  frigidity 
of  humble  chat,  can  make  the  true  punch  of 
conversation  ;  and  as  that  punch  can  be  drank 
in  the  greatest  quantity  which  has  the  largest 
proportion  of  water,  so  that  companion  will 
be  oftenest  welcome,  whose  talk  flows  out 
with  inoffensive  copiousness,  and  unenvied  in- 
sipidity. 


No.  35.]     SATCRDAT,  DEC.  16,  1758. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

MR.  IDLER, 

IF  it  be  difficult  to  persuade  the  idle  to  be  busy, 
it  is  likewise,  as  experience  has  taught  me, 
not  easy  to  convince  the  busy  that  it  is  better 
to  be  idle.  When  you  shall  despair  of  stimu- 
lating sluggishness  to  motion,  I  hope  you  will 
turn  your  thoughts  towards  the  means  of  still- 
ing the  bustle  of  pernicious  activity. 

I  am  the  unfortunate  husband  of  a  buyer  of 
bargains.  My  wife  has  somewhere  heard  that 
a  good  housewife  never  has  any  thing  to  pur- 
chase when  it  is  wanted.  This  maxim  is  often 
in  her  mouth,  and  always  in  her  head.  She 
is  not  one  of  those  philosophical  talkers  that 
speculate  without  practice,  and  learn  senten- 
ces of  wisdom  only  to  repeat  them  ;  she  is 
always  making  additions  to  her  stores  ;  she 
never  looks  into  a  broker's  shop  but  she  spies 
something  that  may  be  wanted  some  time  ; 
and  it  is  impossible  to  make  her  pass  the  door 
of  a  house  where  she  hears  goods  selling  by 
auction. 

Whatever  she  thinks  cheap  she  holds  it  the 
duty  of  an  economist  to  buy ;  in  consequence  of 
this  maxim,  we  are  encumbered  on  every  side 
with  useless  lumber.  The  servants  can  scarcely 

reep  to  their  beds  through  the  chests  and 
Joxes  that  surround  them.  The  carpenter  is 
employed  once  a  week  in  building  closets,  fix- 
ng  cupboards,  and  fastening  shelves ;  and  my 
louse  has  the  appearance  of  a  ship  stored  for 
a  voyage  to  the  colonies. 

I  had  often  observed  that  advertisements  set 
ler  on  fire  ;  and  therefore  pretending  to  emu- 
ate  her  laudable  frugality,  I  forbade  the  news- 
>aper  to  be  taken  any  longer;  but  my  precau- 
ion  is  vain ;  I  know  not  by  what  fatality,  or 
>y    what    confederacy,    every    catalogue    of 
•enuine  furniture  comes   to  her  hand,  every 
.dvertisement  of  a  newspaper  newly  opened 
s  in  her  pocket-book,  and  she  knows  before 
any  of  her  neighbours  when  the  stock  of  any 
man  leaving  off  trade  is  to  be  sold  cheap  for 
ready  money. 

Such  intelligence  is  to   my  dear  one  the 

iren's  song.  No  engagement,  no  duty,  no 
nterest,  can  withhold  her  from  a  sale,  from 
which  she  always  returns  congatulating  her- 
elf  upon  her  dexterity  at  a  bargain  ;  the  por- 
er  lays  down  his  burden  in  the  hall ;  she  din- 


390 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  30. 


plays  her  new  acquisitions,  and  spends  the 
rr st  of  the  day  in  contriving  where  they  shall 
bo  put. 

As  she  cannot  bear  to  have  any  thing  incom- 
plete, one  purchase  necessitates  another  ;  she 
lias  twenty  feather-beds  more  than  she  can  use, 
and  a  late  sale  has  supplied  her  with  a  propor- 
tionable number  of  Witney  blankets,  a  large 
roll  of  linen  for  sheets,  and  five  quilts  for  every 
bed,  which  she  bought  because  the  seller  told 
her,  that  if  she  would  clear  his  hands  he  would 
let  her  have  a  bargain. 

Thus  by  hourly  encroachments  my  habita- 
tion is  made  narrower  and  narrower  ;  the  din- 
ing-room is  so  crowded  with  tables,  that  dinner 
scarcely  can  be  served ;  the  parlour  is  decorated 
with  so  many  piles  of  china,  that  I  dare  not 
step  within  the  door ;  at  every  turn  of  the 
stairs  I  have  a  clock,  and  half  the  windows  of 
the  upper  floors  are  darkened  that  shelves 
may  be  set  before  them. 

This,  however,  might  be  borne,  if  she  would 
gratify  her  own  inclinations  without  opposing 
mine.  But  I,  who  am  idle,  am  luxurious,  and 
she  condemns  me  to  live  upon  salt  provision. 
She  knows  the  loss  of  buying  in  small  quanti- 
ties, we  have  therefore  whole  hogs  and  quar- 
ters of  oxen.  Part  of  our  meat  is  tainted  be- 
fore it  is  eaten,  and  part  is  thrown  away  because 
it  is  spoiled,  but  she  persists  in  her  system, 
and  will  never  buy  any  thing  by  single  penny- 
worths. 

The  common  vice  of  those  who  are  still 
grasping  at  more,  is  to  neglect  that  which 
they  already  possess  ;  but  from  this  failing  my 
charmer  is  free.  It  is  the  great  care  of  her 
life  that  the  pieces ..  of  beef  should  be  boiled 
in  the  order  in  which  they  are  bought ;  that 
the  second  bag  of  peas  should  not  be  opened 
till  the  first  were  eaten  ;  that  every  feather-bed 
shall  be  lain  on  in  its  turn ;  that  the  carpets 
should  be  taken  out  of  the  chests  once  a 
month  and  brushed ;  and  the  rolls  of  linen 
opened  now  and  then  before  the  fire.  She  is 
daily  inquiring  after  the  best  traps  for  mice, 
and  keeps  the  rooms  always  scented  by  fumi- 
gations to  destroy  the  moths.  She  employs  a 
workman  from  time  to  time  to  adjust  six 
clocks  that  never  go,  and  clean  five  jacks  that 
rust  in  the  garret ;  and  a  woman  in  the  next 
alley  that  lives  by  scouring  the  brass  and 
pewter  which  are  only  laid  up  to  tarnish  again. 

She  is  always  imagining  some  distant  time  in 
which  she  shall  use  whatever  she  accumulates  ; 
she  has  four  looking-glasses  which  she  cannot 
hang  up  in  her  house,  but  which  will  be  hand- 
some in  more  lofty  rooms  ;  and  pays  rent  for 
the  place  of  a  vast  copper  in  some  warehouse, 
because  when  we  live  in  the  country  we  shall 
brew  our  own  beer. 

Of  this  life  I  have  long  been  weary,  but  I 
know  not  how  to  change  it ;  all  the  married 
men  whom  I  consult  advise  me  to  have  pa- 
tience ;  but  some  old  bachelors  are  of  opinion, 
that  since  she  loves  sales  so  well,  she  should 
have  a  sale  of  her  own  ;  and  I  have,  I  think 
resolved  to  open  her  hoards,  and  advertise  a* 
auction.  I  am,  Sir, 

Your  very  humble  Servant. 
PETER  PLENT 


No.  36.]     SATURDAY,  DEC.  23,  1758. 

THE  great  differences  that  disturb  the  peace  ol 
mankind  are  not  about  ends,  but  means.  We 
have  all  the  same  general  desires,  but  how 
those  desires  shall  be  accomplished  will  for 
ever  be  disputed.  The  ultimate  purpose  of 
government  is  temporal,  and  that  of  religion 
is  eternal  happiness.  Hitherto  we  agree  :  but 
here  we  must  part  to  try  according  to  the  end- 
less varieties  of  passion  and  understanding 
combined  with  one  another,  every  possible 
form  of  government,  and  every  imaginable 
tenet  of  religion. 

We  are  told  by  Cumberland  that  rectitude, 
applied  to  action  or  contemplation,  is  merely 
metaphorical ;  and  that  as  a  right  line  de- 
scribes the  shortest  passage  from  point  to 
point,  so  a  right  action  effects  a  good  design 
by  the  fewest  means  ;  and  so  likewise  a  right 
opinion  is  that  which  connects  distant  truths 
by  the  shortest  train  of  intermediate  proposi- 
tions. 

To  find  the  nearest  way  from  truth  to  truth, 
or  from  purpose  to  effect,  not  to  use  more  in- 
struments where  fewer  will  be  sufficient,  not 
to  move  by  wheels  and  levers  what  will  give 
way  to  the  naked  hand,  is  the  great  proof  of  a 
healthful  and  vigorous  mind,  neither  feeble 
with  healthful  ignorance,  nor  overburdened 
with  unwieldy  knowledge. 

But  there  are  men  who  seem  to  think  no- 
thing so  much  the  characteristic  of  a  genius,  as 
to  do  common  things  in  an  uncommon  manner  ; 
like  Hudibras,  to  tell  the  clock  by  algebra;  or 
like  the  lady  in  Dr.  Young's  satires,  to  drink 
tea  by  stratagem  ;  to  quit  the  beaten  track  only 
because  it  is  known,  and  take  a  new  path  how 
ever  crooked  or  rough  because  the  straight 
was  found  out  before. 

Every  man  speaks  and  writes  with  intent  to 
be  understood  ;  and  it  can  seldom  happen  but 
he  that  understands  himself  might  convey  his 
notions  to  another,  if,  content  to  be  understood, 
he  did  not  seek  to  be  admired  ;  but  when  once 
he  begins  to  contrive  how  his  sentiments  may 
be  received,  not  with  most  case  to  his  reader, 
but  with  most  advantage  to  himself,  he  then 
transfers  his  consideration  from  words  to 
sounds,  from  sentences  to  periods,  and  as  he 
grows  more  elegant  becomes  less  intelligible. 

It  is  difficult  to  enumerate  every  species  of 
authors  whose  labours  counteract  themselves  ; 
the  man  of  exuberance  and  copiousness,  who 
diffuses  every  thought  through  so  many  diversi- 
ties of  expression,  that  it  is  Tost  like  water  in  a 
mist;  the  ponderous  dictator  of  sentences, 
whose  notions  are  delivered  in  the  lump,  and 
are  like  uncoined  bullion,  of  more  weight  than 
use  ;  the  liberal  illustrator,  who  shows  by  ex- 
amples and  comparisons  what  was  clearly 
seen  when  it  was  first  proposed  ;  and  the 
stately  son  of  demonstration,  who  proves  with 
mathematical  formality  what  no  man  has  yet 
pretended  to  doubt. 

There  is  a  mode  of  style  for  which  I  know 
not  that  the  masters  of  oratory  have  yet  found 
a  name ;  a  style  by  which  the  most  evident 
truths  are  so  obscured,  that  they  can  no  longer 
be  perceived,  and  the  most  familiar  proposi- 


No.  37.  J 


THE  IDLER. 


39  J 


tions  so  disguised  that  they  cannot  be  known. 
Every  other  kind  of  eloquence  is  the  dress  of 
sense  ;  but  this  is  the  mask  by  which  a  true 
master  of  his  art  will  so  effectually  conceal  it, 
that  a  man  will  as  easily  mistake  his  own  posi- 
tions, if  he  meets  them  thus  transformed,  as  he 
may  pass  in  a  masquerade  his  nearest  ac- 
quaintance. 

This  style  may  be  called  the  terrific,  for  its 
chief  intention  is  to  terrify  and  amaze  ;  it  may 
be  termed  the  repulsive,  for  its  natural  effect  is 
to  drive  away  the  reader  ;  or  it  may  be  distin- 
guished, in  plain  English,  by  the  denomination 
of  the  bugbear  style,  for  it  has  more  terror  than 
danger,  and  will  appear  less  formidable  as  it  is 
more  nearly  approached. 

A  mother  tells  her  infant  that  two  and  two 
make  four ;  the  child  remembers  the  proposition, 
and  is  able  to  count  four  to  all  the  purposes  of 
life,  till  the  course  of  his  education  brings  him 
among  philosophers  who  fright  him  from  his 
former  knowledge,  by  telling  him,  that  four  is 
a  certain  aggregate  of  units  ;  that  all  numbers 
being  only  the  repetition  of  an  unit,  which, 
though  not  a  number  itself,  is  the  parent,  root, 
or  original  of  all  number,  four  is  the  denomina- 
tion assigned  to  a  certain  number  of  such  repe- 
titions. The  only  danger  is,  lest,  when  he  first 
hears  these  dreadful  sounds,  the  pupil  should 
run  away ;  if  he  has  but  the  courage  to  stay 
till  the  conclusion,  he  will  find  that  when  spe- 
culation has  done  its  worst,  two  and  two  still 
make  four. 

An  illustrious  example  of  this  species  of  elo- 
quence may  be  found  in  Letters  concerning 
Mind.  The  author  begins  by  declaring,  that 
"  the  sorts  of  things  are  things  that  now  are, 
have  been,  and  shall  be,  and  the  things  that 
strictly  are."  In  this  position,  except  the  last 
clause,  in  which  he  uses  something  of  the 
scholastic  language,  there  is  nothing  but  what 
every  man  has  heard  and  imagines  himself  to 
know.  But  who  would  not  believe  that  some 
wonderful  novelty  is  presented  to  his  intellect 
when  he  is  afterwards  told,  in  the  true  bugbear 
style,  that  "  the  ares,  in  the  former  sense,  are 
things  that  lie  between  the  have-beens  and  the 
shall-bes.  The  have-beens  are  things  that  are 
past ;  the  shall-bes  are  things  that  are  to  come  ; 
and  the  things  that  are,  in  the  latter  sense,  are 
things  that  have  not  been,  nor  shall  be,  nor 
stand  in  the  midst  of  such  as  are  before  them, 
or  shall  be  after  them.  The  things  that  have 
been,  and  shall  be,  have  respect  to  present, 
past,  and  future.  Those  likewise  that  now  are 
have  moreover  place  ;  that,  for  instance,  which 
is  here,  that  which  is  to  the  east,  that  which 
is  to  the  west." 

All  this,  my  dear  reader,  is  very  strange;  but 
though  it  be  strange,  it  is  not  new ;  survey 
these  wonderful  sentences  again,  and  they 
will  be  found  to  contain  nothing  more,  than 
very  plain  trut'is,  which  till  this  author  arose 
had  always  been  delivered  in  plain  language. 


No.  37.]    SATURDAY,  DEC.  30,  1758. 

THOSE  who  are  skilled  in  the  extraction  and 
preparation  of  metals,  declare,  that  iron  is  every 


where  to  be  found  ;  and  that  not  only  its  prc  - 
per  ore  is  copiously  treasured  in  the  caverns  o, 
the  earth,  but  that  its  particles  are  dispersed 
throughout  all  other  bodies. 

If  the  extent  of  the  human  view  could  com- 
prehend the  whole  frame  of  the  universe,  I  be- 
lieve it  would  be  found  invariably  true,  that 
Providence  has  given  that  in  greatest  plenty, 
which  the  condition  of  life  makes  of  greatest 
use  ;  and  that  nothing  is  penuriously  imparted 
or  placed  far  from  the  reach  of  man,  of  which 
a  more  liberal  distribution,  or  more  easy  ac- 
quisition, would  increase  real  and  rational 
felicity. 

Iron  is  common,  and  gold  is  rare.  Iron  con- 
tributes so  much  to  supply  the  wants  of  nature, 
that  its  use  constitutes  much  of  the  difference 
between  savage  and  polished  life,  between  the 
state  of  him  that  slumbers  in  European  palaces, 
and  him  that  shelters  himself  in  the  cavities  of 
a  rock  from  the  chillness  of  the  night,  or  the 
violence  of  the  storm.  Gold  can  never  be  har 
dened  into  saws  or  axes  ;  it  can  neither  furnish 
instruments  of  manufacture,  utensils  of  agri- 
culture, nor  weapons  of  defence ;  its  only  quality 
is  to  shine,  and  the  value  of  its  lustre  arises 
from  its  scarcity. 

Throughout  the  whole  circle,  both  of  natural 
and  moral  life,  necessaries  are  as  iron,  and  su- 
perfluities as  gold.  What  we  really  need  we 
may  readily  obtain ;  so  readily  that  far  the 
greater  part  of  mankind  has,  in  the  wanton 
ness  of  abundance,  confounded  natural  with 
artificial  desires,  and  invented  necessities  for 
the  sake 'of  employment,  because  the  mind  is 
impatient  of  inaction,  and  life  is  sustained  with 
so  little  labour,  that  the  tediousness  of  idle 
time  cannot  otherwise  be  supported. 

Thus  plenty  is  the  original  cause  of  many  of 
our  needs  ;  and  even  the  poverty,  which  is  so 
frequent  and  distressful  in  civilized  nations, 
proceeds  often  from  that  change  of  manners 
which  opulence  has  produced.  Nature  makes 
us  poor  only  when  we  want  necessaries  ;  but 
custom  gives  the  name  of  poverty  to  the  want 
of  superfluities. 

When  Socrates  passed  through  shops  of  toys 
and  ornaments,  he  cried  out,  How  many  things 
are  here  which  1  do  not  need !  And  the  same  ex  • 
clamation  may  every  man  make  who  surveys 
the  common  accommodations  of  life. 

Superfluity  and  difficulty  begin  together.  To 
dress  food  for  the  stomach  is  easy,  the  art  is  to 
irritate  the  palate  when  the  stomach  is  sufficed 
A  rude  hand  may  build  walls,  form  roofs,  and 
lay  floors,  and  provide  all  that  warmth  and  se- 
curity require  ;  we  only  call  the  nicer  artificers 
to  carve  the  cornice,  or  to  paint  the  ceilings. 
Such  dress  as  may  enable  the  body  to  endure 
the  different  seasons,  the  most  unenlightened 
nations  have  been  able  to  procure :  but  the  work 
of  science  begins  in  the  ambition  of  distinction, 
in  variations  of  fashion,  and  emulation  of  ele- 
gance. Corn  grows  with  easy  culture  ;  the 
gardener's  experiments  are  only  employed  to 
exalt  the  flavours  of  fruits,  and  brighten  the 
colours  of  flowers. 

Even  of  knowledge,  those  parts  are  most  easy 
which  are  generally  necessary.  The  intercourse 
of  society  is  maintained  without  the  elegance* 


3)2 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  33. 


of  language.  Figures,  criticisms,  and  refine- 
p*tnts,  are  the  work  of  those  whom  idleness 
« likes  weary  uf  themselves.  The  commerce  of 
trve  world  is  carried  on  by  easy  methods  of  com- 
putation. Subtility  and  study  are  required  only 
v  fien  questions  are  invented  merely  to  puzzle, 
a  id  calculations  are  extended  to  show  the  skill 
CM  the  calculator.  The  light  of  the  sun  is 
e-iually  beneficial  to  him  whose  eyes  tell  him 
tiiat  it  moves,  and  to  him  whose  reason  per- 
saades  hire,  that  it  stands  still ;  and  plants 
grow  with  the  same  luxuriance,  whether  we 
suppose  earth  or  water  the  parent  of  vegeta- 
tion. 

If  we  raise  our  thoughts  to  nobler  inquiries, 
we  shall  still  find  facility  concurring  with  use- 
fulness. No  man  needs  stay  to  be  virtuous  till 
the  moralists  have  determined  the  essence  of 
virtue  ;  our  duty  is  made  apparent  by  its  proxi- 
mate consequences,  though  the  general  and  ul- 
timate reason  should  never  be  discovered.  Re- 
ligion may  regulate  the  life  of  him  to  whom  the 
Scotists  and  Thomists  are  alike  unknown ;  and 
the  assertors  of  fate  and  free-will,  however 
different  in  their  talk,  agree  to  act  in  the  same 
manner. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  depreciate  the  po- 
liter arts  or  abstruser  studies.  That  curiosity 
which  always  succeeds  ease  and  plenty,  was 
undoubtedly  given  us  as  a  proof  of  capacity 
which  our  present  state  is  not  able  to  fill,  as  a 
preparative  for  some  better  mode  of  existence, 
which  shall  furnish  employment  for  the  whole 
soul,  and  where  pleasure  shall  be  adequate  to 
our  powers  of  fruition.  In  the  mean  time  let 
us  gratefully  acknowledge  that  Goodness  which 
grants  us  ease  at  a  cheap  rate,  which  changes 
the  seasons  where  the  nature  of  heat  and  cold 
has  not  been  yet  examined,  and  gives  the  vi- 
cissitudes of  day  and  night  to  those  who  never 
marked  the  tropics,  or  numbered  the  constel- 
lations. 


No.  33.]      SATURDAY,  JAN.  6,  1759. 

SINCE  the  publication  of  the  letter  concerning 
the  condition  of  those  who  are  confined  in  goals 
by  their  creditors,  an  inquiry  is  said  to  nave 
been  made,  by  which  it  appears  that  more  than 
twenty  thousand*  are  at  this  time  prisoners 
for  debt 

We  often  look  with  indifference  on  the  suc- 
cessive parts  of  that,  which,  if  the  whole  were 
seen  together,  would  shake  us  with  emotion. 
A  debtor  is  dragged  to  prison,  pitied  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  forgotten ;  another  follows  him, 
and  is  lost  alike  in  the  caverns  of  oblivion  ;  but 
when  the  whole  mass  of  calamity  rises  up  at 
once,  when  twenty  thousand  reasonable  beings, 
are  heard  all  groaning  in  unnecessary  misery, 
not  by  the  infirmity  of  nature,  but  the  mistake 
or  negligence  of  policy,  who  can  forbear  to  pity 
and  lament,  to  wonder  and  abhor  ! 

There  is  here  no  need  of  declamatory  vehe- 


*  This  number  was  at  that  time  confidently  published  , 
but  (he  author  has  since  found  reason  to  question  the 
calculation. 


mence :  we  live  in  an  age  of  commerce  and  com- 
putation ;  let  us  therefore  coolly  inquire  what  is 
the  sum  of  evil  which  the  imprisonment  of 
debtors  brings  upon  our  country. 

It  seems  to  be  the  opinion  of  the  later  compu- 
tists,  that  the  inhabitants  of  England  do  not 
exceed  six  millions,  of  which  twenty  thousand 
is  the  three  hundredth  part.  What  shall  we  say 
of  the  humanity  or  the  wisdom  of  a  nation,  that 
voluntarily  sacrifices  one  in  every  three  hun- 
dred to  lingering  destruction  ! 

The  misfortunes  of  an  individual  do  not  ex- 
tend their  influence  to  many  ;  yet  if  we  con- 
sider the  effects  of  consanguinity  and  friendship, 
and  the  general  reciprocation  of  wants  and 
benefits,  which  make  one  man  dearor  necessary 
to  another,  it  may  reasonably  be  supposed,  that 
every  man  languishing  in  prison  gives  trou- 
ble of  some  kind  to  two  others  who  love  or  need 
him.  By  this  multiplication  of  misery  we  see 
distress  extended  to  the  hundredth  part  of  the 
whole  society. 

If  we  estimate  at  a  shilling  a  day  what  is 
lost  by  the  inaction  and  consumed  in  the  sup 
port  of  each  man  thus  chained  down  to  invo 
luntary  idleness,  the  public  loss  will  rise  in  one 
year  to  three  hundred  thousand  pounds ;  in 
ten  years  to  more  than  a  sixth  part  of  our  cir- 
culating coin. 

I  am  afraid  that  those  who  are  best  acquaint- 
ed with  the  state  of  our  prisons  will  confess 
that  my  conjecture  is  too  near  the  truth,  when 
I  suppose  that  the  corrosion  of  resentment,  the 
heaviness  of  sorrow,  the  corruption  of  confined 
air,  the  want  of  exercise,  and  sometimes  of 
food,  the  contagion  of  diseases,  from  which 
there  is  no  retreat,  and  the  severity  of  tyrants, 
against  whom  there  can  be  no  resistance,  and 
all  the  complicated  horrors  of  a  prison,  put  an 
end  every  year  to  the  life  of  one  in  four  of 
those  that  are  shut  up  from  the  ct.rmon  com- 
forts of  human  life. 

Thus  perish  yearly  five  thousand  men,  over- 
borne with  sorrow,  consumed  by  famine,  or 
putrified  by  filth  :  many  of  them  in  the  most 
vigorous  and  useful  part  of  life  ;  for  the 
thoughtless  and  imprudent  are  commonly 
young,  and  the  active  and  busy  are  seldom  old. 
According  to  the  rule  generally  received, 
which  supposes  that  one  in  thirty  dies  yearly, 
the  race  of  man  may  be  said  to  be  renewed  at 
the  end  of  thirty  years.  Who  would  have  be- 
lieved till  now,  that  of  every  English  genera- 
tion, a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  perish  in 
our  gaols  !  that  in  every  century,  a  nation  emi- 
nent for  science,  studious  of  commerce,  ambi- 
tious of  empire,  should  willingly  lose,  in 
noisome  dungeons,  five  hundred  thousand  of 
its  inhabitants  ;  a  number  greater  than  has 
ever  been  destroyed  in  the  same  time  by  the 
pestilence  and  sword  ! 

A  very  late  occurrence  may  show  us  the 
value  of  the  number  which  we  thus  condemn 
to  be  useless  ;  in  the  re-establishment  of  the 
trained  bands,  thirty  thousand  are  considered 
as  a  force  sufficient  against  all  exigencies. 
While,  therefore,  we  detain  twenty  thousand 
in  prison,  we  shut  up  in  darkness  and  useless- 
ness  two-thirds  of  an  army  which  ourselves 
judge  equal  to  the  defence  of  our  country. 


No.  39.1 


THE  IDLER. 


393 


The  monastic  institutions  have  been  often 
blamed  as  tending  to  retard  the  increase  of 
mankind.  And  perhaps  retirement  ought 
rarely  to  be  permitted,  except  to  those  whose 
employment  is  consistent  with  abstraction, 
and  who,  though  solitary,  will  not  be  idle  :  to 
those  whom  infirmity  makes  useless  to  the 
commonwealth,  or  to  those  who  have  paid 
their  due  proportion  to  society,  and  who,  having 
lived  for  others,  may  be  honourably  dismissed 
to  live  for  themselves.  But  whatever  be  the 
evil  or  the  folly  of  these  retreats,  those  have 
no  right  to  censure  them  whose  prisons  con- 
tain greater  numbers  than  the  monasteries  of 
other  countries.  It  is,  surely,  less  foolish  and 
less  criminal  to  permit  inaction  than  compel  it ; 
to  comply  with  doubtful  opinions  of  happiness, 
than  condemn  to  certain  and  apparent  misery; 
to  indulge  the  extravagances  of  erroneous 
piety,  than  to  multiply  and  enforce  temptations 
to  wickedness. 

The  misery  of  gaols  is  not  half  their  evil  : 
they  are  rilled  with  every  corruption  which 
poverty  and  wickedness  can  generate  between 
them  ;  with  all  the  shameless  and  profligate 
enormities  that  can  be  produced  by  the  impu- 
dence of  ignominy,  the  rage  of  want,  and  the 
malignity  of  despair.  In  a  prison,  the  awe  of 
the  public  eye  is  lost,  and  the  power  of  the  law 
is  spent  ;  there  are  few  fears,  there  are  no 
blushes.  The  lewd  inflame  the  lewd,  the 
audacious  harden  the  audacious.  Every  one 
fortifies  himself  as  he  can  against  his  own  sen- 
sibility, endeavours  to  practise  on  others  the 
arts  which  are  practised  on  himself;  and  gains 
the  kindness  of  his  associates  by  similitude  of 
manners. 

Thus  some  sink  amidst  their  misery,  and 
others  survive  only  to  propagate  villany.  It 
may  be  hoped,  that  our  lawgivers  will  at  length 
take  away  from  us  this  power  of  starving  and 
depraving  one  another  ;  but,  if  there  be  any 
reason  why  this  inveterate  evil  should  not  be 
removed  in  our  age,  which  true  policy  has  en- 
lightened beyond  any  former  time,  let  those, 
whose  writings  from  the  opinions  and  the  prac- 
tices of  their  contemporaries,  endeavour  to 
transfer  the  reproach  of  such  imprisonment 
from  the  debtor  to  the  creditor,  till  universal 
infamy  shall  pursue  the  wretch  whose  wanton- 
ness of  power,  or  revenge  of  disappointment, 
condemns  another  to  torture  and  to  ruin  ;  till 
he  shall  be  hunted  through  the  world  as  an 
enemy  to  man,  and  find  in  riches  no  shelter 
from  contempt. 

Surely,  he  whose  debtor  has  perished  in 
prison,  although  he  may  acquit  himself  of  deli- 
berate murder,  must  at  least  have  his  mind 
clouded  with  discontent,  when  he  considers 
how  much  another  has  suffered  from  him  ; 
when  he  thinks  on  the  wife  bewailing  her  hus- 
band, or  the  children  begging  the  bread  which 
their  father  would  have  earned.  If  there  are 
any  made  so  obdurate  by  avarice  or  cruelty,  as 
to  revolve  these  consequences  without  dread 
or  pity,  I  must  leave  them  to  be  awakened  by 
some  other  power,  for  I  write  only  to  human 
beings. 


No.  39.]     SATURDAY,  JAN.  18,  1759. 

TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

As  none  look  more  diligently  about  them  than 
those  who  have  nothing  to  do,  or  who  do  no- 
thing, I  suppose  it  has  not  escaped  your  obser- 
vation, that  the  bracelet,  an  ornament  of  great 
antiquity,  has  been  for  some  years  revived 
among  the  English  ladies. 

The  genius  of  our  nation  is  said,  I  know  not 
for  what  reason,  to  appear  rather  an  improve- 
ment than  invention.  The  bracelet  was  known 
in  the  earliest  ages  ;  but  it  was  formerly  only 
a  hoop  of  gold,  or  a  cluster  of  jewels,  and 
showed  nothing  but  the  wealth  or  vanity  of  the 
wearer ;  till  our  ladies,  by  carrying  pictures 
on  their  wrists,  made  their  ornaments  works 
of  fancy  and  exercises  of  judgment. 

This  addition  of  art  to  luxury  is  one  of  the 
innumerable  proofs  that  might  be  given  of  the 
late  increase  of  female  erudition  ;  and  I  have 
often  congratulated  myself  that  my  life  has 
happened  at  a  time  when  those,  on  whom  so 
much  of  human  felicity  depends,  have  learned 
to  think  as  well  as  speak,  and  when  respect 
takes  possession  of  the  ear,  while  love  is  enter- 
ing at  the  eye. 

I  have  observed,  that  even  by  the  suffrages 
of  their  own  sex,  those  ladies  are  accounted 
wisest  who  do  not  yet  disdain  to  be  taught ; 
and  therefore,  I  shall  offer  a  few  hints  for  the 
completion  of  the  bracelet,  without  any  dread 
of  the  fate  of  Orpheus. 

To  the  ladies  who  wear  the  pictures  of  their 
husbands  or  children,  or  any  other  relations,  I 
can  offer  nothing  more  decent  or  more  proper. 
It  is  reasonable  to  believe  that  she  intends  at 
least  to  perform  her  duty,  who  carries  a  perpe- 
tual excitement  to  recollection  and  caution, 
whose  own  ornaments  must  upbraid  her  with 
every  failure,  and  who,  by  an  open  violation 
of  her  engagements,  must  for  ever  forfeit  her 
bracelet. 

Yet  I  know  not  whether  it  is  the  interest  of 
the  husband  to  solicit  very  earnestly  a  place 
on  the  bracelet.  If  his  image  be  not  in  the 
heart,  it  is  of  small  avail  to  hang  it  on  the 
hand.  A  husband  encircled  with  diamonds 
and  rubies  may  gain  some  esteem,  but  will 
never  excite  love.  He  that  thinks  himself 
most  secure  of  his  wife,  should  be  fearful  of 
persecuting  her  continually  with  his  presence. 
The  joy  of  life  is  variety ;  the  tenderest  love 
requires  to  be  rekindled  by  intervals  of  ab- 
sence ;  and  fidelity  herself  will  be  wearied 
with  transferring  her  eye  only  from  the  same 
man  to  the  same  picture. 

In  many  countries  the  condition  of  every 
woman  is  known  by  her  dress.  Marriage  is 
rewarded  with  some  honourable  distinction 
which  celibacy  is  forbidden  to  usurp.  Some 
such  information  a  bracelet  might  afford.  The 
ladies  might  enrol  themselves  in  distinct 
classes,  and  carry  in  open  view  the  emblems  of 
their  order.  The  bracelet  of  the  authoress 
may  exhibit  the  muses  in  a  grove  of  laurel ;  the 
housewife  may  show  Penelope  with  her  web  ; 
the  votaress  of  a  single  life  may  carry  Ursula 
with  her  troop  of  virgins  ;  the  gamester  may 


394 


THE  IDLER. 


|  No.  40. 


have  Fortune  with  her  wheel ;  and  those  wo- 
men that  have  no  character  at  all,  may  display 
u  field  of  white  enamel,  as  imploring  help  to 
fill  up  the  vacuity. 

There  is  a  set  of  ladies  who  have  outlived 
most  animal  pleasures,  and  having  nothing  ra- 
tional to  put  in  their  place,  solace  with  cards 
the  loss  of  what  time  has  taken  away,  and  the 
want  of  what  wisdom,  having  never  been 
courted,  has  never  given.  For  these,  I  know 
not  now  to  provide  a  proper  decoration.  They 
cannot  be  numbered  among  the  gamesters: 
for  though  they  are  always  at  play,  they  play 
for  nothing,  and  never  rise  to  the  dignity  of 
hazard  or  the  reputation  of  skill.  They  neither 
love  nor  are  loved,  and  cannot  be  supposed  to 
contemplate  any  human  image  with  delight. 
Yet  though  they  despair  to  please,  they  always 
wish  to  be  fine,  and  therefore  cannot  be  with- 
out a  bracelet.  To  this  sisterhood  I  can  recom- 
mend nothing  more  likely  to  please  them  than 
the  king  of  clubs,  a  personage  very  comely 
and  majestic,  who  will  never  meet  their  eyes 
without  reviving  the  thought  of  some  past  or 
future  party,  and  who  may  be  displayed  in  the 
act  of  dealing  with  grace  and  propriety. 

But  the  bracelet  which  might  be  most  easily 
introduced  into  general  use  is  a  small  convex 
mirror,  is  which  the  lady  may  see  herself  when- 
ever she  shall  lift  her  hand.  This  will  be  a  per- 
petual source  of  delight.  Other  ornaments 
are  of  use  only  in  public,  but  this  will  furnish 
gratifications  to  solitude.  This  will  show  a  face 
that  must  always  please  ;  she  who  is  followed 
by  admirers  will  carry  about  her  a  perpetual 
Justification  of  the  public  voice  ;  and  she  who 
passes  without  notice  may  appeal  from  preju- 
dice to  her  own  eyes. 

But  I  know  not  why  the  privilege  of  the 
bracelet  should  be  confined  to  women  ;  it  was 
in  former  ages  worn  by  heroes  in  battle ;  and 
as  modern  soldiers  are  always  distinguished 
by  splendour  of  dress,  I  should  rejoice  to  see 
the  bracelet  added  to  the  cockade. 

In  hope  of  this  ornamental  innovation,  I  have 
spent  some  thoughts  upon  military  bracelets. 
There  is  no  passion  more  heroic  than  love  ;  and 
therefore  I  should  be  glad  to  see  the  sons  of 
England  marching  in  the  field,  every  man  with 
the  picture  of  a  woman  of  honour  bound  upon 
his  hand.  But  since  in  the  army,  as  every 
where  else,  there  will  always  be  men  who  love 
nobody  but  themselves,  or  whom  no  woman 
of  honour  will  permit  to  love  her,  there  is  a 
necessity  of  some  other  distinctions  and  devices. 
I  have  read  of  a  prince  who,  having  lost  a 
town,  ordered  the  name  of  it  to  be  every  morning 
shouted  in  his  ear  till  it  should  be  recovered.  For 
the  same  purpose  I  think  the  prospect  of  Minor- 
ca might  be  properly  worn  on  the  hands  of  some 
of  our  generals :  others  might  delight  their  coun- 
trymen, and  dignify  themselves  with  a  view  of 
Rochefort  as  it  appeared  to  them  at  sea :  and 
those  that  shall  return  from  the  conquest  of 
America,  may  exhibit  the  warehouse  of  Fron- 
tenac,  with  an  inscription  denoting  that  it  was 
taken  in  less  than  three  years  by  less  than 
Jffenty  thousand  men. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

TOM  TOT. 


No.40.]     SATURDAY,  JAN.  20,  1759. 


THE  practice  of  appending  to  the  narratives 
of  public  transactions  more  minute  and  do- 
mestic intelligence,  and  filling  the  newspapers 
with  advertisements,  has  grown  up  by  slow 
degrees  to  its  present  state. 

Genius  is  shown  only  by  invention.  The 
man  who  first  took  advantage  of  the  general 
curiosity  that  was  excited  by  a  siege  or  battle, 
to  betray  the  readers  of  news  into  the  know- 
ledge of  the  shop  where  the  best  puffs  and 
powder  were  to  be  sold,  was  undoubtedly  a 
man  of  great  sagacity  and  profound  skill  -in 
the  nature  of  man.  But  when  he  had  once 
shown  the  way,  it  was  easy  to  follow  him  ;  and 
every  man  now  knows  a  ready  method  of  in- 
forming the  public  of  all  that  he  desires  to  buy 
or  sell,  whether  hjs  wares  be  material  or  intel- 
lectual ;  whether  he  makes  clothes,  or  teaches 
the  mathematics;  whether  he  be  a  tutor  that 
wants  a  pupil,  or  a  pupil  that  wants  a  tutor. 

Whatever  is  common  is  despised.  Adver- 
tisements are  now  so  numerous  that  they  are 
very  negligently  perused,  and  it  is  therefore 
become  necessary  to  gain  attention  by  magni 
ficence  of  promises,  and  by  eloquences  some 
times  sublime  and  sometimes  pathetic. 

Promise,  large  promise,  is  the  soul  of  an  ad- 
vertisement. I  remember  a  wash-ball  that  had 
a  quality  truly  wonderful — it  gave  an  exquisite 
edge  to  the  razor.  And  there  are  now  to  be 
sold,  "for  ready  money  only,  some  duvets  for 
bed  coverings,  of  down,  beyond  comparison, 
superior  to  what  is  called  otter-down,  and  in- 
deed such,  that  its  many  excellences  cannot  be 
here  set  forth."  With  one  excellence  we  are 
made  acquainted — "  it  is  warmer  than  four  or 
five  blankets,  and  lighter  than  one.  " 

There  are  some,  however,  that  know  the 
prejudice  of  mankind  in  favour  of  modest  sin- 
cerity. The  vender  of  the  beautifying  fluid 
sells  a  lotion  that  repels  pimples,  washes  away 
freckles,  smooths  tlie  skin,  and  plumps  the 
9esh  :  and  yet,  with  a  generous  abhorrence  cf 
ostentation,  confesses,  that  it  will  not  "restore 
the  bloom  of  fifteen  to  a  lady  of  fifty. " 

The  true  pathos  of  advertisements  must  have 
sunk  deep  into  the  heart  of  every  man  that  re- 
members the  zeal  shown  by  the  seller  of  the 
anodyne  necklace,  for  the  ease  and  safety  of 
poor  toothing  infants,  and  the  affection  with 
which  he  warned  every  mother,  that  "  she 
would  never  forgive  herself"  if  her  infant 
should  perish  without  a  necklace. 

I  cannot  but  remark  to  the  celebrated  author 
who  gave,  in  his  notifications  of  the  camel  and 
dromedary,  so  many  specimens  of  the  genuine 
sublime,  that  there  is  now  arrived  another  sub- 
|ect  yet  more  worthy  of  his  pen,  '(A  famous 
Mohawk  Indian  warrior,  who  took  Dieskaw 
the  French  general  prisoner,  dressed  in  the 
same  manner  with  the  native  Indians  when 
they  go  to  war,  with  his  face  and  body  painted, 
with  his  scalping-knife,  tom-ax  and  all  other 
implements  of  war!  a  sight  worthy  the  curiosi- 
ty of  every  true  Briton !  "  This  is  a  very 
powerful  description :  but  a  critic  of  great  re- 
finement would  say,  that  it  conveys  rather 
horror  than  terror.  An  Indian,  dressed  as  he 


No.  41.] 


THE  IDLER. 


395 


goes  to  war,  may  bring  company  together 
but  if  he  carries  the  scalping  knife,  and  tom- 
ax,  there  are  many  true  Britons  that  will  never 
be  persuaded  to  see  him  but  through  a  grate. 
It  has  been  remarked  by  the  severer  judges 
that  the  salutary  sorrow  of  tragic  scenes  is 
too  soon  effaced  by  the  merriment  of  the  epi- 
logue ;  the  same  inconvenience  arises  from 
the  impioper  disposition  of  advertisements. 
The  noblest  objects  may  be  so  associated  as  to 
be  made  ridiculous.  The  camel  and  drome- 
dary themselves  might  have  lost  much  of  their 
dignity  between  "the  true  flower  of  mustard 
and  the  original  Daffy's  elixir  ;  "  and  I  could 
not  but  feel  some  indignation,  when  I  found 
this  illustrious  Indian  warrior  immediately 
succeeded  by  "a  fresh  parcel  of  Dublin  but- 
ter. " 

The  trade  of  advertising  is  now  so  near  to 
perfection,  that  it  is  not  easy  to  propose  any 
improvement.  But  as  every  art  ought  to  be 
exercised  in  due  subordination  to  the  public 
good,  I  cannot  but  propose  it  as  a  moral 
question  to  these  masters  of  the  public  ear, 
Whether  they  do  not  sometimes  play  too  wan- 
tonly with  our  passions,  as  when  the  registrar 
of  lottery  tickets  invites  us  to  his  shop  by  an  ac- 
count of  the  prizes  which  he  sold  last  year ; 
and  whether  the  advertising  controvertists  do 
not  indulge  asperity  of  language  without  any 
adequate  provocation  ;  as  in  the  dispute  about 
straps  for  razors,  now  happily  subsided,  and  in 
the  altercation  which  at  present  subsists  con- 
cerning eau  de  luce  1 

In  an  advertisement  it  is  allowed  to  every 
man  to  speak  well  of  himself,  but  I  know  not 
why  he  should  assume  the  privilege  of  censur- 
ing his  neighbour.  He  may  proclaim  his  own 
virtue  or  skill,  but  ought  not  to  exclude  others 
from  the  same  pretensions. 

Every  man  that  advertises  his  own  excel- 
lence should  write  with  some  consciousness 
of  character  which  dares  to  call  the  attention 
of  the  public.  He  should  remember  that  his 
name  is  to  stand  in  the  same  paper  with  those 
of  the  king  of  Prussia  and  the  emperor  of  Ger- 
many, and  endeavour  to  make  himself  worthy 
of  such  association. 

Some  regard  is  likewise  to  be  paid  to  pos- 
terity. There  are  men  of  diligence  and  curio- 
sity who  treasure  up  the  papers  of  the  day 
merely  because  others  neglect  them,  and  in 
time  they  will  be  scarce.  When  these  col- 
lections shall  be  read  in  another  century,  how 
will  numberless  contradictions  be  reconciled  ; 
and  how  shall  fame  be  possibly  distributed 
among  the  tailors  and  boddice-makers  of  the 
present  age  ? 

Surely  these  things  deserve  consideration. 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  have  hinted  my  desire 
that  these  abuses  may  be  rectified  ;  but  such 
is  the  state  of  nature,  that  what  all  have  the 
right  of  doing,  many  will  attempt  without  suf- 
ficient care  or  due  qualifications. 


No.  41.]       SATURDAY,  JAN.  27,  1759. 

THE  following  letter  relates  to  an  affliction 
perhaps  not  necessary  to  bo   imparted  to  the 


public  ;  but  I  could  not  persuade  myself  to 
suppress  it,  because  I  think  I  know  the  sen- 
ttments  to  be  sincere,  and  I  feel  no  disposi- 
tion to  provide  for  this  day  any  other  enter 
tainnment. 


Jit  tu  miisquis  en's,  miseri  qui  crude  poet<& 

Credideria  ftetu  funera  di°na  tuo, 
H&cpostrema  tibi'iit  Jlendi  cau.ia,  Jluatque 

Lenis  inoffenso  vitajue  morsque  gradu. 

MR.  IDLER, 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  warnings  of  philoso- 
phers, and  the  daily  examples  of  losses  and 
misfortunes  which  life  forces  upon  our  obser- 
vation, such  is  the  absorption  of  our  thoughts 
in  the  business  of  the  present  day,  such  the  re- 
signation of  our  reason  to  empty  hopes  of  fu- 
ture felicity,  or  such  our  unwillingness  to  fore- 
see what  we  dread,  that  every  calamity  cornea 
suddenly  upon  us,  and  not  only  presses  us  as 
a  burden,  but  crushes  as  a  blow. 

There  are  evils  which  happen  out  of  the  com- 
mon course  of  nature,  against  which  it  is  no  re- 
proach not  to  be  provided.  A  flash  of  light- 
ning intercepts  the  traveller  in  his  way.  The 
concussion  of  an  earthquake  heaps  the  ruins 
of  cities  upon  their  inhabitants.  But  other 
miseries  time  brings,  though  silently,  yet  vi 
sibly,  forward  by  its  even  lapse,  which  yet  ap- 
proach us  unseen,  because  we  turn  our  eyes 
away,  and  seize  us  unresisted,  because  we 
could  not  arm  ourselves  against  them  but  by 
setting  them  before  us. 

That  it  is  vain  to  shrink  from  what  cannot 
be  avoided,  and  to  hide  that  from  ourselves 
which  must  sometime  be  found,  is  a  truth  which 
we  all  know,  but  which  all  neglect,  and  per- 
laps  none  more  than  the  speculative  reasoner, 
whose  thoughts  are  always  from  home,  whose 
ye  wanders  over  life,  whose  fancy  dances 
after  meteors  of  happiness  -kindled  by  itself, 
and  who  examines  every  thing  rather  than 
iis  own  state. 

Nothing  is  more  evident  than  that  the  decays 
of  age  must  terminate  in  death ;  yet  there  is 
no  man,  says  Tully,  who  does  not  believe  that 
ic  may  yet  live  another  year;  and  there  is 
none  who  does  not,  upon  the  same  principle, 
lope  another  year  for  his  parent  or  his  friend  ; 
>ut  the  fallacy  will  be  in  time  detected ;  the 
ast  year,  the  last  day,  must  come.  It  has  come, 
and  is  past.  The  life  which  made  my  own  lifo 
)leasant  is  at  an  end,  and  the  gates  of  death 
are  shut  upon  my  prospects. 

The  loss  of  a  friend  upon  whom  the  heart  was 
ixed,  to  whom  every  wish  and  endeavour 
ended,  is  a  state  of  dreary  desolation,  in 
which  the  mind  looks  abroad  impatient  of  it 
self,  and  finds  nothing  but  emptiness  and  hor- 
The  blameless  life,  the  artless  tender- 
ness, the  pious  simplicity,  the  modest  resigna- 
ion,  the  patient  sickness,  and  the  quiet  death, 
are  remembered  only  to  add  value  to  the 
oss,  to  aggravate  regret  for  what  cannot  be 
.mended,  to  deepen  sorrow  for  what  cannot  be 
recalled. 

These  are  the  calamities  by  which  Providence 
gradually  disengages  us  from  the  love  of  life, 
^ther  evils  fortitude  may  repel,  or  hop0  may 
mitigate  j  but  irreparable  privation  leav«  ao« 


398 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  42 


thing  to  exercise  resolution  or  flatter  expecta- 
tion. The  dead  cannot  return,  and  nothing  is 
left  us  here  but  languishment  and  grief. 

Yet  such  is  the  course  of  nature,  that  who- 
ever lives  long  must  outlive  those  whom  he 
loves  and  honours.  Such  is  the  condition  of 
our  present  existence,  that  life  must  one  time 
lose  it,  associations,  and  every  inhabitant  of 
the  earth  must  walk  downward  to  the  grave 
alone  and  unregarded,  without  any  partner  of 
his  joy  or  grief,  without  any  interested  witness 
of  his  misfortunes  or  success. 

Misfortune,  indeed,  he  may  yet  feel;  for 
where  is  the  bottom  of  the  misery  of  man  ?  But 
what  is  success  to  him  that  has  none  to  enjoy 
it  ?  Happiness  is  not  found  in  self-contempla- 
tion :  it  is  perceived  only  when  it  is  reflected 
from  another. 

We  know  little  of  the  state  of  departed  souls, 
because  such  knowledge  is  not  necessary  to  a 
good  life.  Reason  deserts  us  at  the  brink  of 
the  grave,  and  can  give  no  farther  intelligence. 
Revelation  is  not  wholly  silent.  "  There  is 
joy  in  the  angels  of  Heaven  over  one  sinner 
that  repenteth:"  and  surely  this  joy  is  not  in- 
communicable to  souls  disentangled  from  the 
body,  and  made  like  angels. 

Let  hope  therefore  dictate,  what  revelation 
does  not  confute,  that  the  union  of  souls  may 
still  remain  ;  and  that  we  who  are  struggling 
with  sin,  sorrow,  and  infirmities,  may  have  our 
part  in  the  attention  and  kindness  of  those  who 
have  finished  their  course,  and  are  now  receiv- 
ing their  reward. 

These  are  the  great  occasions  which  force  the 
mind  to  take  refuge  in  religion ;  when  we  have 
no  help  in  ourselves,  what  can  remain  but  that 
we  look  up  to  a  higher  and  a  greater  Power  ? 
and  to  what  hope  may  we  not  raise  our  eyes  and 
hearts  when  we  consider  that  the  greatest  pow- 
er is  the  best  ? 

Surely  there  is  no  man  who,  thus  afflicted, 
does  not  seek  succour  in  the  gospel,  which  has 
brought  life  and  immortality  to  light.  The  pre- 
cepts of  Epicurus,  who  teaches  us  to  endure 
what  the  laws  of  the  universe  make  necessary, 
may  silence,  but  not  content  us.  The  dictates 
of  Zeno,  who  commands  us  to  look  with  in- 
difference on  external  things,  may  dispose  us  to 
conceal  our  sorrow,  but  cannot  assuage  it. 
Real  alleviation  of  the  loss  of  friends,  and  ra- 
tional tranquillity  in  the  prospect  of  our  own 
dissolution,  can  be  received  only  from  the 
promises  of  Him  in  whose  hands  are  life  and 
death,  and  from  the  assurance  of  another  and 
better  state,  in  which  all  tears  will  be  wiped 
from  the  eyes,  and  the  whole  soul  shall  be 
filled  with  joy.  Philosophy  may  infuse  stub- 
bornness, but  religion  only  can  give  patience. 
I  am,  &c. 


No.  42.]      SATURDAY,  FEB.  3,  1759. 

THE  subject  of  the  following  letter  is  not 
wholly  unmentioned  by  the  Rambler.  The 
Spectator  has  also  a  letter  containing  a  case 
not  much  different.  I  hope  my  correspon- 
dent's performance  is  more  an  effort  of  genius, 
than  effusion  of  the  passions ;  and  that  she 


hath  rather  attempted  to  paint  some  possible 
distress  than  really  feels  the  evils  she  has  de- 
scribed. 

TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

There  is  a  cause  of  misery,  which,  though  cer- 
tainly known  both  to  you  and  your  predecessors 
has  been  but  little  taken  notice  of  in  your  pa- 
pers ;  I  mean  the  snares  that  the  bad  behaviour 
of  parents  extends  over  the  paths  of  life  which 
their  children  are  to  tread  after  them ;  and  as  I 
make  no  doubt  but  the  Idler  holds  the  shield 
for  virtue  as  well  as  the  glass  for  folly,  that  he 
will  employ  his  leisure  hours  as  much  to  his 
own  satisfaction,  in  warning  his  readers 
against  a  danger,  as  in  laughing  them  out  of 
a  fashion :  for  this  reason  to  ask  admittance 
for  my  story  in  your  paper,  though  it  has  no- 
thing to  recommend  it  but  truth,  and  the 
honest  wish  of  warning  others  to  shun  the 
track  which  I  am  afraid  may  lead  me  at  last  to 
ruin. 

I  am  the  child  of  a  father,  who,  having 
always  lived  in  one  spot  in  the  country  where 
he  was  born,  and  having  had  no  genteel  edu- 
cation himself,  thought  no  qualification  in  the 
world  desirable  but  as  they  led  up  to  fortune, 
and  no  learning  necessary  to  happiness  but  such 
as  might  most  effectually  teach  me  to  make  the 
best  market  of  myself:  I  was  unfortunately 
born  a  beauty,  to  a  full  sense  of  which  my  fa- 
ther took  care  to  flatter  me  ;  and  having,  when 
very  young,  put  me  to  school  in  the  country, 
afterwards  transplanted  me  to  another  in  town, 
at  the  instigation  of  his  friends,  where  his  ill- 
judged  fondness  let  me  remain  no  longer  than 
to  learn  just  enough  experience  to  convince  me 
of  the  sordidness  of  his  views,  to  give  me  an 
idea  of  perfections  which  my  present  situation 
will  never  suffer  me  to  reach,  and  to  teach  me 
sufficient  morals  to  dare  to  despise  what  is  bad, 
though  it  be  in  a  father. 

Thus  equipped  (as  he  thought  completely)  for 
life,  I  was  carried  back  into  the  county,  and 
lived  with  him  and  my  mother  in  a  small  vil 
lage,  within  a  few  miles  of  the  county-town , 
where  I  mixed,  at  first  with  reluctance,  among 
company  which,  though  I  never  despised,  I 
could  not  approve,  as  they  were  brought  up 
with  other  inclinations  and  narrowerviews  than 
my  own.  My  father  took  great  pains  to  show 
me  every  where,  both  at  his  own  house,  and 
at  such  public  diversions  as  the  country  afford- 
ed :  he  frequently  told  the  people  all  he  had 
was  for  his  daughter  ;  took  care  to  repeat  the 
civilities  I  had  recived  from  all  his  friends  in 
London  ;  told  how  much  I  was  admired,  all 
his  little  ambition  could  suggest  to  set  me  in 
a  stronger  light 

Thus  have  I  continued  tricked  out  for  sale,  as 
I  may  call  it,  and  doomed,  by  parental  authori- 
ty, to  a  state  little  better  than  that  of  prostitu- 
tion. I  look  on  myself  as  growing  cheaper  every 
hour,  and  am  losing  all  that  honest  pride,  that 
modest  confidence,  in  which  the  virgin  dignity 
consists.  Nor  does  my  misfortune  stop  here  • 
though  many  would  be  too  generous  to  impute 
the  follies  of  a  father  to  a  child  whoso  heart  has 


No.  43.] 


THE  IDLER. 


397 


set  her  above  them  ;  yet  I  am  afraid  the  most 
charitable  of  them  will  hardly  think  it  possible 
for  me  to  be  daily  spectatress  of  his  vices  with- 
out tacitly  allowing  them,  and  at  last  consent- 
ing to  them,  as  the  eye  of  the  frighted  infant 
is,  by  degrees  reconciled  to  the  darkness  of 
which  at  first  it  was  afraid.  It  is  a  common 
opinion,  he  himself  must  very  well  know,  that 
vices,  like  diseases,  are  often  hereditary ;  and 
that  the  property  of  the  one  is  to  infect  the 
manners,  as  the  other  poisons  the  springs  of 
life. 

Yet  this  though  bad,  is  not  the  worst ;  my 
father  deceives  himself  the  hopes  of  the  very 
child  he  has  brought  into  the  world  ;  he  suffers 
his  house  to  be  the  seat  of  drunkenness,  riot, 
and  irreligion :  who  seduces,  almost  in  my 
sight,  the  menial  servant,  converses  with  the 
prostitute,  and  corrupts  the  wife  !  Thus  I,  who 
from  my  earliest  dawn  of  reason  was  taught  to 
think  that  at  my  approach  every  eye  sparkled 
with  pleasure,  or  was  dejected  as  conscious  of 
superior  charms,  am  excluded  from  society, 
through  fear  lest  I  should  partake,  if  not  of 
my  father's  crimes,  at  least  of  his  reproach. 
Is  a  parent,  who  is  so  little  solicitous  for  the 
welfare  of  a  child,  better  than  a  pirate  who 
turns  a  wretch  adrift  in  a  boat  at  sea,  without 
a  star  to  steer  by,  or  an  anchor  to  hold  it  fast  ? 
Am  I  not  to  lay  all  my  miseries  at  those  doors 
which  ought  to  have  opened  only  for  my  protec- 
tion ?  And  if  doomed  to  add  at  last  one  more 
to  the  number  of  those  wretches  whom  neither 
the  world  nor  its  law  befriends,  may  I  not 
justly  say  that  I  have  been  awed  by  a  parent 
into  ruin  ?  But  though  a  parent's  power  is 
screened  from  insult  and  violation  by  the  very 
words  of  Heaven,  yet  surely  no  laws,  divine 
or  human,  forbid  me  to  remove  myself  from 
the  malignant  shade  of  a  plant  that  poisons  all 
around  it,  blasts  the  bloom  of  youth,  checks  its 
improvements,  and  makes  all  its  flowerets  fade; 
but  to  whom  can  the  wretched,  can  the  depen- 
dent fly  ?  For  me  to  fly  a  father's  house,  is  to 
be  a  beggar  ;  I  have  only  one  comforter  amidst 
my  anxieties,  a  pious  relation,  who  bids  me 
appeal  to  Heaven  for  a  witness  of  my  just  in- 
tentions, fly  as  a  deserted  wretch  to  its  protec- 
tion ;  and  being  asked  who  my  father  is,  point, 
like  the  ancient  philosopher,  with  my  finger  to 
the  heavens. 

The  hope  in  which  I  write  this,  is,  that  you 
will  give  it  a  place  in  your  paper ;  and  as  your 
essays  sometimes  find  their  way  into  the  coun- 
try, that  my  father  may  read  my  story  there  ; 
and,  if  not  for  his  own  sake  yet  for  mine,  spare 
to  perpetuate  that  worst  of  calamities  to  me, 
the  loss  of  character,  from  which  all  his  dis- 
simulation has  not  been  able  to  rescue  himself. 
Tell  the  world,  Sir,  that  it  is  possible  for  virtue 
to  keep  its  throne  unshaken  without  any  other 
guard  than  itself;  that  it  is  possible  to  maintain 
that  purity  of  thought  so  necessary  to  the  com- 
pletion of  human  excellence  even  in  the  midst 
of  temptations ;  when  they  have  no  friend 
within,  nor  are  assisted  by  the  voluntary  indul- 
gence of  vicious  thoughts. 

If  the  insertion  of  a  story  like  this  does  not 
break  in  on  the  plan  of  your  paper,  you  have  it 


in  your  power  to  be  a  better  friend  than  her 
father  to 

PERDITA. 


No.  43.]     SATURDAY,  FEB.  10,  1759. 

THE  natural  advantages  which  arise  from  the 
position  of  the  earth  which  we  inhabit,  with 
respect  to  the  other  planets,  afford  much  em- 
ployment to  mathematical  speculation,  by 
which  it  has  been  discovered,  that  no  other 
conformation  of  the  system  could  have  given 
such  commodious  distributions  of  light  and 
heat,  or  imparted  fertility  and  pleasure  to  so 
great  a  part  of  a  revolving  sphere. 

It  may  be,  perhaps,  observed  by  the  moralist, 
with  equal  reason,  that  our  globe  seems  particu- 
larly fitted  for  the  residence  of  a  being,  placed 
here  only  for  a  short  time,  whose  task  is,  to  ad- 
vance himself-  to  a  higher  and  happier  state  of 
existence,  by  unremitted  vigilance  of  caution, 
and  activity  of  virtue. 

The  duties  required  of  a  man  are  such  as  hu- 
man nature  does  not  willingly  perform,  and 
such  as  those  are  inclined  to  delay  who  yet  in- 
tend some  time  to  fufil  them.  It  was  there- 
fore necessary  that  this  universal  reluctance 
should  be  conteracted,  and  the  drowsiness  of 
hesitation  wakened  into  resolve  ;  that  the  dan- 
ger of  procrastination  should  be  always  in 
view,  and  the  fallacies  of  security  be  hourly 
detected. 

To  this  end  all  the  appearances  of  nature  uni- 
formly conspire.  Whatever  we  see  on  every 
side  reminds  us  of  the  lapse  of  time  and  the  flux 
of  life.  The  day  and  night  succeed  each  other, 
the  rotation  of  seasons  diversifies  the  year,  the 
sun  rises,  attains  the  meridian,  declines  and 
sets ;  and  the  moon  every  night  changes  its 
form. 

The  day  has  been  considered  as  an  image  of 
the  year  and  the  year  as  the  representation  of 
life.  The  morning  answers  to  the  spring,  and 
the  spring  to  childhood  and  youth  ;  the  noon 
corresponds  to  the  summer,  and  the  summer  to 
the  strength  of  manhood.  The  evening  is  an 
emblem  of  autumn,  and  autumn  of  declining  life. 
The  night  with  its  silence  and  darkness  shows 
the  winter,  in  which  all  the  powers  of  vegeta- 
tion are  benumbed  ;  and  the  winter  points  out 
the  time  when  life  shall  cease,  with  its  hopes 
and  pleasures. 

He  that  is  carried  forward,  however  swiftly, 
by  a  motion  equable  and  easy,  perceives  not  the 
change  of  place  but  by  the  variation  of  ob- 
jects. If  the  wheel  of  life,  which  rolls  thus 
silently  along,  passed  on  through  undistinguish- 
able  uniformity,  we  should  never  mark  its  ap- 
proaches to  the  end  of  the  course.  If  one  hour 
were  like  another  ;  if  the  passage  of  the  sun  did 
not  show  that  the  day  is  wasting ;  if  the  change 
of  seasons  did  not  impress  upon  us  the  flight  of 
the  year;  quantities  of  duration  equal  to  days 
and  years  would  glide  unobserved.  If  the  parts 
of  time  were  not  variously  coloured,  we  should 
never  discern  their  departure  or  succession,  but 
should  live  thoughtless  of  the  past,  and  careless 
of  the  future,  without  will,  and  perhaps  with- 
out power,  to  compute  the  periods  of  life,  or  to 


398 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  44. 


compare  the  time  which  is  already  lost  with 
thut  which  may  probably  remain. 

But  the  course  of  time  is  so  visibly  marked, 
that  it  is  observed  even  by  the  birds  of  passage, 
and  by  nations  who  have  raised  their  minds 
very  little  above  animal  instinct ;  there  are  hu- 
man beings  whose  language  does  not  supply 
them  with  words  by  which  they  can  number 
five,  but  I  have  read  of  none  that  have  not 
names  for  day  and  night,  for  summer  and 
winter. 

Yet  it  is  certain  that  these  admonitions  of  na- 
ture, however  forcible,  however  importunate, 
are  too  often  vain ;  and  that  many  who  mark 
with  such  accuracy  the  course  of  time,  appear 
to  have  little  sensibility  of  the  decline  of  life. 
Every  man  has  something  to  do  which  he  ne- 

flects ;  every  man  has  faults  to  conquer  which 
e  delays  to  combat 

So  little  do  we  accustom  ourselves  to  consider 
the  effects  of  time,  that  things  necessary  and 
certain  often  surprise  us  like  unexpected  con- 
tingencies. We  leave  the  beauty  in  her  bloom, 
and,  after  an  absence  of  twenty  years,  wonder, 
at  our  return,  to  find  her  faded.  We  meet 
those  whom  we  left  children,  and  can  scarcely 
persuade  ourselves  to  treat  them  as  men.  The 
traveller  visits  in  age  those  countries  through 
which  he  rambled  in  his  youth,  and  hopes  for 
merriment  at  the  old  place.  The  man  of  busi- 
ness wearied  with  unsatisfactory  prosperity, 
retires  to  the  town  of  his  nativity,  and  expects 
to  play  away  the  last  years  with  the  compan- 
ions of  his  childhood,  and  recover  youth  in  the 
fields  where  he  once  was  young. 

From  this  inattention,  so  general  and  so  mis- 
chievous, let  it  be  every  man's  study  to  exempt 
himself.  Let  him  that  desires  to  see  others 
happy,  make  haste  to  give  while  his  gift  can  be 
enjoyed,  and  remember  that  every  moment  of 
delay  takes  away  something  from  the  value  of 
his  benefaction.  And  let  him,  who  purposes 
his  own  happiness,  reflect,  that  while  he  forms 
his  purpose  the  day  rolls  on,  and  "  the  night 
cometh  when  no  man  can  work!" 


No.  44.]     SATURDAY,  FEB.  17,  1759. 

MEMORY  is,  among  the  faculties  of  the  human 
mind,  that  of  which  we  make  the  most  frequent 
use,  or  rather  that  of  which  the  agency  is  in- 
cessant or  perpetual.  Memory  is  the  primary 
and  fundamental  power,  without  which  there 
could  be  no  other  intellectual  operation.  Judg- 
ment and  ratiocination  suppose  something  al- 
ready known,  and  draw  their  decisions  only 
from  experience.  Imagination  selects  ideas 
from  the  treasures  of  remembrance,  and  pro- 
duces novelty  only  by  varied  combinations. 
We  do  not  even  form  conjectures  of  distant,  or 
anticipations,  of  future  events,  but  by  conclud- 
ing what  is  possible  from  what  is  past. 

The  two  offices  of  memory  are  collection  and 
distribution  ;  by  one  images  are  accumulated, 
and  by  the  other  produced  for  use.  Collection 
is  always  the  employment  of  our  first  years  ; 
and  distribution  commonly  that  of  our  advanc- 
ed age. 

To  collect  and  reposit  the  various  forms  of 


things,  is  far  the  most  pleasing  part  of  mental 
occupation.  We  are  naturally  delighted  with 
novelty,  and  there  is  a  time  when  all  that  we 
see  is  new.  When  first  we  enter  into  the  world, 
whithersoever  we  turn  our  eyes,  they  meet 
Knowledge  with  Pleasure  at  her  side  ;  every 
diversity  of  nature  pours  ideas  in  upon  the  soul; 
neither  search  nor  labour  are  necessary  ;  we 
have  nothing  more  to  do  than  to  open  our  eyes, 
and  curiosity  is  gratified. 

Much  of  the  pleasure  which  the  first  survey 
of  the  world  affords,  is  exhausted  before  we  are 
conscious  of  our  own  felicity,  or  able  to  compare 
our  condition  with  some  other  possible  state. 
We  have  therefore  few  traces  of  the  joy  of  our 
earliest  discoveries ;  yet  we  all  remember  a  time 
when  nature  had  so  many  untasted  gratifica- 
tions, that  every  excursion  gave  delight  which 
can  now  be  found  no  longer,  when  the  noise  of 
a  torrent,  the  rustle  of  a  wood,  the  song  of  birds, 
or  the  play  of  lambs,  had  power  to  fill  the  at- 
tention, and  suspend  all  perception  of  the  course 
of  time. 

But  these  easy  pleasures  are  soon  at  end ;  we 
have  seen  in  a  very  little  time  so  much,  that  we 
call  out  for  new  objects  of  observation,  and  en 
deavour  to  find  variety  in  books  and  life.  But 
study  is  laborious,  and  not  always  satisfactory ; 
and  conversation  has  its  pains  as  well  as  plea- 
sures ;  we  are  willing  to  learn  but  not  will- 
ing to  be  taught ;  we  are  pained  by  ignorance, 
but  pained  yet  more  by  another's  knowledge. 

From  the  vexation  of  pupilage  men  common 
ly  set  themselves  free  about  the  middle  of  life, 
by  shutting  up  the  avenues  of  intelligence,  and 
resolving  to  rest  in  their  present  state  ;  and 
they,  whose  ardour  of  inquiry  continues  longer, 
find  themselves  insensibly  forsaken  by  their  in- 
structors.  As  every  man  advances  in  life,  the 
proportion  between  those  that  are  younger  and 
that  are  older  than  himself,  is  continually 
changing  ;  and  he  that  has  lived  half  a  century 
finds  few  that  do  not  require  from  him  that  in- 
formation which  he  once  expected  from  those 
that  went  before  him. 

Then  it  is  that  the  magazines  of  memory  are 
opened,  and  the  stores  of  accumulated  know- 
ledge are  displayed  by  vanity  or  benevolence, 
or  in  honest  commerce  of  mutual  interest. 
Every  man  wants  others,  and  is  therefore  glad 
when  he  is  wanted  by  them.  And  as  few  men 
will  endure  the  labour  of  intense  meditation 
without  necessity,  he  that  has  learned  enough 
for  his  profit  or  his  honour,  seldom  endeavours 
after  further  acquisitions. 

The  pleasure  of  recollecting  speculative  no- 
tions would  not  be  much  less  than  that  of  gain- 
ing them,  if  they  could  be  kept  pure  and 
unmingled  with  the  passages  of  life  ;  but  such 
is  the  necessary  concatention  of  our  thoughts, 
that  good  and  evil  are  linked  together,  aifd  no 
pleasure  recurs  but  associated  with  pain.  Every 
revived  idea  reminds  us  of  a  time,  vhen  some- 
thing was  enjoyed  that  is  now  lo.«t,  when  some 
hope  was  yet  not  blasted,  when  some  purpose 
had  yet  not  languished  into  sluggishness  or  in- 
difference. 

Whether  it  be  that  life  has  more  vexations 
than  comforts,  or,  what  is  in  the  event  just  the 
same,  that  evil  makes  deeper  impression  than 


No.  45.] 


THE  IDLER. 


399 


good,  it  is  certain  that  no  man  can  review  the 
time  past  without  heaviness  of  heart.  He  re- 
members many  calamities  incurred  by  folly, 
many  oppotunities  lost  by  negligence.  The 
shades  of  the  dead  rise  up  before  him ;  and  he 
laments  the  companions  of  his  youth,  the  part- 
ners of  his  amusements,  the  assistants  of  his 
labours,  whom  the  hand  of  death  has  snatched 
away. 

When  an  offer  was  made  to  Themistocles  of 
teaching  him  the  art  of  memory,  he  answered, 
that  he  would  rather  wish  for  the  art  of  forget- 
fulness.  He  felt  his  imagination  haunted  by 
phantoms  of  misery  which  he  was  unable  to 
suppress,  and  would  gladly  have  calmed  his 
thoughts  with  some  oblivious  antidote.  In 
this  we  all  resemble  one  another :  the  hero 
and  the  sage  are  like  vulgar  mortals,  overbur- 
dened by  the  weight  of  fife ;  all  shrink  from 
recollection,  and  all  wish  for  an  art  of  forget- 
fulness. 


No.  45.]     SATURDAY,  FEB.  24,  1758. 

THERE  is  in  many  minds  a  kind  of  vanity  ex- 
erted to  the  disadvantage  of  themselves  ;  a  de- 
sire to  be  praised  for  superior  acuteness  disco- 
vered only  in  the  degradation  of  their  species, 
or  censure  of  their  country. 

Defamation  is  sufficiently  copious.  The  gen- 
eral lampooner  of  mankind  my  find  long  exer- 
cise for  his  zeal  or  wit,  in  the  defects  of  nature, 
ihe  vexations  of  life,  the  follies  of  opinion,  and 
the  corruptions  of  practice.  But  fiction  is  easi- 
er than  discernment ;  and  most  of  these  writers 
spare  themselves  the  labour  of  inquiry,  and  ex- 
haust their  virulence  upon  imaginary  crimes, 
which,  as  they  never  existed  can  never  be 
mended. 

That  the  painters  find  no  encouragement 
among  the  English  for  many  other  works  than 
portraits,  has  been  imputed  to  national  selfish- 
ness. 'Tis  vain,  says  the  satirist,  to  set  before 
any  Englishman  the  scenes  of  landscapes,  or  the 
heroes  of  history ;  nature  and  antiquity  are 
nothing  in  his  eye ;  he  has  no  value  but  for 
himself,  nor  desires  any  copy  but  of  his  own 
form. 

Whoever  is  delighted  with  his  own  picture 
must  derive  his  pleasure  from  the  pleasure  of 
another.  Every  man  is  always  present  to  him- 
self, and  has,  therefore,  little  need  of  his  own 
resemblance,  nor  can  desire  it,  but  for  the  sake 
of  those  whom  he  loves,  and  by  whom  he 
hopes  to  be  remembered.  This  use  of  the  art  is 
a  natural  and  reasonable  consequence  of  affec- 
tion ;  and  though,  like  other  human  actions,  it 
is  often  complicated  with  pride,  yet  even  such 
pride  is  more  laudable  than  that,  by  which  pa- 
laces are  covered  with  pictures,  that,  however 
excellent,  neither  imply  the  owner's  virtue  nor 
excite  it. 

Genius  is  chiefly  exerted  in  historical  pic- 
tures ;  and  the  art  of  the  painter  of  portraits  is 
often  lost  in  the  obscurity  of  his  subject.  But 
it  is  in  painting  as  in  life,  what  is  greatest  is 
not  always  best.  I  should  grieve  to  see  Rey- 
nolds transfer  to  heroes  and  to  goddesses,  to 


empty  splendour  and  to  airy  fiction,  that  art 
which  is  now  employed  in  diffusing  friendship, 
in  reviving  tenderness,  in  quickening  the  affec- 
tions of  the  absent,  and  continuing  the  presence 
of  the  dead. 

Yet  in  a  nation,  great  and  opulent,  there  is 
room,  and  ought  to  be  patronage,  for  an  art  like 
that  of  painting  through  all  its  diversities  ;  and 
it  is  to  be  wished,  that  the  reward  now  offered 
for  an  historical  picture  may  excite  an  honest 
emulation,  and  give  beginning  to  an  English 
school. 

It  is  not  very  easy  to  find  an  action  or  event 
that  can  be  efficaciously  represented  by  a 
painter. 

He  must  have  an  action  not  successive,  but 
instantaneous ;  for  the  time  of  a  picture  is  a 
single  moment.  For  this  reason  the  death  of 
Hercules  cannot  well  be  painted,  though  at  the 
first  view  it  flatters  the  imagination  with  very 
glittering  ideas  ;  the  gloomy  mountain  over- 
hanging the  sea,  and  covered  with  trees,  some 
bending  to  the  wind,  and  some  torn  from  the 
root  by  the  raging  hero ;  the  violence  with  which 
he  sends  from  his  shoulders  the  envenomed  gar- 
ment ;  the  propriety  with  which  his  muscular 
nakedness  may  be  displayed :  the  death  of 
Lycas  whirled  from  the  promontory;  the  gigan- 
tic presence  of  Philoctetes  ;  the  blaze  of  the 
fatal  pile,  which  the  deities  behold  with  gri^f 
and  terror  from  the  sky. 

All  these  images  fill  the  mind,  but  will  not 
compose  a  picture,  because  they  cannot  be 
united  in  a  single  moment.  Hercules  must 
have  rent  his  flesh  at  one  time,  and  tossed 
Lycas  into  the  air  at  another ;  he  must  first 
tear  up  the  trees,  and  then  lie  down  upon  the 
pile. 

The  action  must  be  circumstantial  and  dis- 
tinct There  is  a  passage  in  the  Iliad  which 
cannot  be  read  without  strong  emotions.  A 
Trojan  prince,  seized  by  Achilles  in  the  battle, 
falls  at  his  feet,  and  in  moving  terms  supplicates 
for  life.  "  How  can  a  wretch  like  thee,"  says 
the  haughty  Greek,  "  intreat  to  live  when  thou 
knowest  that  the  time  must  come  when  Achilles 
is  to  die  ?"  This  cannot  be  painted,  because  no 
peculiarity  of  attitude  or  disposition  can  so  sup- 
ply the  place  of  language  as  to  impiess  the 
sentiment. 

The  event  painted  must  be  such  as  excites 
passions,  and  different  passions  in  the  several 
actors  or  a  tumult  of  contending  passion  in 
the  chief. 

Perhaps  the  discovery  of  Ulysses  by  his  nurse 
is  of  this  kind.  The  surprise  of  the  nurse 
mingled  with  joy ;  that  of  Ulysses  checked  by 
prudence,  and  clouded  by  solicitude  ;  and  the 
distinctness  of  the  action  by  which  the  scar  is 
found  ;  all  concur  to  complete  the  subject.  But 
the  picture,  having  only  two  figures,  will  want 
variety. 

A  much  nobler  assemblage  may  be  furnished 
by  the  death  of  Epaminondas.  The  mixture  of 
gladness  and  grief  in  the  face  of  the  messenger 
who  brings  his  dying  general  an  account  of 
the  victory  ;  the  various  passions  of  the  atten- 
dants ;  the  sublimity  of  composure  in  the  he- 
ro, while  the  dart  is  by  his  own  command 
drawn  from  his  side,  and  the  faint  gleam  of 


400 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  46. 


•atisfaction  that  dift'uses  itself  over  the  languor 
of  death,  are  worthy  of  that  pencil  which  yet 
I  do  not  wish  to  see  employed  upon  them. 

If  the  design  vvere  not  too  multifarious  and 
extensive,  I  should  wish  that  our  painters 
would  attempt  the  dissolution  of  the  parlia- 
ment by  Cromwell.  The  point  of  time  may 
be  chosen  when  Cromwell  looked  round  the 
Pandaemonium  with  contempt,  ordered  the 
bauble  to  be  taken  away ;  and  Harrison  laid 
hands  on  the  speaker  to  drag  him  from  the 
chair. 

The  various  appearances  which  rage,  and  ter- 
ror, and  astonishment,  and  guilt,  might  exhibit 
in  the  faces  of  that  hateful  assembly,  of  whom 
the  principal  persons  may  be  faithfully  drawn 
from  portraits  or  prints  ;  the  irresolute  repug- 
nance of  some,  the  hypocritical  submission  of 
others,  the  ferocious  insolence  of  Cromwell,  the 
rugged  brutality  of  Harrison,  and  the  general 
trepidation  of  fear  and  wickedness,  would,  if 
some  proper  disposition  could  be  contrived, 
make  a  picture  of  unexampled  variety,  and  ir- 
resistible instruction. 


No.  46.]    SATURDAY,  MARCH  3,  1759. 

MR.  IDLER, 

I  AM  encouraged,  by  the  notice  you  have  taken 
of  Betty  Broom,  to  represent  the  miseries  which 
I  suffer  from  a  species  of  tyranny  which,  I  be- 
lieve, is  not  very  uncommon,  though  perhaps  it 
may  have  escaped  the  observation  of  those  who 
converse  little  with  fine  ladies,  or  see  them 
only  in  their  public  characters. 

To  this  method  of  venting  my  vexation  I 
am  the  more  inclined,  because  if  I  do  not  com- 
plain to  you,  I  must  burst  in  silence  ;  for  my 
mistress  has  teased  me,  and  teased  me  till  I 
can  hold  no  longer,  and  yet  I  must  not  tell 
her  of  her  tricks.  The  girls  that  live  in  com- 
mon services  can  quarrel,  and  give  warning, 
and  find  other  places  ;  but  we  that  live  with 
great  ladies,  if  we  once  offend 'them,  have 
nothing  left  but  to  return  into  the  country. 

I  am  waiting  maid  to  a  lady  who  keeps  the 
best  company,  and  is  seen  at  every  place  of  fa- 
shionable resort.  I  am  envied  by  all  the  maids 
in  the  square,  for  few  countesses  leave  off  so 
many  clothes  as  my  mistress,  and  nobody  shares 
with  me  ;  so  that  I  supply  two  families  in  the 
country  with  finery  for  the  assizes  and  horse- 
races, besides  what  I  wear  myself.  The  stew- 
ard and  house-keeper  have  joined  against  me  to 
procure  my  removal,  that  they  may  advance  a 
relation  of  their  own  ;  but  their  designs  are 
found  out  by  my  lady,  who  says  I  need  not  fear 
them,  for  she  will  never  have  dow  dies  about 
her. 

You  would  think,  Mr.  Idler,  like  others,  that 
I  am  very  happy,  and  may  well  be  contented 
with  my  lot.  But  I  will  tell  you.  My  lady 
has  an  odd  humour.  She  never  orders  any 
thing  in  direct  words,  for  she  loves  a  sharp 
girl  that  can  take  a  hint. 

I  would  not  have  you  suspect  that  she  has 
any  thing  to  hint  which  she  is  ashamed  to 
speak  at  length ;  for  none  can  have  greater 
purity  of  sentiment,  or  rectitude  of  intention. 


She  has  nothing  to  hide,  yet  nothing  will  she 
tell.  She  always  gives  her  directions  oblique 
and  allusively,  by  the  mention  of  something 
relative  or  consequential,  without  any  other 
purpose  than  to  exercise  my  acuteness  and 
her  own. 

It  is  impossible  to  give  a  notion  of  this  style 
otherwise  than  by  examples.  One  night,  when 
she  had  sat  writing  letters  till  it  was  time  to  be 
dressed,  "  Molly,"  said  she,  "  the  ladies  are 
all  to  be  at  court  to-night  in  white  aprons." 
When  she  means  that  I  should  send  to  order 
the  chair,  she  says,  "  I  think  the  streets  are 
clean  I  may  venture  to  walk."  When  she 
would  have  something  put  into  its  place,  she 
bids  me  "  lay  it  on  the  floor."  If  she  would 
have  me  snuff  the  candles,  she  asks,  "  whe- 
ther I  think  her  eyes  are  like  a  cat's  ?"  If 
she  thinks  her  chocolate  delayed,  she  talks  of 
the  benefit  of  abstinence.  If  any  needle- 
work is  forgotten,  she  supposes  that  I  have 
heard  of  the  lady  who  died  by  pricking  her 
finger. 

She  always  imagines  that  I  can  recall  every 
thing  past  from  a  single  word.  If  she  wants 
her  head  from  the  milliner  she  only  says, 
"  Molly,  you  know  Mrs.  Tape."  If  she  would 
have  the  mantua-maker  sent  for,  she  remarks 
that  "Mr.  Taffety,  the  mercer,  was  here  last 
week."  She  ordered,  a  fortnight  ago,  that  the 
first  time  she  was  abroad  all-day  I  should  choose 
her  a  new  set  of  coffee-cups  at  the  china-shop  ; 
of  this  she  reminded  me  yesterday,  as  she  was 
going  down  stairs,  by  saying,  "  You  can't  find 
your  way  now  to  Pail-Mall." 

All  this  would  not  vex  me,  if,  by  increasing 
my  trouble,  she  spared  her  own  ;  but,  dear 
Mr.  Idler,  is  it  not  as  easy  to  say  coffee-cups, 
as  Pall-Mall  ?  and  to  tell  me  in  plain  words  what 
I  am  to  do,  and  when  it  is  to  be  done,  as  to 
torment  her  own  head  with  the  labour  of  find- 
ing hints,  and  mine  with  that  of  understand- 
ing them  ? 

When  first  I  came  to  this  lady,  I  had  nothing 
like  the  learning  that  I  have  now  ;  for  she  has 
many  books,  and  I  have  much  time  to  read  ;  so 
that  of  late  I  have  seldom  missed  her  meaning  : 
but  when  she  first  took  me  I  was  an  ignorant 
girl ;  and  she,  who,  as  is  very  common,  con- 
founded want  of  knowledge  with  want  of  un- 
derstanding, began  once  to  despair  of  bringing 
me  to  any  thing,  because,  when  I  came  into  her 
chamber  at  the  call  of  her  bell,  she  asked  me, 
"  Whether  we  lived  in  Zembla ;"  and  I  did  not 
guess  the  meaning  of  inquiry,  but  modestly 
answered  that  I  could  not  tell.  She  had  hap- 
pened to  ring  once  when  I  did  not  hear  her, 
and  meant  to  put  me  in  mind  of  that  country 
where  sounds  are  said  to  be  congealed  by  the 
frost. 

Another  time,  as  I  was  dressing  her  head, 
she  began  to  talk  on  a  sudden  of  Medusa  and 
snakes,  and  "men  turned  into  stone,  and  maids 
that,  if  they  were  not  watched,  would  let  their 
mistresses  be  Gorgons."  I  looked  round  me 
half  frightened,  and  quite  bewildered ;  till  at 
last,  finding  that  her  literature  was  thrown 
away  upon  me,  she  bid  me,  with  great  vehe- 
mence, reach  the  curling-irons. 

It  is  not  without  some  indignation,  Mr.  Idler, 


No.  47. 


THE  IDLER. 


40 


that  I  discover,  in  these  artifices  of  vexation, 
something  worse  than  foppery  or  caprice  ;  a 
mean  delight  in  superiority,  which  knows  itself 
in  no  danger  of  reproof  or  opposition  ;  a  cruel 
pleasure  in  seeing  the  perplexity  of  a  mind 
obliged  to  find  what  is  studiously  concealed, 
and  a  mean  indulgence  of  petty  malevolence 
in  the  sharp  censure  of  involuntary,  and  very 
often  of  inevitable  failings.  When,  beyond 
her  expectation,  I  hit  upon  her  meaning  I 
can  perceive  a  sudden  cloud  of  disappointment 
spread  over  her  face ;  and  have  sometimes 
been  afraid  lest  I  should  lose  her  favour  by 
understanding  her  when  she  means  to  puz- 
zle me. 

This  day,  however,  she  has  conquered  my 
sagacity.  When  she  went  out  of  her  dressing- 
room  she  said  nothing  but  "  Molly,  you  know," 
and  hastened  to  her  chariot.  What  I  am  to 
know  is  yet  a  secret ;  but  if  I  do  not  know 
before  she  comes  back,  what  I  have  yet  no 
means  of  discovering,  she  will  make  my  dul- 
ness  a  pretence  for  a  fortnight's  ill  humour, 
treat  me  as  a  creature  devoid  of  the  faculties 
necessary  to  the  common  duties  of  life,  and 
perhaps  give  the  next  gown  to  the  house- 
keeper. 

I  am,  Sir, 

Your  humble  servant, 

MOLLY  Q.UICK. 


No  47.]  SATURDAY,  MARCH  10,  1759. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

MR.  IDLER, 

I  AM  the  unfortunate  wife  of  a  city  wit,  and 
cannot  but  think  that  my  case  may  deserve 
equal  compassion  with  any  of  those  which  have 
been  represented  in  your  paper. 

I  married  my  husband  within  three  months 
after  the  expiration  of  his  apprenticeship  ;  we 
put  our  money  together,  and  furnished  a  large 
and  splendid  shop,  in  which  he  was  for  five 
years  and  a  half  diligent  and  civil.  The  notice 
which  curiosity  or  kindness  commonly  bestows 
on  beginners,  was  continued  by  confidence  and 
esteem  ;  one  customer,  pleased  with  his  treat- 
ment and  his  bargain  recommended  another  ; 
and  we  were  busy  behind  the  counter  from 
morning  to  night. 

Thus  everyday  increased  our  wealth  and  our 
reputation.  My  husband  was  often  invited  to 
dinner  openly  on  the  Exchange  by  hundred- 
thousand-pounds  men  :  and  whenever  I  went 
to  any  of  the  halls,  the  wives  of  the  aldermen 
made  me  low  courtesies.  We  always  took  up 
our  notes  before  the  day,  and  made  all  conside- 
rable payments  by  drafts  upon  our  banker. 

You  will  easily  believe  that  I  was  well 
enough  pleased  with  my  condition  ;  for  what 
happiness  can  be  greater  than  that  of  growing 
every  day  richer  and  richer  ?  I  will  not  deny 
that,  imagining  myself  likely  to  be  in  a  short 
time  the  sheriff's  lady,  1  broke  off  my  acquain- 
tance with  some  of  my  neighbours  ;  and  advis- 
ed my  husband  to  keep  good  company,  and 
not  to  be  seen  with  men  that  were  worth  no- 


3  A 


In  time  he  found  that  ale  disagreed  with  his 
constitution,  and  went  every  nignt  to  drink  his 
pint  at  a  tavern,  where  he  met  with  a  set  of 
critics,  who  disputed  upon  the  merits  of  the 
different  theatrical  performers.  By  these  idle 
fellows  he  was  taken  to  the  play,  which  at  first 
he  did  not  seem  much  to  heed ;  for  he  owned, 
that  he  very  seldom  knew  what  they  were  do- 
ing, and  that,  while  his  companions  would  let 
him  alone,  he  was  commonly  thinking  on  his 
last  bargain. 

Having  once  gone,  however,  he  went  again 
and  again,  though  I  often  told  him  that  three 
shillings  were  thrown  away ;  at  last  he  grew 
uneasy  if  he  missed  anight,  and  importuned  me 
to  go  with  him.  I  went  to  a  tragedy  which 
they  called  Macbeth  ;  and,  when  I  came  home, 
told  him,  that  I  could  not  bear  to  see  men  and 
women  make  themselves  such  fools,  by  pretend- 
ing to  be  witches  and  ghosts,  generals  and 
kings,  and  to  walk  in  their  sleep  when  they 
were  as  much  awake  as  those  that  looked  at 
them.  He  told  me  that  I  must  get  higher 
notions,  and  that  a  play  was  the  most  rational 
of  all  entertainments,  and  most  proper  to  re- 
lax the  mind  after  the  business  of  the  day. 

By  degrees  he  gained  knowledge  of  some  of 
the  players ;  and  when  the  play  was  over,  very 
frequently  treated  them  with  suppers  ;  for 
which  he  was  admitted  to  stand  behind  the 
scenes. 

He  soon  began  to  lose  some  of  his  morning 
hours  in  the  same  folly,  and  was  for  one  winter 
very  diligent  in  his  attendance  on  the  rehear- 
sals ;  but  of  this  species  of  idleness  he  grew 
weary,  and  said,  that  the  play  was  nothing 
without  the  company. 

His  ardour  for  the  diversion  of  the  evening 
increased  ;  he  bought  a  sword,  and  paid  five 
shillings  a  night  to  sit  in  the  boxes  ;  he  went 
sometimes  into  a  place  which  he  calls  the  green- 
room where  all  the  wits  of  the  age  assembled ; 
and,  when  he  had  been  there,  could  do  nothing 
for  two  or  three  days  but  repeat  their  jests,  or 
tell  their  disputesd 

He  has  now  lost  his  regard  for  every  thing 
but  the  play-house  :  he  invites,  three  times  a 
week,  one  or  other  to  drink  claret,  and  talk  of 
the  drama.  His  first  care  in  the  morning  is  to 
read  the  play-bills ;  and,  if  he  remembers  any 
lines  of  the  tragedy  which  is  to  be  represented, 
walks  about  the  shop,  repeating  them  so  loud, 
and  with  such  strange  gestures,  that  the  pas- 
sengers gather  round  the  door. 

His  greatest  pleasure,  when  I  married  him, 
was  to  hear  the  situation  of  his  shop  commend- 
ed, and  to  be  told  how  many  estates  have  been 
got  in  it  by  the  same  trade  ;  but  of  late  he  grows 
peevish  at  any  mention  of  business,  and  delights 
in  nothing  so  much  as  to  be  told  that  he  speaks 
like  Mossop. 

Among  his  new  associates  he  has  learned 
another  language,  and  speaks  in  such  a  strain 
that  his  neighbours  cannot  understand  him. 
If  a  customer  talks  longer  than  he  is  willing 
to  hear,  he  will  complain  that  he  has  been 
excrutiated  with  unmeaning  verbosity ;  he 
laughs  at  the  letters  of  his  friends  for  their 
tameness  of  expression,  and  often  declares 


402 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  35. 


to  the  minutite  ol 


himself  weary  of  attendin 
a  shop. 

It  is  well  for  me  that  I  know  how  to  keep  a 
book,  for  of  late  he  is  scarcely  ever  in  the  way 
Since  one  of  his  friends  told  him  that  he  had  a 
genius  for  tragic  poetry,  he  has  locked  himself 
in  an  upper  room  six  or  seven  hours  a  day ;  and, 
when  I  carry  him  any  paper  to  be  read  or  sign- 
ed, I  hear  him  talking  vehemently  to  himself, 
sometimes  of  love  and  beauty,  sometimes  oi 
friendship  and  virtue,  but  more  frequently  of 
liberty  and  his  country 

I  would  gladly,  Mr.  Idler,  be  informed  what 
to  think  of  a  shopkeeper  who  is  incessantly 
talking  about  liberty ;  a  word  which,  since  his 
acquaintance  with  polite  life,  my  husband  has 
always  in  his  mouth ;  he  is,  on  all  occasions, 
afraid  of  our  liberty,  and  declares  his  resolution 
to  hazard  all  for  liberty.  What  can  the  man 
mean  ?  I  am  sure  he  has  liberty  enough — it 
were  better  for  him  and  me  if  his  liberty  was 
lessened. 

He  has  a  friend  whom  he  calls  a  critic,  that 
comes  twice  a  week  to  read  what  he  is  writing. 
This  critic  tells  him  that  his  piece  is  a  little  ir- 
regular, but  that  some  detached  scenes  will 
shine  prodigiously,  and  that  in  the  character  of 
Bombulus  he  is  wonderfully  great.  My  scrib- 
bler then  squeezes  his  hand,  calls  him  the  best 
of  friends,  thanks  him  for  his  sincerity,  and  tells 
him  that  he  hates  to  be  flattered.  I  have  reason 
to  believe  that  he  seldom  parts  with  his  dear 
friend  without  lending  him  two  guineas,  and 
am  afraid  that  he  gave  bail  for  him  three  days 
ago. 

By  this  course  of  life  our  credit  as  traders  is 
lessened,  and  I  cannot  forbear  to  suspect,  that 
my  husband's  honour  as  a  wit  is  not  much  ad- 
vanced, for  he  seem  to  be  always  the  lowest  of 
the  company,  and  is  afraid  to  tell  his  opinion 
till  the  rest  have  spoken.  When  he  was  behind 
his  counter,  he  used  to  be  brisk,  active,  and  jo- 
cular, like  a  man  that  knew  what  he  was  doing 
and  did  not  fear  to  look  another  in  the  face ; 
but  among  wits  and  critics  he  is  timorous  and 
awkward,  and  hangs  down  his  head  at  his  own 
table.  Dear  Mr.  Idler,  persuade  him,  if  you 
can,  to  return  once  more  to  his  native  element. 
Tell  him,  that  his  wit  will  never  make  him 
rich,  but  that  there  are  places  where  riches  will 
always  make  a  wit. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

DEBORAH  GINGER. 


No.  48.]    SATURDAY,  MARCH  17,  1759. 

THERE  is  no  kind  of  idleness,  by  which  we  are 
so  easily  seduced  as  that  which  dignifies  itself 
by  the  appearance  of  business,  and  by  making 
the  loiterer  imagine  that  he  has  something  to  do 
which  must  not  be  neglected,  keeps  him  in  per- 
petual agitation,  and  hurries  him  rapidly  from 
place  to  place. 

He  that  sits  still  or  reposes  himself  upon  a 
couch,  no  more  deceives  himself  than  he  de- 
ceives others  ;  he  knows  that  he  is  doing  no- 
thing, and  has  no  other  solace  of  his  insigni- 
ficance than  the  resolution,  which  the  lazy 
hourly  make,  of  changing  his  mode  of  life. 


To  do  nothing  every  man  is  ashamed  ;  and 
do  much  almost  every  man  is  unwilling  or  afraid. 
Innumerable  expedients  have  therefore  been 
invented  to  produce  motion  without  labour,  and 
employment  without  solicitude.  The  greater 
part  of  those  whom  the  kindness  of  fortune  has 
left  to  their  own  direction,  and  whom  want  does 
not  keep  chained  to  the  counter  or  the  plough, 
play  throughout  life  with  the  shadows  of  busi- 
ness, and  know  not  at  last  what  they  have  been 
doing. 

These  imitators  of  action  are  of  all  denomi- 
nations. Some  are  seen  at  every  auction  with- 
out intention  to  purchase ;  others  appear  punc- 
tually at  the  Exchange,  though  they  are  known 
there  only  by  their  faces.  Some  are  always 
making  parties  to  visit  collections  for  which 
they  have  no  taste  ;  and  some  neglect  every 
pleasure  and  every  duty  to  hear  questions,  in 
which  they  have  no  interest,  debated  in  par- 
liament. 

These  men  never  appear  more  ridiculous  than 
in  the  distress  which  they  imagine  themselves 
to  feel,  from  some  accidental  interruption  of 
those  empty  pursuits.  A  tiger  newly  imprison- 
ed is  indeed  more  formidable,  but  not  more  an- 
gry, than  Jack  Tulip  withheld  from  a  florist's 
feast,  or  Tom  Distich  hindered  from  seeing  the 
first  representation  of  a  play. 

As  political  affairs  are  the  highest  and  most 
extensive  of  temporal  concerns  ;  the  mimic  of  a 
politician  is  more  busy  and  important  than  any 
other  trifler.  Monsieur  le  Noir,  a  man  who, 
without  property  or  importance  in  any  corner 
of  the  earth,  has,  in  the  present  confusion  of 
the  world,  declared  himself  a  steady  adherent 
to  the  French,  is  made  miserable  by  a  wind 
that  keeps  back  the  packet  boat,  and  still  more 
miserable  by  every  account  of  a  Malouin  pri- 
vateer caught  in  his  cruise ;  he  knows  well 
that  nothing  can  be  done  or  said  by  him  which 
can  produce  any  effect  but  that  of  laughter, 
that  he  can  neither  hasten  or  retard  good  or 
evil,  that  his  joys  and  sorrows  have  scarcely 
any  partakers  ;  yet  such  is  his  zeal,  and  such 
his  curiosity,  that  he  would  run  barefooted  to 
Gravesend,  for  the  sake  of  knowing  first  that 
the  English  had  lost  a  tender,  and  would  ride 
out  to  meet  every  mail  from  the  continent  if  he 
might  be  permitted  to  open  it. 

Learning  is  generally  confessed  to  be  desi- 
rable, and  there  are  some  who  fancy  themselves 
always  busy  in  acquiring  it.  Of  these  ambu- 
latory students,  one  of  the  most  busy  is  my 
friend  Tom  Restless. 

Tom  has  long  had  a  mind  to  be  a  man  of 
knowledge,  but  he  does  not  care  to  spend  much 
time  among  authors ;  for  he  is  of  opinion  that 
few  books  deserve  the  labour  of  perusal,  that 
they  give  the  mind  an  unfashionable  cast,  and 
destroy  that  freedom  of  thought  and  easiness  of 
manners  indispensably  requisite  to  acceptance 
in  the  world.  Tom  has  therefore  found  ano- 
ther way  to  wisdom.  When  he  rises  he  goes 
into  a  coffee-house,  where  he  Creeps  so  near  to 
men  whom  he  takes  to  be  reasoners  as  to  hear 
their  discourse,  and  endeavours  to  remember 
something  which,  when  it  has  been  strained 
through  Tom's  head,  is  so  near  nothing,  that 
what  it  once  was  cannot  be  discovered.  This 


No.  49.1 


THE  IDLER. 


403 


he  carries  round  from  friend  to  friend  through 
a  circle  of  visits,  till,  hearing  what  each  says 
upon  the  question,  he  becomes  able  at  dinner 
to  say  a  little  himself;  and,  as  every  great  ge- 
nius relaxes  himself  among  his  inferiors,  meets 
with  some  who  wonder  how  so  young  a  man 
can  talk  so  wisely. 

At  night  he  has  a  new  feast  prepared  for  his 
intellects;  he  always  runs  to  a  disputing  socie- 
ty, or  a  speaking  club,  where  he  half  hears 
what,  if  he  had  heard  the  whole,  he  would  but 
half  understand  ;  goes  home  pleased  with  the 
consciousness  of  a  day  well  spent,  lies  down 
lull  of  ideas,  and  rises  in  the  morning  empty 
as  before. 


No.  49.]    SATURDAY,  MARCH  24,  1759. 

I  SUPPED  three  nights  ago  with  my  friend  Will 
Marvel.  His  affairs  obliged  him  lately  to  take 
a  journey  into  Devonshire,  from  which  he  has 
just  returned.  He  knows  me  to  be  a  very  pa- 
tient hearer,  and  was  glad  of  my  company,  as 
it  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  disburdening 
himself  by  a  minute  relation  of  the  casualties 
of  his  expedition. 

Will  is  not  one  of  those  who  go  out  and  re- 
turn with  nothing  to  tell.  He  has  a  story  of 
his  travels,  which  will  strike  a  home-bred  citi- 
zen with  horror,  and  has  in  ten  days  suffered  so 
often  the  extremes  of  terror  and  joy,  that  he  is 
in  doubt  whether  he  shall  ever  again  expose 
either  his  body  or  mind  to  such  danger  and  fa- 
tigue. 

When  he  left  London  the  morning  was  bright 
and  a  fair  day  was  promised.  But  Will  is  born 
to  struggle  with  difficulties.  That  happened  to 
him,  which  has  sometimes,  perhaps,  happened 
to  others.  Before  he  had  gone  more  than  ten 
ten  miles  it  began  to  rain.  What  course  was 
to  be  taken  ?  His  soul  disdained  to  turn  back. 
He  did  what  the  king  of  Prussia  might  have 
done  ;  he  flapped  his  hat,  buttoned  up  his  cape, 
and  went  forwards,  fortifying  his  mind  by  the 
stoical  consolation,  that  whatever  is  violent 
will  be  short. 

His  constancy  was  not  long  tried  ;  at  the 
distance  of  about  half  a  mile  he  saw  an  inn, 
which  he  entered  wet  and  weary,  and  found 
civil  treatment  and  proper  refreshment.  After 
a  respite  of  about  two  hours,  he  looked  abroad, 
and  seeing  the  sky  clear,  called  for  his  horse, 
and  passed  the  first  stage  without  any  other 
memorable  accident. 

Will  considered,  that  labour  must  be  relieved 
by  pleasure,  and  that  the  strength  which  great 
undertakings  require  must  be  maintained  by 
copious  nutriment ;  he  therefore  ordered  him- 
self an  elegant  supper,  drank  two  bottles  of 
claret,  and  passed  the  beginning  of  the  night 
in  sound  sleep  ;  but,  waking  before  light,  was 
forewarned  of  the  troubles  of  the  next  day,  by 
a  shower  beating  against  his  windows  with 
such  violence  as  to  threaten  the  dissolution  of 
nature.  When  he  arose,  he  found  what  he  ex- 
pected, that  the  country  was  under  water.  He 
joined  himself,  however,  to  a  company  that 
was  travelling  the  same  way,  and  came  safely 


to  the  place  of  dinner,  though  every  step  of  his 
horse  dashed  the  mud  into  the  air. 

In  the  afternoon,  having  parted  from  his  com- 
pany, he  set  forward  alone,  and  passed  many 
collections  of  water,  of  which  it  was  impos- 
sible to  guess  the  depth,  and  which  he  now 
cannot  review  without  some  censure  of  hia 
own  rashness ;  but  what  a  man  undertakes  he 
must  perform,  and  Marvel  hates  a  coward  at 
his  heart. 

Few  that  lie  warm  in  their  beds  think  what 
others  undergo,  who  have  perhaps  been  as 
tenderly  educated,  and  have  as  acute  sensa- 
tions as  themselves.  My  friend  was  now  to 
lodge  the  second  night  almost  fifty  miles  from 
home,  in  a  house  which  he  never  had  seen 
before,  among  people  to  whom  he  was  totally 
a  stranger,  not  knowing  whether  the  next  man 
he  should  meet  would  prove  good  or  bad  ;  but 
seeing  an  inn  of  a  good  appearance,  he  rode 
resolutely  into  the  yard ;  and  knowing  that  re 
spect  is  often  paid  in  proportion  as  it  is  claimed, 
delivered  his  injunctions  to  the  hostler  with 
spirit,  and  entering  the  house  called  vigorously 
about  him. 

On  the  third  day  up  rose  the  sun  and  Mr. 
Marvel.  His  troubles  and  his  dangers  were 
now  such  as  he  wishes  no  other  man  ever  to 
encounter.  The  ways  were  less  frequented, 
and  the  country  more  thinly  inhabited.  He 
rode  many  a  lonely  hour  through  mire  and 
water,  and  met  not  a  single  soul  for  two  miles 
together  with  whom  he  could  exchange  a 
word.  He  cannot  deny  that,  looking  round 
upon  the  dreary  region,  and  seeing  nothing 
but  bleak  fields  and  naked  trees,  hills  obscured 
by  fogs,  and  flats  covered  with  inundations, 
lie  did  for  some  time  suffer  melancholy  to  pre- 
vail upon  him,  and  wished  himself  again  safe 
at  home.  One  comfort  he  had,  which  was  to 
consider  that  none  of  his  friends  were  in  the 
same  distress,  for  whom,  if  they  had  been  with 
him,  he  should  have  suffered  more  than  for 
himself ;  he  could  not  forbear  sometimes  to 
onsider  how  happy  the  Idler  is,  settled  in  an 
easier  condition,  who,  surrounded  like  him 
with  terrors,  could  have  done  nothing  but  lie 
down  and  die. 

Admist  these  reflections  he  came  to  a  town, 
and  found  a  dinner  which  disposed  him  to  more 
cheerful  sentiments  :  but  the  joys  of  life  are 
short,  and  its  miseries  are  long  j  he  mounted 
and  travelled  fiften  miles  more  through  dirt  and 
desolation. 

At  last  the  sun  set,  and  all  the  horrors  of 
darkness  came  upon  him.  He  then  repented 
:he  weak  indulgence  in  which  he  had  gratified 
limself  at  noon  with  too  long  an  interval  of 
rest :  yet  he  went  forward  along  a  path  which 
lie  could  no  longer  see,  sometimes  rushing 
suddenly  into  water,  and  sometimes  incum- 
bered  with  stiff  clay,  ignorant  whither  he  was 
^oing,  and  uncertain  whether  his  next  step 
might  not  be  the  last. 

In  this  dismal  gloom  of  nocturnal  peregrina- 
tion his  horse  unexpectedly  stood  still.  Mar 
vel  had  heard  many  relations  of  the  instinct  of 
horses,  and  was  in  doubt  what  danger  might 
be  at  hand.  Sometimes  he  fancied  that  he 
was  on  the  bank  of  a  river,  still  and  deep,  and 


*x\)^ 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  50. 


sometimes  that  a  dead  body  lay  across  th 
track.  He  sat  still  awhile  to  recollect  hi 
thoughts  ;  and  as  he  was  about  to  alight  an 
explore  the  darkness,  out  stepped  a  man  wit 
a  lantern,  and  opened  the  turnpike.  He  hirei 
a  guide  to  the  town,  arrived  in  safety,  and  slep 
in  quiet. 

The  rest  of  his  journey  was  nothing  but  dan 
ger.  He  climbed  and  descended  precipices  01 
which  vulgar  mortals  tremble  to  look  ;  he 
passed  marshes  like  the  "Serbonian  bog 
where  armies  whole  have  sunk  ;  "  he  fordec 
rivers  where  the  current  roared  like  the  Egre 
or  the  Severn  ;  or  ventured  himself  on  bridges 
that  trembled  under  him,  from  which  he  lookec 
down  on  foaming  whirlpools,  or  dreadfu 
abysses  :  he  wandered  over  houseless  heaths 
amidst  all  the  rage  of  the  elements,  with  thi 
snow  driving  in  his  face,  and  the  tempest  howl 
ing  in  his  ears. 

Such  are  the  colours  in  which  Marvel  paints 
his  adventures.  He  has  accustomed  himsel 
to  sounding  words  and  hyperbolical  images 
till  he  has  lost  the  power  of  true  description 
In  a  road  through  which  the  heaviest  carnages 
pass  without  difficulty,  and  the  post-boy  every 
day  and  night  goes  and  returns,  he  meets  with 
hardships  like  those  which  are  endured  in  Sibe- 
rian deserts,  and  misses  nothing  of  romantic 
danger  but  a  giant  and  a  dragon.  When  hi 
dreadful  story  is  told  in  proper  terms,  it  is  only 
that  the  way  was  dirty  in  winter,  and  that  he 
experienced  the  common  vicissitudes  of  rain 
and  sun-shine. 


No.  50.]    SATURDAY,  MARCH  31,  1759. 

THE  character  of  Mr.  Marvel  has  raised  the  mer- 
riment of  some  and  the  contempt  of  others,  who 
do  not  sufficiently  consider  how  often  they  hear 
and  practise  the  same  arts  of  exaggerated  nar- 
ration. 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  among  the  multitudes 
of  all  conditions  that  swarm  upon  the  earth,  a 
single  man  who  does  not  believe  that  he  has 
something  extraordinary  to  relate  of  himself; 
and  who  does  not,  at  one  time  or  other,  sum- 
mon the  attention  of  his  friends  to  the  casual- 
ties of  his  adventures,  and  the  vicissitudes  of 
his  fortune  ;  casualties  and  vicissitudes  that 
happen  alike  in  lives  uniform  and  diversified  ; 
to  the  commander  of  armies,  and  the  writer  at 
a  desk,  to  the  sailor  who  resigns  himself  to  the 
wind  and  water,  and  the  farmer  whose  longest 
journey  is  to  the  market. 

In  the  present  state  of  the  world  men  may 
pass  through  Shakspeare's  seven  stages  of  life, 
and  meet  nothing  singular  and  wonderful. 
But  such  is  every  man's  attention  to  himself, 
that  what  is  common  and  unheeded  when  it  is 
only  seen,  becomes  remarkable  and  peculiar 
when  we  happen  to  feel  it. 

It  is  well  enough  known  to  be  according  to 
the  usual  process  of  nature  that  men  should 
sicken  and  recover,  that  some  designs  should 
succeed  and  others  miscarry,  that  friends 
should  be  separated,  and  meet  again,  that  some 
should  be  made  angry  by  endeavours  to  please 
them,  and  some  be  pleased  when  no  care  has 


been  used  to  gain  their  approbation  ;  that  men 
and  women  should  at  first  come  together  by 
chance,  like  each  other  so  well  as  to  commence 
acquaintance,  improve  acquaintance  into  fond- 
ness, increase  or  extinguish  fondness  by  mar- 
riage, and  have  children  of  different  degrees 
of  intellects  and  virtue,  some  of  whom  die  be- 
fore their  parents,  and  others  survive  them. 

Yet  let  any  tell  his  own  story,  and  nothing 
of  all  this  has  ever  befallen  him  according  to 
the  common  order  of  things  ;  something  has 
always  discriminated  his  case  ;  some  unusual 
concurrence  of  events  has  appeared  which  made 
him  more  happy  or  more  miserable  than  other 
mortals  ;  for  in  pleasures  or  calamities,  how- 
ever common,  every  one  has  comforts  and  afflic- 
tions of  his  own. 

It  is  certain  that  without  some  artificial  aug- 
mentations, many  of  the  pleasures  of  life,  and 
almost  all  its  embellishments,  would  fall  to  the 
ground.  If  no  man  was  to  express  more  delight 
than  he  felt,  those  who  felt  most  would  raise 
little  envy.  If  travellers  were  to  describe  the 
most  laboured  performances  of  art  with  the 
same  coldness  as  the  survey  them,  all  expec- 
tations of  happiness  from  change  of  place 
would  cease.  The  pictures  of  Raphael  would 
hang  without  spectators,  and  the  gardens  of 
Versailles  might  be  inhabited  by  hermits.  All 
the  pleasure  that  is  received  ends  in  an  oppor- 
tunity of  splendid  falsehood,  in  the  power  of 
gaining  notice  by  the  display  of  beauties  which 
the  eye  was  weary  of  beholding,  and  a  history 
of  happy  moments,  of  which  in  reality  the 
most  happy  was  the  last. 

The  ambition  of  superior  sensibility  and  su- 
perior eloquence  disposes  the  lovers  of  arts  to 
receive  rapture  at  one*time,  and  communicate 
it  at  another ;  and  each  labours  first  to  im- 
pose upen  himself,  and  then  to  propagate  the 
mposture. 

Pain  is  less  subject  than  pleasure  to  caprices 

of  expression.     The  torments  of  disease,  and 

;he  grief  for  irremediable   misfortunes,   some- 

imes,    are  such  as  no  words  can  declare,   and 

can  only  be   signified  by  groans,   or  sobs,    or 

narticulate  ejaculations.    Man  has  from  nature 

a  mode  of  utterance  peculiar  to  pain,    but  he 

as  none  peculiar  to  pleasure,  because  he  never 

las  pleasure,  but  in  such  degrees  as  the  ordi- 

ary  use  of  language  may  equal  or  surpass. 

It  is  nevertheless  certain,    that  many  pains 
as  well  as  pleasures  are  heightened  by  rhetorical 
affectation,  and  that  the  picture  is,  for  the  most 
art,  bigger  than  the  life. 

When  we  describe  our  sensations  of  an- 
>ther's  sorrow  either  in  friendly  or  ceremonious 
ondolence,  the  customs  of  the  world  scarcely 
admit  of  rigid  veracity.  Perhaps  the  fondest 
riendship  would  enrage  oftener  than  comfort, 
.vere  the  tongue  on  such  occasions  faithfully 
o  represent  the  sentiments  of  the  heart ;  and 

think  the  strictest  moralists  allow  forms  of 
ddress  to  be  used  without  much  regard  to 
tieir  literal  acceptation,  when  either  respect 
r  tenderness  requires  them,  because  they  are 
miversally  know  to  denote  not  the  degree  but 
ic  species  of  our  sentiments. 

But  the  same  indulgence  cannot  be  allowed 
o  him  who  aggravates  dangers  incurred  or 


No.  51.] 


THE  IDLER. 


405 


sorrow  endured  by  himself,  because  he  darkens 
the  prospect  of  futurity,  and  multiplies  the 
pains  of  our  condition  by  useless  terror.  Those 
who  magnify  their  delights  are  less  criminal 
deceivers,  yet  they  raise  hopes  which  are  sure 
to  be  disappointed.  It  would  be  undoubtedly 
best,  if  we  could  see  and  hear  every  thing  as 
it  is,  that  nothing  might  be  too  anxiously 
dreaded,  or  too  ardently  pursued. 


No.  51.]   SATURDAY,  APRIL  7,  1759. 

IT  has  been  commonly  remarked,  that  eminent 
men  are  least  eminent  at  home,  that  bright 
characters  lose  much  of  their  splendour  at  a 
nearer  view,  and  many  who  fill  the  world  with 
their  fame,  excite  very  little  reverence  among 
those  that  surround  them  in  their  domestic 
privacies. 

To  blame  or  to  suspect  is  easy  and  natural. 
When  the  fact  is  evident,  and  the  cause  doubt- 
ful, some  accusation  is  always  engendered  be- 
tween idleness  and  malignity.  This  disparity 
of  general  and  familiar  esteem  is  therefore  im- 
puted to  hidden  vices,  and  to  practises  in- 
dulged in  secret,  but  carefully  covered  from  the 
public  eye. 

Vice  will  indeed  always  produce  contempt. 
The  dignity  of  Alexander,  though  nations  fell 
prostrate  before  him,  was  certainly  held  in  lit- 
tle veneration  by  the  partakers  of  his  midnight 
revels,  who  had  seen  him,  in  the  madness  of 
wine,  murder  his  friend,  or  set  fire  to  the  Pen- 
sian  palace  at  the  instigation  of  a  harlot ;  and 
it  is  well  remembered  among  us,  that  the  ava- 
rice of  Marlborough  kept  him  in  subjection  to 
his  wife  while  he  was  dreaded  by  France  as 
her  conqueror,  and  honoured  by  the  emperor 
as  his  deliverer. 

But  though,  where  there  is  vice  there  must 
be  want  of  reverence,  it  is  not  reciprocally  true 
that  when  there  is  want  of  reverence  there  is 
always  vice.  That  awe  which  great  actions  or 
abilities  impress  will  be  inevitably  diminished 
by  acquaintance,  though  nothing  either  mean 
or  criminal  should  be  found. 

Of  men,  as  of  every  thing  else,  we  must  judge 
according  to  ourknowledge.  When  we  see  of 
a  hero  only»his  battles,  or  of  a  writer  only  his 
books,  we  have  nothing  to  allay  our  ideas  of  their 
greatness.  We  consider  the  one  only  as  the 
guardian  of  his  country,  and  the  other  only  as 
the  instructor  of  mankind.  We  have  neither 
opportunity  nor  motive  to  examine  the  minuter 
parts  of  their  lives,  or  the  less  apparent  peculi- 
arities of  their  characters  ;  we  name  them  with 
habitual  respect,  and  forget,  what  we  still  con- 
tinue to  know,  that  they  are  men  like  other 
mortals. 

But  such  is  the  constitution  of  the  world,  that 
much  of  life  must  be  spent  in  the  same  manner 
by  the  wise  and  the  ignorant,  the  exalted  and 
the  low.  Men,  however  distinguished  by  ex- 
ternal accidents  or  intrinsic  qualities,  have  all 
the  same  wants,  the  same  pains,  and,  as  far  as 
the  senses  are  consulted,  the  same  pleasure. 
The  petty  cares  and  petty  duties  are  the  same 
in  every  station  to  every  understanding,  and 
every  hour  brings  some  occasion  on  which  we 


all  sink  to  the  common  level.  We  are  all  nak- 
ed till  we  are  dressed,  and  hungry  till  we  are 
fed;  and  the  general's  triumph,  and  sage's 
disputation,  end,  like  the  humble  labours  of 
the  smith  or  ploughman,  in  a  dinner  or  in 
sleep. 

Those  notions  which  are  to  be  collected  by 
reason,  in  opposition  to  the  senses,  will  seldom 
stand  forward  in  the  mind,  but  lie  treasured  in 
the  remoter  repositories  of  memory,  to  be  found 
only  when  they  are  sought  Whatever  any  man 
may  have  written  or  done,  his  precepts  or  his 
valour  will  scarcely  overbalance  the  unimpor- 
tant uniformity  which  runs  through  his  time. 
We  do  not  easily  consider  him  as  great,  whom 
our  own  eyes  show  us  to  be  little  ;  nor  labour 
to  keep  present  to  our  thoughts  the  latent  excel- 
lencies of  him  who  shares  with  us  all  our  weak- 
nesses and  many  of  our  follies ;  who  like  us  is 
delighted  with  slight  amusements,  busied  with 
trifling  employments,  and  disturbed  by  little 
vexations. 

Great  powers  cannot  be  exerted,  but  when 
great  exigencies  make  them  necessary.  Great 
exigencies  can  happen  but  seldom,  and  there- 
fore those  qualities  which  have  a  claim  to  the 
veneration  of  mankind  lie  hid,  for  the  most 
part,  like  subterranean  treasures,  over  which 
the  foot  passes  as  on  common  ground,  till  ne- 
cessity breaks  open  the  golden  cavern. 

In  the  ancient  celebration  of  victory,  a  slave 
was  placed  on  a  triumphal  car,  by  the  side  of  the 
general,  who  reminded  him  by  a  short  sentence, 
that  he  was  a  man.  Whatever  danger  there 
might  be  lest  a  leader,  in  his  passage  to  the 
capitol,  should  forget  the  frailties  of  his  nature, 
there  was  surely  no  need  of  such  an  admoni- 
tion :  the  intoxication  could  not  have  continued 
long  ;  he  would  have  been  at  home  but  a  few 
hours  before  some  of  hie  dependents  would  have 
forgot  his  greatness,  and  shown  him,  that  not- 
withstanding his  laurels,  he  was  yet  a  man. 

There  are  some  who  try  to  escape  this  domes- 
tic degradation,  by  labouring  to  appear  always 
wise  oralways  great;  buthe  that  strives  against 
nature  will  for  ever  strive  in  vain.  To  be  grave 
of  mien  and  slow  of  utterance  ;  to  look  with 
solicitude  and  speak  with  hesitation,  is  attaina- 
ble at  will ;  but  the  show  of  wisdom  is  ridicu- 
lous when  there  is  nothing  to  cause  doubt,  as 
that  of  valour  where  there  is  nothing  to  be 
feared. 

A  man  who  has  duly  considered  the  condition 
of  his  being  will  contentedly  yield  to  the  course 
of  things  ;  he"  will  not  pant  for  distinction 
where  distinction  would  imply  no  merit ;  but 
though  on  great  occasions  he  may  wish  to  be 
greater  than  others,  he  will  be  satisfied  in  com- 
mon occurrences  not  to  be  less. 


No.  52.]     SATURDAY,  APRIL  14,  1759. 
Responsare  cupidinibus.  HOR. 

THE  practice  of  self-denial,  or  the  forebearance 
of  lawful  pleasures,  has  been  considered  by 
almost  every  nation,  from  the  remotest  ages, 
as  the  highest  exaltation  of  human  virtue; 
and  all  have  agreed  to  pay  respect  and  vene- 


406 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  53. 


ration  to  those  who  abstained  from  the  delights 
of  life,  even  when  they  did  not  censure  those 
who  enjoy  them. 

The  general  voice  of  mankind,  civil  and  bar- 
barous, confesses  that  the  mind  and  body  are  at 
variance,  and  that  neither  can  be  made  happy 
by  its  proper  gratifications  but  at-the  expense  of 
the  other  ;  that  a  pampered  body  will  darken 
the  mind,  and  an  enlightened  mind  will  mace- 
rate the  body.  And  none  have  failed  to  confer 
their  esteem  on  those  who  prefer  intellect  to 
sense,  who  control  their  lower  by  their  higher 
faculties,  and  forget  the  wants  and  desires  of 
animal  life  for  rational  disquisitions  or  pious 
contemplations. 

The  earth  has  scarcely  a  country  so  far  ad- 
vanced towards  political  regularity  as  to  divide 
the  inhabitants  into  classes,  where  some  orders 
of  men  or  women  are  not  distinguished  by  vo- 
luntary severities,  and  where  the  reputation  of 
their  sanctity  is  not  increased  in  proportion  to 
the  rigour  of  their  rules,  and  the  exactness  of 
their  performance. 

When  an  opinion  to  which  there  is  no  temp- 
tation of  interest  spreads  wide  and  continues 
long,  it  may  reasonably  be  presumed  to  have 
been  issued  by  nature  or  dictated  by  reason. 
It  has  been  often  observed  that  the  fictions  of 
imposture,  and  illusions  of  fancy  soon  give 
way  to  time  and  experience  ;  and  that 
nothing  keeps  its  ground  but  truth,  which 

fains  every  day  new  influence  by  new  con- 
rmation. 

But  truth,  when  it  is  reduced  to  practice, 
easily  becomes  subject  to  caprice  and  imagina- 
tion ;  and  many  particular  acts  will  be  wrong, 
though  their  general  principal  be  right.  It  can- 
not be  denied  that  a  just  conviction  of  the  re- 
straint necessary  to  be  laid  upon  the  appetites 
has  produced  extravagant  and  unnatural 
modes  of  mortification,  and  institutions,  which, 
however  favourably  considered,  will  be  found 
to  violate  nature  without  promoting  piety. 

But  the  doctrine  of  self-denial  is  not  weaken- 
ed in  itself  by  the  errors  of  those  who  misin- 
terpret or  misapply  it ;  the  encroachment  of 
the  appetites  upon  the  understanding  is  hour- 
ly perceived  ;  and  the  state  of  those,  whom 
sensuality  has  enslaved,  is  known  to  be  in  the 
highest  degree  despicable  and  wretched. 

The  dread  of  such  shameful  captivity  may 
justly  raise  alarms,  and  wisdom  will  endeavour 
to  keep  danger  at  a  distance.  By  timely  caution 
and  suspicious  vigilance  those  desires  may  be 
repressed,  to  which  indulgence  would  soon 
give  absolute  dominion  ;  those  enemies  may 
Be  overcome,  which,  when  they  have  been  a 
while  accustomed  to  victory,  can  no  longer  be 
resisted. 

Nothing  is  more  fatal  to  happiness  or  virtue 
than  that  confidence  which  flatters  us  with  an 
opinion  of  our  own  strength,  and  by  assuring 
us  of  the  power  of  retreat,  precipitates  us  into 
hazard.  Some  may  safely  venture  farther  thai 
others  into  the  regions  of  delight,  lay  them 
selves  more  open  to  the  golden  shafts  of  plea 
sure,  and  advance  nearer  to  the  residence  o 
the  Sirens  ;  but  he  that  is  best  armed  wit! 
constancy  and  reason  is  yet  vulnerable  in  on 
part  01  other,  and  to  every  man  there  is  a  poin 


xed,  beyond  which,  if  he  passes  he  will  not 
asily  return.  It  is  certainly  most  wise,  as  it 
s  most  safe,  to  stop  before  he  touches  the  ut- 
nost  limit,  since  every  step  of  advance  will 
more  and  more  entice  him  to  go  forward,  till 
shall  at  last  enter  into  the  recesses  of  vo- 
uptuousness,  and  sloth  and  despondency  close 
he  passage  behind  them. 

To  deny  early  and  inflexibly,  is  the  only  art 

f  checking  the  importunity  of  desire,  and  of 

ireserving  quiet  and  innocence.  Innocent  grati- 

ications  must  be  sometimes  withheld  ;  he  that 

omplies  with  all  lawful  desires  will  certainly 

ose  his  empire  over  himself,  and  in  time  either 

submit  his  reason  to  his  wishes,  and  think  all 

lis  desires  lawful,  or  dismiss   his  reason  as 

roublesome  and  intrusive  and  resolve  to  snatch 

what  he  may  happen  to  wish,  without  inquiring 

about  right  and  wrong. 

No  man  whose  appetites  are  his  masters,  can 

)erform  the  duties  of  his  nature  with  strictness 

and  regularity;  he  that  would  be  superior  to 

xternal  influences  must  first  become  superior 

to  his  own  passions. 

When  the  Roman  general,  sitting  at  supper 
with  a  plate  of  turnips  before  him,  was  solicited 
jy  large  presents  to  betray  his  trust,  he  asked 
;he  messengers  whether  he  that  could  sup  on 
turnips  was  a  man  likely  to  sell  his  own  coun- 
try. Upon  him  who  has  reduced  his  senses  to 
obedience,  temptation  has  lost  its  power ;  he  is 
able  to  attend  impartially  to  virtue,  and  exe- 
cute her  commands  without  hesitation. 

To  set  the  mind  above  the  appetites  is  the  end 
of  abstinence,  which  one  of  the  fathers  observes 
to  be  not  a  virtue,  but  the  ground-work  of  vir- 
tue. By  forbearing  to  do  what  may  innocently 
be  done,  we  may  add  hourly  new  vigour  or  re- 
solution, and  secure  the  power  of  resistance 
when  pleasure  or  interest  shall  lend  their 
charms  to  guilt. 


No.  53.]     SATURDAY,  APRIL  21,  1759. 

TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

I  HAVE  a  wife  that  keeps  good  company.  You 
know  that  the  word  good  varies  its  meaning 
according  to  the  value  set  upon  different  quali- 
ties in  different  places.  To  be  a  good  man  in 
a  college,  is  to  be  learned;  in  a  camp,  to  be 
brave  ;  and  in  the  city,  to  be  rich.  By  good 
company  in  the  place  which  I  have  the  misfor- 
tune to  inhabit,  we  understand  not  always  those 
from  whom  any  good  can  be  learned,  whether 
wisdom  or  virtue  ;  or  by  whom  any  good  can 
be  conferred,  whether  profit  or  reputation. 
Good  company  is  the  company  of  those  whose 
birth  is  high,  and  whose  riches  are  great ;  or 
of  those  whom  the  rich  and  noble  admit  to  fa- 
miliarity. 

I  am  a  gentleman  of  fortune  by  no  means 
exuberant,  but  more  than  equal  to  the  wants  of 
my  family,  and  for  some  years  equal  to  our  de- 
sires. My  wife,  who  had  never  been  accus- 
tomed to  splendour,  joined  her  endeavours  to 
mine  in  the  superintendence  of  our  economy , 


No.  54.] 


THE  IDLER. 


407 


we  lived  in  decent  plenty,  and  were  not  ex- 
cluded from  moderate  pleasures. 

But  slight  causes  produce  great  effects.  All 
my  happiness  has  been  destroyed  by  change 
of  place  ;  virtue  is  too  often  merely  local :  in 
some  situations  the  air  diseases  the  body,  and 
in  others  poisons  the  mind.  Being  obliged  to 
remove  rny  habitation,  I  was  led  by  my  evil 
genius  to  a  convenient  house  in  a  street  where 
many  of  the  nobility  reside.  We  had  scarcely 
ranged  our  furniture,  and  aired  our  rooms, 
when  my  wife  began  to  grow  discontented, 
and  to  wonder  what  the  neighbours  would 
think  when  they  saw  so  few  chairs  and  chariots 
at  her  door. 

Her  acquaintance,  who  came  to  see  her  from 
the  quarter  that  we  had  left,  mortified  her  with- 
out  design,  by  continual  inquiries  about  the 
ladies  whose  houses  they  viewed  from  our  win- 
dows. She  was  ashamed  to  confess  that  she 
had  no  intercourse  with  them,  and  sheltered 
her  distress  under  general  answers,  which  al- 
ways tended  to  raise  suspicion  that  she  knew 
more  than  she  would  tell ;  but  she  was  often 
reduced  to  difficulties,  when  the  course  of  talk 
introduced  questions  about  the  furniture  or 
ornaments  of  their  houses,  which,  when  she 
could  get  no  intelligence,  she  was  forced  to 
pass  slightly  over,  as  things  which  she  saw  so 
often  that  she  never  minded  them. 

To  all  these  vexations  she  was  resolved  to 
put  an  end,  and  redoubled  her  visits  to  those 
few  of  her  friends  who  visited  those  who  kept 
good  company  ;  and,  if  ever  she  met  a  lady 
of  quality,  forced  herself  into  notice  by  respect 
and  assiduity.  Her  advances  were  generally 
rejected  ;  and  she  heard  them,  as  they  went 
down  stairs  talk  how  some  creatures  put  them- 
selves forward. 

She  was  not  discouraged,  but  crept  forward 
from  one  to  another  ;  and  as  perseverance  will 
do  great  things,  sapped  her  way  unperceived, 
till,  unexpectedly,  she  appeared  at  the  card 
table  of  lady  Biddy  Porpoise,  a  lethargic  virgin, 
of  seventy-six,  whom  all  the  families  in  the 
next  square  visited  very  punctually  when  she 
was  not  at  home. 

This  was  the  first  step  of  that  elevation  to 
which  my  wife  has  since  ascended.  For  five 
months  she  had  no  name  in  her  mouth  but  that 
of  lady  Biddy,  who,  let  the  world  say  what  it 
would,  had  a  fine  understanding,  and  such  a 
command  of  her  temper,  that  whether  she  won 
or  lost,  she  slept  over  her  cards. 

At  lady  Buldy's  she  met  with  lady  Tawdry, 
whose  favour  she  gained  by  estimating  her  ear- 
rings, which  were  counterfeit,  at  twice  the  value 
of  real  diamonds.  When  she  once  entered 
two  houses  of  distinction,  she  was  easily  ad- 
mitted into  more,  and  in  ten  weeks  had  all  her 
time  anticipated  by  parties  and  engagements. 
Every  morning  she  is  bespoke,  in  the  summer, 
for  the  gardens  ;  in  the  winter,  for  a  sale  ; 
every  afternoon  she  has  visits  to  pay,  and  every 
night  brings  an  inviolable  appointment,  or  an 
assembly  in  which  the  best  company  in  the 
town  were  to  appear. 

You  will  easily  imagine  that  much  of  my 
domestic  comfort  is  withdrawn.  I  never  see 
my  wire  but  in  the  hurry  of  preparation  or  the 


languor  of  weaiiness.  To  dress  and  to  un- 
dress is  almost  her  whole  business  in  private, 
and  the  servants  take  advantage  of  her  negli- 
gence to  increase  expense.  But  I  can  supply 
her  omission  by  my  own  diligence,  and 
should  not  much  regret  this  new  course  of  life, 
if  it  did  nothing  more  than  transfer  me  to  the 
care  of  our  accounts.  The  changes  which  it 
has  made  are  more  vexatious.  My  wife  haa 
no  longer  the  use  of  her  understanding.  She 
has  no  rule  of  action  but  the  fashion.  She  has 
no  opinion  but  that  of  the  people  of  quality. 
She  has  no  language  but  the  dialect  of  her 
own  set  of  company.  She  hates  and  admires 
in  humble  imitation  ;  and  echoes  the  words 
charming  and  detestable  without  consulting 
her  own  preceptions. 

If  for  a  few  minutes  we  sit  down  together, 
she  entertains  me  with  the  repartees  of  lady 
Cackle,  or  the  conversation  of  lord  Whiffler, 
and  Miss  Quick,  and  •wonder  to  find  me 
receiving  with  indifference  sayings  which  put 
all  the  company  into  laughter. 

By  her  old  friends  she  is  no  longer  very  will- 
ing to  be  seen,  but  she  must  not  rid  herself  of 
them  all  at  once  :  and  is  sometimes  surprised 
by  her  best  visitants  in  company  which  she 
would  not  show  and  cannot  hide  ;  but  from  the 
moment  that  a  countess  enters,  she  takes 
care  neither  to  hear  nor  see  them  ;  they  soon 
find  themselves  neglected,  and  retire  ;  and 
she  tells  her  ladyship  that  they  are  somehow 
related  at  a  great  distance,  and  that  as  they 
are  good  sort  of  people  she  cannot  be  rude  to 
them. 

As  by  this  ambitious  union  with  those  that 
are  above  her,  she  is  always  forced  upon  disad- 
vantageous comparisons  of  her  condition  with 
theirs,  she  haa  a  constant  source  of  misery 
within  ;  and  never  returns  from  glittering  as- 
semblies and  magnificent  apartments  but  she 
growls  out  her  discontent,  and  wonders  why 
she  was  doomsd  to  so  indigent  a  state.  When 
she  attends  thedutchess  to  a  sale,  she  always 
sees  something  she  cannot  buy  ;  and,  that  she 
may  not  seem  wholly  insignificant,  she  will 
sometimes  venture  to  bid,  and  often  make  ac- 
quisitions which  she  did  not  want,  at  prices 
which  she  cannot  afford. 

What  adds  to  all  this  uneasiness  is  that  this 
expense  is  without  use,  and  this  vanity  with- 
out honour  ;  she  forsakes  houses  where  she 
might  be  courted,  for  those  where  she  is  only 
suffered  ;  her  equals  are  daily  made  her  ene- 
mies, and  her  superiors  will  never  be  her 
friends. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  &c. 


No.54.]     SATURDAY,  APRIL  28,  1759. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

You  have  lately  entertained  your  admirers 
with  the  case  of  an  unfortunate  husband,  and 
thereby  given  a  demonstrative  proof  you  are 
not  averse  even  to  hear  appeals  and  terminate 
differences  between  man  and  wife ;  I  there- 
fore take  the  liberty  to  present  you  with  the 


408 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  55. 


case  of  an  injured  lady,  which,  as  it  chiefly 
relates  to  what  I  think  the  lawyers  call  a  point 
of  law,  I  shall  do  in  as  juridical  a  manner  as  I 
am  capable,  and  submit  it  to  the  consideration 
of  the  learned  gentlemen  of  that  profession. 

Imprimis.  In  the  style  of  my  marriage  arti- 
cles, a  marriage  was  "had  and  solemnized," 
about  six  months  ago,  between  me  and  Mr. 
Savecharges,  a  gentleman  possessed  of  a  plen- 
tiful fortune  of  his  own,  and  one  who,  I  was 
persuaded,  would  improve,  and  not  spend, 
mine. 

Before  our  marriage,  Mr.  Savecharges  had 
all  along  preferred  the  salutary  exercise  of 
walking  on  foot  to  the  distempered  ease,  as  he 
terms  it,  of  lolling  in  a  chariot ;  but,  notwith- 
standing his  fine  panegyrics  on  walking,  the 
great  advantages  the  infantry  were  in  the  sole 
possession  of,  and  the  many  dreadful  dangers 
they  escaped,  he  found  I  had  very  different 
notions  of  an  equipage,  and  was  not  easily  to 
be  converted,  or  gained  over  to  his  party. 

An  equipage  I  was  determined  to  have, 
whenever  I  married.  I  too  well  knew  the  dis- 
position of  my  intended  consort  to  leave  the 
providing  one  entirely  to  his  honour,  and 
flatter  myself  Mr.  Savecharges  has,  in  the 
articles  made  previous  to  our  marriage,  agreed 
to  keep  me  a  coach  ;  but  lest  I  should  be 
mistaken,  or  the  attorney  should  not  have  done 
me  justice  in  methodising  or  legalising  these 
half  dozen  words,  I  will  set  about  and  tran- 
scribe that  part  of  the  agreement,  which  will 
explain  the  matter  to  you  much  better  than  can 
be  done  by  one  who  is  so  deeply  interested  in 
the  event ;  and  show  on  what  foundation  I 
build  my  hopes  of  being  soon  under  the  trans- 
porting, delightful  denomination  of  a  fashiona- 
ble lady,  who  enjoys  the  exalted  and  much- 
envied  felicity  of  bowling  about  in  her  own 
ci  ach. 

"  And  further  the  said  Solomon  Savecharges, 
for  divers  good  causes  and  considerations  him 
hereunto  moving,  hath  agreed,  and  doth,  here- 
by agree,  that  the  said  Solomon  Savecharges 
shall  and  will,  so  soon  as  conveniently  may  be 
after  the  solemnization  of  the  said  intended 
marriage,  at  his  own  proper  cost  and  charges, 
find  and  provide  a  certain  vehicle  or  four- 
wheel  carriage,  commonly  called  or  known  by 
the  name  of  a  coach  ;  which  said  vehicle  or 
wheel  carriage,  so  called  or  known  by  the 
name  of  a  coach,  shall  be  used  and  enjoyed  by 
the  said  Sukey  Modish,  his  intended  wife, " 
( pray  mind  that,  Mr.  Idler,)  "at  such  times 
and  in  such  manner  as  she  the  said  Sukey 
Modish  shall  think  fit  and  convenient. " 

Such,  Mr.  Idler,  is  the  agreement  my  pas- 
sionate admirer  entered  into  ;  and  what  the 
dear  frugal  husband  calls  a  performance  of 
it  remains  to  be  described.  Soon  after  the 
ceremony  of  signing  and  sealing  was  over, 
our  wedding-clothes  being  sent  home,  and,  in 
short,  every  thing  in  readiness  except  the 
coach,  my  own  shadow  was  scarcely  more  con- 
stant than  my  passionate  lover  in  his  atten- 
dance on  me :  wearied  by  his  perpetual  impor- 
tunities for  what  he  called  a  completion  of  his 
bliss,  I  consented  to  make  him  happy ;  in  a 
few  days  I  gave  him  my  hand,  and,  attended 


by  Hymen  in  his  saffron  robes,  retired  to  a 
country-seat  of  my  husband's,  where  the  honey- 
moon flew  over  our  heads  ere  we  had  time  to  re- 
collect ourselves,  or  think  of  our  engagements 
in  town.  Well,  to  town  we  came,  and  you 
may  be  sure,  Sir,  I  expected  to  step  into  my 
coach  on  my  arrival  here  ;  but  what  was  my 
surprise  and  disappointment,  when,  instead  of 
this,  he  began. to  sound  in  my  ears,  "  That  the 
interest  of  money  was  low,  very  low  ;  and 
what  a  terrible  thing  it  was  to  be  incumbered 
with  a  little  regiment  of  servants  in  these  hard 
times  !  "  I  could  easily  perceive  what  all  this 
tended  to,  but  would  not  seem  to  understand 
him  ;  which  made  it  highly  necessary  for  Mr. 
Savecharges  to  explain  himself  more  intelli- 
gibly ;  to  harp  upon  and  protest  he  dreaded  the 
expense  of  keeping  a  coach.  And  truly,  for 
his  part,  he  could  not,  conceive  how  the  plea 
sure  resulting  from  such  a  convenience  could 
be  any  way  adequate  to  the  heavy  expense 
attending  it.  I  now  thought  it  high  time  to 
speak  with  equal  plainness,  and  told  him,  as 
the  fortune  I  brought  fairly  entitled  me  to  ride 
in  my  own  coach,  and  as  I  was  sensible  his 
circumstances  would  very  well  afford  it,  he 
must  pardon  me  if  I  insisted  on  a  performance 
of  his  agreement 

I  appeal  to  you,  Mr.  Idler,  whether  any 
thing  could  be  more  civil,  more  complaisant, 
than  this  ?  And,  would  you  believe  it,  the  crea 
ture  in  return  a  few  days  after,  accosted  me,  in 
an  offended  tone,  with  "Madam,  I  can  now 
tell  you  your  coach  is  ready ;  and  since  you  are 
so  passionately  fond  of  one  I  intend  you  the 
honour  of  keeping  a  pair  of  horses. — You  in- 
sisted upon  having  an  article  of  pin-money, 
and  horses  are  no  part  of  my  agreement." 
Base,  designing  wretch  ! — I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mr.  Idler,"the  very  recital  of  such  mean,  un- 
gentleman-like  behaviour  fires  my  blood,  and 
lights  up  a  flame  within  me.  But  hence,  thou 
worst  of  monsters,  ill-timed  Rage,  and  let  me 
not  spoil  my  cause  for  want  of  temper. 

Now,  though  I  am  convinced  I  might  make 
a  worse  use  of  part  of  my  pin-money,  than  b\ 
extending  my  bounty  towards  the  support  o 
so  useful  a  part  of  the  brute  creation ;  yet 
like  a  true-born  Englishwoman,  I  am  so  tena 
cious  of  my  rights  and  privileges,  and  more. 
over  so  good  a  friend  to  the  gentlemen  of  th< 
law,  that  I  protest,  Mr.  Idler,  sooner  than  tame 
ly  give  up  the  point,  and  be  quibbled  out  of  m; 
right,  I  will  receive  my  pin-money,  as  it  were 
with  one  hand,  and  pay  it  to  them  with  tht 
other  ;  provided  they  will  give  me,  or,  which 
is  the  same  thing,  my  trustees,  encouragement 
to  commence  a  suit  against  this  dear,  frugal 
husband  of  mine. 

And  of  this  I  can't  have  the  least  shadow  of 
doubt,  inasmuch  as  I  have  been  told  by  very 
good  authority,  it  is  some  way  or  other  laid 
down  as  a  rule,  "  That  whenever  the  law  doth 
give  any  thing  to  one,  it  giveth  impliedly  what- 
ever is  necessary  for  the  taking  and  enjoying 
the  same."*  Now,  I  would  gladly  know  what 


Coke  on  Ly  ttelton. 


No.  55.] 


THE  IDLER. 


409 


enjoyment  I,  or  any  lady  in  the  kingdom,  can 
have  of  a  coach  without  horses  ?  The  answer 
obvious — None  at  all !  For  as  Serjeant 


Catlyne  very   wisely  observes,    "  Though    a  Tiot  doubt  but  my  labour  would  be  repaid  by 


coach  has  wheels,  to  the  end  it  may  thereby 
and  by  virtue  thereof  be  enabled  to  move  ;  yet 
in  point  of  utility  it  may  as  well  have  none,  if 
they  are  not  put  in  motion  by  means  of  its  vital 
parts,  that  is,  the  horses." 

And  therefore,  Sir,  I  humbly  hope  you  and 
the  learned  in  the  law  will  be  of  opinion,  that 
two  certain  animals,  or  quadruped  creatures, 
commonly  called  or  known  by  the  name  of 
horses,  ought  to  be  annexed  to,  and  go  along 
with  the  coach. 

SUCKEY  SAVECHARGES. 


No.  55.]     SATURDAY,  MAY  5,  1759. 

MR.  IDLER, 

I  HAVE  taken  the  liberty  of  laying  before  you 
my  complaint,  and  desiring  advice  or  conso- 
lation with  the  greater  confidence,  because  I  be- 
lieve many  other  writers  have  suffered  the  same 
indignities  with  myself,  and  hope  my  quarrel 
will  be  regarded  by  you  and  your  readers  as 
the  common  cause  of  literature. 

Having  been  long  a  student,  I  thought  my- 
self qualified  in  time  to  become  an  author.  My 
inquiries  have  been  much  diversified  and  far  ex- 
tended, and  not  finding  my  genius  directing  me 
by  irresistible  impulse  to  any  particular  subject, 
I  deliberated  three  years  which  part  of  know- 
ledge to  illustrate  by  my  labours.  Choice  is 
more  often  determined  by  accident  than  by  rea- 
son :  I  walked  abroad  one  morning  with  a  cu- 
rious lady,  and  by  her  inquiries  and  observations 
was  incited  to  write  the  natural  history  of  the 
country  in  which  I  reside. 

Natural  history  is  no  work  for  one  that 
loves  his  chair  or  his  bed.  Speculation  may 
be  pursued  on  a  soft  couch,  but  nature  must 
be  observed  in  the  open  air.  I  have  collected 
materials  with  indefatigable  pertinacity.  I 
have  gathered  glow-worms  in  the  evening,  and 
snails  in  the  morning  ;  I  have  seen  the  daisy 
close  and  open  ;  I  have  heard  the  owl  shriek  at 
midnight,  and  hunted  insects  in  the  heat  of 
noon. 

Seven  years  I  was  employed  in  collecting 
animals  and  vegetables,  and  then  found  that 
my  design  was  yet  imperfect.  The  subterra- 
nean treasures  of  the  place  had  been  passed 
unobserved,  and  another  year  was  to  be  spent 
in  mines  and  coal-pits.  What  I  had  already 
done  supplied  a  sufficient  motive  to  do  more. 
I  acquainted  myself  with  the  black  inhabitants 
of  mettallic  caverns,  and,  in  defiance  of  damps 
and  floods,  wandered  through  the  gloomy 
labyrinths,  and  gathejed  fossils  from  every 
fissure. 

At  last  I  began  to  write,  and  as  I  finished 
any  section  of  my  book,  read  it  to  such  of  my 
friends  as  were  most  skillful  in  the  matter 
which  it  treated.  None  of  them  were  satis- 
fied ;  one  disliked  the  disposition  of  the  parts, 
another  the  colours  of  the  style  ;  one  advised 
me  to  enlarge  another  to  abridge.  I  resolved 
to  read  no  more,  but  to  take  my  own  way  and 
3B 


write  on,  for  by  consultation  I  only  perplexed 
my  thoughts  and  retarded  my  worK. 

The  book  was  at  last  finished,  and  I  did 


profit  and  my  ambition  satisfied  with  honours. 
I  considered  that  natural  history  is  neither 
temporary  nor  local,  and  that  though  I  limited 
my  inquiries  to  my  own  country,  yet  every 
part  of  the  earth  has  productions  common  to 
all  the  rest.  Civil  history  may  be  partially 
studied,  the  revolutions  of  one  nation  may  be 
neglected  by  another  ;  but  after  that  in  which 
all  have  an  interest,  all  must  be  inquisitive. 
No  man  can  have  sunk  so  far  into  stupidity  as 
not  to  consider  the  properties  of  the  ground 
on  which  he  walks,  of  the  plants  on  which  he 
feeds,  or  the  animals  that  delight  his  ear,  or 
amuse  his  eye :  and  therefore  I  computed 
that  universal  curiosity  would  call  for  many 
editions  of  my  book,  and  that  in  five  years 
I  should  gain  fifteen  thousand  pounds  by  the 
sale  of  thirty  thousand  copies. 

When  I  began  to  write,  I  insured  the  house  ; 
and  suffered  the  utmost  solicitude  when  I  en- 
trusted my  book  to  the  carrier,  though  I  had 
secured  it  against  mischances  by  lodging  two 
transcripts  in  different  places.  At  my  arrival, 
I  expected  that  the  patrons  of  learning  would 
contend  for  the  honour  of  a  dedication,  and  re- 
solved to  maintain  the  dignity  of  letters  by  a 
haughty  contempt  of  pecuniary  solicitations. 

I  took  lodgings  near  the  house  of  the  Royal 
Society,  and  expected  every  morning  a  visit 
from  the  president.  I  walked  in  the  Park, 
and  wondered  that  I  overheard  no  mention  of 
the  great  naturalist.  At  last  I  visited  a  noble 
earl,  and  told  him  of  my  work  :  he  answered, 
that  he  was  under  an  engagement  never  to 
subscribe.  I  was  angry  to  have  that  refused 
which  I  did  not  mean  to  ask,  and  concealed 
my  design  of  making  him  immortal.  I  went 
next  day  to  another,  and,  in  resentment  of 
my  late  affront,  offered  to  prefix  his  name  to 
my  new  book.  He  said,  coldly,  that  "  he  did 
not  understand  those  things;"  another  thought 
"  there  were  too  many  books  ;"  and  another 
would  "  talk  with  me  when  the  races  were 


Being  amazed  to  find  a  man  of  learning  so 
indecently  slighted,  I  resolved  to  indulge  the 
philosophical  pride  of  retirement  and  indepen- 
dence. I  then  sent  to  some  of  the  principal 
booksellers  the  plan  of  my  book,  and  bespoke 
a  large  room  in  the  next  tavern,  that  I  might 
more  commodiously  see  them  together,  and 
enjoy  the  contest,  while  they  were  outbidding 
one  another.  I  drank  my  coffee,  and  yet  no- 
body was  come  ;  at  last  I  received  a  note 
from  one,  to  tell  me  that  he  was  going  out  ot 
town ;  and  from  another,  that  natural  history 
was  out  of  his  way.  At  last  there  came  a 
grave  man,  who  desired  to  see  the  work,  and 
without  opening  it  told  me,  that  a  book  of  that 
size  "  would  never  do." 

I  then  condescended  to  step  into  shops,  ami 
mentioned  my  work  to  the  masters.  Some 
never  dealt  with  authors ;  others  had  their  hands 
full ;  some  never  had  known  such  a  dead  time ; 
others  had  lost  by  all  that  they  had  published 
for  the  last  twelvemonth.  One  offered  to  print 


410 


THE  IDLER. 


[So.  36. 


my  work,  if  I  could  procure  subscriptions  for 
five  hundred,  and  would  allow  me  two  hundred 
copies  for  my  property.  I  lost  my  patience^ 
and  gave  him  a  kick  :  for  which  he  has  indict- 

j 
ed  me. 

I  can  easily  perceive  that  there  is  a  combina- 
tion among  them  to  defeat  my  expectations ; 
and  I  find  it  so  general,  that  I  am  sure  it  must 
have  been  long  concerted.  I  suppose  some  of 
my  friends,  to  whom  I  read  the  first  part,  gave 
notice  of  my  design,  and,  perhaps  sold  the 
treacherous  intelligence  at  a  higher  price  than 
the  fraudulence  of  trade  will  now  allow  me  for 
my  book. 

Inform  me,  Mr.  Idler,  what  I  must  do  ; 
where  must  knowledge  and  industry  find  their 
recompense,  thus  neglected  by  the  high  and 
cheated  by  the  low  ?  I  sometimes  resolve  to 
print  my  book  at  my  own  expense,  and,  like  the 
Sibyl,  double  the  price  ;  and  sometimes  am 
tempted  in  emulation  of  Raleigh,  to  throw  it 
into  the  fire,  and  leave  this  sordid  generation  to 
the  curses  of  posterity.  Tell  me,  dear  Idler, 
what  I  shall  do. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 


No.  56.]      SATURDAY,  MAY  12,  1759. 

THERE  is  such  difference  between  the  pursuits 
of  men,  that  one  part  of  the  inhabitants  of  a 
great  city  lives  to  little  other  purpose  than  to 
wonder  at  the  rest.  Some  have  hopes  and  fears, 
wishes  and  aversions,  which  never  enter  into 
the  thoughts  of  others,  and  inquiry  is  laborious- 
ly exerted  to  gain  that  which  those  who  possess 
it  are  ready  to  throw  away. 

To  those  who  are  accustomed  to  value  every 
thing  by  its  use,  and  have  no  such  superfluity 
of  time  or  money  as  may  prompt  them  to  un- 
natural wants  or  capricious  emulations,  nothing 
appears  more  improbable  or  extravagant  than 
the  love  of  curiosities,  or  that  desire  of  accumu- 
lating trifles,  which  distinguishes  many  by 
whom  no  other  distinction  could  have  ever 
been  obtained. 

He  that  has  lived  without  knowing  to  what 
height  desire  may  be  raised  by  vanity,  with 
what  rapture  baubles  are  snatched  out  of  the 
hands  of  rival  collectors,  how  the  eagerness  of 
one  raises  eagerness  in  another,  and  one  worth- 
less purchase  makes  a  second  necessary,  may, 
by  passing  a  few  hours  at  an  auction,  learn 
more  than  can  be  shown  by  many  volumes  of 
maxims  or  essays. 

The  advertisement  of  a  sale  is  a  signal  which 
at  once  puts  a  thousand  hearts  in  motion,  and 
brings  contenders  from  every  part  to  the  scene 
of  distribution.  He  that  had  resolved  to  buy  no 
more,  feels  his  constancy  subdued  ;  there  is 
now  something  in  the  catalogue  which  com- 
pletes his  cabinet,  and  he  was  never  before 
able  to  find.  He  whose  sober  reflections  in- 
form him,  that  of  adding  collection  to  collec- 
tion there  is  no  end,  and  that  it  is  wise  to 
leave  early  that  which  must  be  imperfect  at 
last,  yet  cannot  withhold  himself  from  coming 
to  see  what  it  is  that  brings  so  many  together, 
and  when  he  comes  is  soon  overpowered  by 
his  habitual  passion  ;  he  is  attracted  by 


rarity,  seduced  by  example,  and  inflamed  by 
competition. 

While  the  stores  of  pride  and  happiness  are 
surveyed,  one  looks  with  longing  eyes  and 
gloomy  countenance  on  that  which  he  despairs 
to  gain  from  a  rich  bidder  ;  another  keeps  his 
eye  with  care  from  settling  too  long  on  that 
which  he  most  earnestly  desires  ;  and  another, 
with  more  art  than  virtue,  depreciates  that 
which  he  values  most,  in  hope  to  have  it  at  an 
easy  rate. 

The  novice  is  often  surprised  to  see  what  mi- 
nute and  unimportant  discriminations  increase 
or  diminish  value.  An  irregular  contortion  of 
a  turbinated  shell,  which  common  eyes  pass 
unregarded,  will  ten  times  treble  its  price  in 
the  imagination  of  philosophers.  Beauty  is 
far  from  operating  upon  collectors  as  upon 
low  and  vulgar  minds,  even  where  beauty 
might  be  thought  the  only  quality  that  could 
deserve  notice.  Among  the  shells  that  please 
by  their  variety  of  colours,  if  one  can  be  found 
accidentally  deformed  by  a  cloudy  spot,  it  is 
boasted  as  the  pride  of  the  collection.  China 
is  sometimes  purchased  for  little  less  than  its 
weight  in  gold,  only  because  it  is  old,  though 
neither  less  brittle  nor  better  painted  than  the 
modern  ;  and  brown  china  is  caught  up  with 
ecstacy,  though  no  reason  can  be  imagined 
for  which  it  should  be  preferred  to  common 
vessels  of  common  clay. 

The  fate  of  prints  and  coins  is  equally  inex- 
plicable. Some  prints  are  treasured  up  as  in- 
estimably valuable,  because  the  impression  was 
made  before  the  plate  was  finished.  Of  coins, 
the  price  rises  not  from  the  purity  of  the  meial, 
the  excellence  of  the  workmanship,  the  ele- 
gance of  the  legend,  or  the  chronological  use. 
A  piece  of  which  neither  the  inscription  can 
be  read,  nor  the  face  distinguished,  if  there 
remain  of  it  but  enough  to  show  that  it  is 
rare,  will  be  sought  by  contending  nations, 
and  dignify  the  treasury  in  which  it  shall  be 
shown. 

Whether  this  curiosity,  so  barren  of  imme- 
diate advantage,  and  so  liable  to  depravation, 
does  more  harm  or  good,  is  not  easily  de- 
cided. Its  harm  is  apparent  at  the  tirst  view. 
It  fills  the  mind  with  trifling  ambition*;  iixes 
the  attention  upon  things  which  have  seldom 
any  tendency  towards  virtue  or  wisdom  ;  em- 
ploys in  idle  inquiries  the  time  that  is  given  for 
better  purposes ;  and  often  ends  in  mean  and 
dishonest  practices,  when  desire  increases  by 
indulgence  beyond  the  power  of  honest  grati- 
fication. 

These  are  the  effects  of  curiosity  in  excess  ; 
but  what  passion  in  excess  will  not  become 
vicious  ?  All  indifferent  qualities  and  practices 
are  bad  if  they  are  compared  with  those 
which  are  good,  and  good  if  they  are  opposed 
to  those  that  are  bad.  The  pride  or  the  plea- 
sure of  making  collections  if  it  be  restrained 
by  prudence  and  morality,  produces  a  pleas- 
ing remission  after  more  laborious  studies; 
furnishes  an  amusement  not  wholly  unprofita- 
ble for  that  part  of  life,  the  greater  part  of 
many  lives,  which  would  otherwise  be  lost  in 
idleness  or  vice  ;  it  produces  a  useful  traffic 
between  the  industry  of  indigence  and  the 


No.  57.] 


THE  IDLER. 


411 


curiosity  of  wealth  ;  it  brings  many  things 
to  notice  that  would  be  neglected,  and,  by 
fixing  the  thoughts  upon  intellectual  plea- 
sures, resists  the  natural  encroachments  of 
sensuality,  and  maintains  the  mind  in  her  law- 
ful superiority. 


No.  57.]      SATURDAY,  MAY  19,  1759. 

PRUDENCE  is  of  more  frequent  use  than  any 
other  intellectual  quality ;  it  is  exerted  on  slight 
occasions,  and  called  into  act  by  the  cursory 
business  of  common  life. 

Whatever  is  universally  necessary,  has  been 
granted  to  mankind  on  easy  terms.  Prudence, 
as  it  is  always  wanted,  is  without  great  diffi- 
culty obtained.  It  requires  neither  extensive 
view  nor  profound  search,  but  forces  itself  by 
spontaneous  impulse  upon  a  mind  neither 
great  nor  busy,  neither  engrossed  by  vast  de- 
signs, nor  distracted  by  multiplicity  of  atten- 
tion. 

Prudence  operates  on  life  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  rules  on  composition  :  it  produces  vigi- 
lance rather  than  elevation  ;  rather  prevents 
loss  than  procures  advantage ;  and  often  es- 
capes miscarriages,  but  seldom  reaches  either 
power  or  honour.  It  quenches  that  ardour  of 
enterprise  by  which  every  thing  is  done  that 
can  claim  praise  or  admiration  ;  and  represses 
that  generous  temerity  which  often  fails  and 
often  succeeds.  Rules  may  obviate  faults 
but  can  never  confer  beauties  :  and  prudence 
keeps  life  safe  but  does  not  often  make  it 
happy.  The  world  is  not  amazed  with  prodi- 
gies of  excellence,  but  when  wit  tramples 
upon  rules,  and  magnanimity  breaks  the  chains 
of  prudence. 

One  of  the  most  prudent  of  all  that  have 
fallen  within  my  observation,  is  my  old  com- 
panion Sophron,  who  has  passed  through  the 
world  in  quiet,  by  perpetual  adherence  to  a 
few  plain  maxims,  and  wonders  how  conten- 
tion and  distress  can  so  often  happen. 

The  first  principle  of  Sophron  is  to  run  no 
hazards.  Though  he  loves  money,  he  is  of 
opinion  that  frugality  is  a  more  certain  source 
of  riches  than  industry.  It  is  to  no  purpos 
that  any  prospect  of  large  profit  is  set  before 
him ;  he  believes  little  about  futurity,  and  does 
not  love  to  trust  his  money  out  of  his  sight,  for 
nobody  knows  what  may  happen.  He  has  a 
small  estate,  which  he  lets  at  the  old  rent, 
because  "  it  is  better  to  have  a  little  than  no- 
thing ;"  but  he  rigorously  demands  payment 
on  the  stated  day,  for  he  that  cannot  pay  one 
quarter,  cannot  pay  two."  If  he  is  told  of 
any  improvements  in  agriculture,  he  likes  the 
old  way,  has  observed  that  changes  very  sel- 
dom answer  expectation  ;  is  of  opinion  that 
our  forefathers  knew  how  to  till  the  ground  a 
well  as  we  ;  and  concludes  with  an  argument 
that  nothing  can  overpower,  that  the  expense 
of  planting  and  fencing  is  immediate,  and 
the  advantage  distant,  and  that  "  he  is  no 
wise  man  who  will  quit  a  certainty  for  an  un- 
certainty." 

Another  of  Sophron's  rules  is  "  to  mind  no 
business  but  his  own."  In  the  state  he  ia  o 


no  party  ;  but  hears  and  speaks  of  public 
affairs  with  the  same  coldness  as  of  the  ad- 
ninistration  of  some  ancient  republic.  If  any 
lagrant  act  of  fraud  or  oppression  is  mention- 
ed, he  hopes  "  that  all  is  not  true  that  ia 
old ;"  if  misconduct  or  corruption  puts  the 
nation  in  a  flame,  he  hopes  that  "  every  man 
means  well."  At  elections  he  leaves  his  de- 
>endents  to  their  own  choice,  and  declines 
.o  vote  himself,  for  every  candidate  is  a  good 
man,  whom  he  is  unwilling  to  oppose  or 
offend. 

If  disputes  happen  among  his  neighbours 
ic  observes  an  invariable  and  cold  neutrality. 
His  punctuality  has  gained  him  the  reputation 
of  honesty,  and  his  caution  that  of  wisdom  ; 
and  few  would  refuse  to  refer  their  claims  to 
lis  award.  He  might  have  prevented  many 
expensive  law-suits,  and  quenched  many  a  feud 
n  its  first  smoke  ;  but  always  refuses  the  office 
of  arbitration,  because  he  must  decide  against 
one  or  the  other. 

With  the  affairs  of  other  families  he  is  al- 
ways unacquainted.  He  sees  estates  bought 
and  sold,  squandered  and  increased,  without 
praising  the  economist,  or  censuring  the 
spendthrift.  He  never  courts  the  rising  lest 
they  should  fall;  nor  insults  the  fallen  lest 
they  should  rise  again.  His  caution  has  the 
appearance  of  virtue,  and  all  who  do  not  want 
bis  help  praise  his  benevolence ;  but  if  any 
man  solicits  his  assistance,  he  has  just  sent 
away  all  his  money  ;  and,  when  the  petitioner 
is  gone,  declares  to  his  family  that  he  is  sorry 
for  his  misfortunes,  has  always  looked  upon 
him  with  particular  kindness,  and  therefore 
could  not  lend  him  money,  lest  he  should 
destroy  their  friendship  by  the  necessity  of  en- 
forcing payment. 

Of  domestic  misfortunes  he  has  never  heard. 
When  he  is  told  the  hundredth  time  of  a  gen- 
tleman's daughter  who  has  married  the  coach- 
man, he  lifts  up  his  hands  with  astonishment, 
for  he  always  thought  her  a  very  sober  girl. 
When  nuptial  quarrels,  after  having  filled  the 
country  with  talk  and  laughter,  at  last  end  in 
separation,  he  never  can  conceive  how  it  hap- 
pened, for  he  looked  upon  them  as  a  happy 
couple. 

If  his  advice  is  asked,  he  never  gives  any 
particular  direction,  because  events  are  uncer- 
tain, and  he  will  bring  no  blame  upon  himself, 
but  he  takes  the  con  suiter  tenderly  by  the 
hand,  tells  him  he  makes  his  case  his  own,  and 
advises  him  not  to  act  rashly,  but  to  weigh  the 
reasons  on  both  sides  ;  observes  that  a  man 
may  be  as  easily  too  hasty  as  too  slow,  and  that 
as  many  fail  by  doing  too  much  as  too  little  ; 
that  "  a  wise  man  has  two  ears  and  one 
tongue  ;"  and  "  that  little  said  is  soon  mend- 
ed ;"  that  he  could  tell  him  this  and  that,  but 
that  after  all  every  man  is  the  best  judge  of  his 
own  affairs. 

With  this  some  are  satisfied,  and  go  home 
with  great  reverence  of  Sophron's  wisdom; 
and  none  are  offended,  because  every  one  is 
left  in  full  possession  of  his  own  opinion. 

Sophron  gives  no  characters.  It  is  equally 
vain  to  tell  him  of  vice  and  virtue  ;  for  he  hai 
remarked,  that  no  man  likes  to  be  censurec. 


412 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  53. 


and  that  very  few  are  delighted  with  the 
praises  of  another.  He  has  a  few  terms  which 
he  uses  to  all  alike.  With  respect  to  fortune, 
he  believes  every  family  to  be  in  good  cir- 
cumstances ;  he  never  exalts  any  understand- 
ing by  lavish  praise,  yet  he  meets  with  none 
but  very  sensible  people.  Every  man  is  honest 
and  hearty ;  and  every  woman  is  a  good  crea- 
ture. 

Thus  Sophron  creeps  along,  neither  loved 
nor  hated,  neither  favoured  nor  opposed  ; 
he  has  never  attempted  to  grow  rich,  for  fear 
of  growing  poor :  and  has  raised  no  friends, 
for  fear  of  making  enemies. 


No.  58.]       SATURDAY,  MAT  26,  1759. 

PLEASURE  is  very  seldom  found  where  it  is 
sought  Our  bi  ight  blazes  of  gladness  are  com- 
monly kindled  by  unexpected  sparks.  The 
flowers  which  scatter  their  odours  from  time 
to  time  in  the  paths  of  life,  grow  up  without 
culture  from  seed  scattered  by  chance. 

Nothing  is  more  hopeless  than  a  scheme  of 
merriment.  Wits  and  humourists  are  brought 
together  from  distant  quarters  by  preconcerted 
invitations  ;  they  come  attended  by  their  ad- 
mirers, prepared  to  laugh  and  to  applaud ;  they 
gaze  a  while  on  each  other,  ashamed  to  be  silent, 
and  afraid  to  speak  ;  every  man  is  discontented 
with  himself,  grows  angry  with  those  that  give 
him  pain,  and  resolves  that  he  will  contribute 
nothing  to  the  merriment  of  such  worthless 
company.  Wine  inflames  the  general  malig- 
nity, and  changes  sullenness  to  petulance,  till 
at  last  none  can  bear  any  longer  the  presence 
of  the  rest.  They  retire  to  vent  their  indigna- 
tion in  safer  places,  where  they  are  heard  with 
attention  ;  their  importance  is  restored,  they 
recover  their  good  humour,  and  gladden  the 
night  with  wit  and  jocularity. 

Merriment  is  always  the  effect  of  a  sudden 
impression.  The  jest  which  is  expected  is  al- 
ready destroyed.  The  most  active  imagination 
will  be  sometimes  torpid  under  the  frigid  influ- 
ence of  melancholy,  and  sometimes  occasions 
will  be  wanting  to  tempt  the  mind,  however  vo- 
latile, to  sallies  and  excursions.  Nothing  was 
ever  said  with  uncommon  felicity,  but  by  the 
co-operation  of  chance,  and  therefore,  wit  as 
well  as  valour  must  be  content  to  share  its 
honours  with  fortune. 

All  other  pleasures  are  equally  uncertain  ; 
the  general  remedy  of  uneasiness  is  change 
of  place  ;  almost  every  one  has  some  journey 
of  pleasure  in  his  mind,  with  which  he  flatters 
his  expectation.  He  that  travels  in  theory  lias 
no  inconvenience  ;  he  has  shade  and  sunshine 
at  his  disposal,  and  wherever  he  alights  finds 
tables  of  plenty  and  looks  of  gaiety.  These 
ideas  are  indulged  till  the  day  of  departure 
arrives,  the  chaise  is  called,  and  the  progress 
of  happiness  begins. 

A  few  miles  teach  him  the  fallacies  of  imagi- 
nation. The  road  is  dusty,  the  air  is  sultry, 
the  horses  are  sluggish,  and  the  postillion 
brutal.  He  longs  for  the  time  of  dinner,  that 
he  may  eat  and  rest.  The  inn  is  crowded,  his 
orders  are  neglected,  and  nothing  remains 


but  that  he  devour  in  haste  what  the  cook  has 
spoiled,  and  drive  on  in  quest  of  better  enter- 
tainment. He  finds  at  night  a  more  commo- 
dious house,  but  the  best  is  always  worse  than 
he  expected. 

He  at  last  enters  his  native  province,  and 
resolves  to  feast  his  mind  with  the  conversation 
of  his  old  friends  and  the  recollection  of  juve- 
nile frolics.  He  stops  at  the  house  of  his 
friend,  whom  he  designs  to  overpower  with 
pleasure  by  the  unexpected  interview.  He  is 
not  known  till  he  tells  his  name,  and  revives 
the  memory  of  himself  by  a  gradual  explana- 
tion. He  is  then  coldly  received  and  ceremo- 
niously feasted.  He  hastes  away  to  another, 
whom  his  affairs  have  called  to  a  distant  place, 
and  having  seen  the  empty  house,  goes  away 
disgusted,  by  a  disappointment  which  could 
not  be  intended  because  it  could  be  foreseen. 
At  the  next  house  he  finds  every  face  clouded 
with  misfortune,  and  is  regarded  with  male- 
volence as  an  unreasonable  intruder,  who 
comes  not  to  visit  but  to  insult  them. 

It  is  seldom  that  we  find  either  men  or  places 
such  as  we  expect  them.  He  that  has  pictured 
a  prospect  upon  his  fancy,  will  receive  little 
pleasure  from  his  eyes  ;  he  that  has  anticipated 
the  conversation  of  a  wit,  will  wonder  to  what 
prejudice  he  owes  his  reputation.  Yet  it  is  ne- 
cessary to  hope,  though  hope  should  always  be 
deluded  ;  for  hope  itself  is  happiness,  and  its 
frustrations,  however  frequent,  are  yet  less 
dreadful  than  its  extinction. 


No.  59.]     SATURDAY,  JUNE  2,  1759. 

IN  the  common  enjoyments  of  life,  we  cannot 
very  liberally  indulge  the  present  hour,  but  by 
anticipating  part  of  the  pleasure  which  might 
have  relieved  the  tediousness  of  another  day  ; 
and  any  uncommon  exertion  of  strength,  or 
perseverance  in  labour,  is  succeeded  by  a  long 
interval  of  languor  and  weariness.  What- 
ever advantage  we  snatch  beyond  the  certain 
portion  allotted  us  by  nature,  is  like  money 
spent  before  it  is  due,  which  at  the  time  of  re- 
gular payment  will  be  missed  and  regretted. 

Fame,  like  all  other  things  which  are  sup 
posed  to  give  or  to  increase  happiness,  is  dis 
pensed  with  the  same  equality  of  distribution. 
He  that  is  loudly  praised  will  be  clamorously 
censured  ;  he  that  rises  hastly  into  fame  will 
be  in  danger  of  sinking  suddenly  into  obli 
vion. 

Of  many  writers  who  filled  their  age  with 
wonder,  and  whose  names  we  find  celebrated 
in  the  books  of  their  contemporaries,  the  works 
are  now  no  longer  to  be  seen,  or  are  seen  only 
amidst  the  lumber  of  libraries  which  are  seldom 
visited,  where  they  lie  only  to  show  the  deceit- 
fulness  of  hope,  and  the  uncertainty  of  ho- 
nour. 

Of  the  decline  of  reputation  many  causes 
may  be  assigned.  It  is  commonly  lost  because 
it  never  was  deserved  ;  and  was  conferred  at 
first,  not  by  the  suffrage  of  criticism,  but  by 
the  fondness  of  friendship,  or  servility  of  flat- 
tery. The  great  and  popular  are  very  freely 
apolauded  ;  but  all  soon  grow  weary  of  echo 


No.60  .] 


THE  1DLFR. 


413 


ing  to  each  other  a  name  which  has  no  other 
claim  to  notice,  but  that  many  mouths  are  pro- 
nouncing it  at  o  ice. 

But  many  have  lost  the  final  reward  of  their 
labours  because  they  were  too  hasty  to  enjoy 
it.  They  have  laid  hold  on  recent  occurrences, 
and  eminent  names,  and  delighted  their  readers 
with  allusions  and  remarks,  in  which  all  were 
interested,  and  to  which  all  therefore  were  at- 
tentive. But  the  effect  ceased  with  its  cause  ; 
the  time  quickly  came  when  new  events  drove 
the  former  from  memory,  when  the  vicissitudes 
of  the  world  brought  new  hopes  and  fears, 
transferred  the  love  and  hatred  of  the  public 
to  other  agents,  and  the  writer,  whose  works 
were  no  longer  assisted  by  gratitude,  or  re- 
sentment, was  left  to  the  cold  regard  of  idle 
curiosity. 

He  that  writes  upon  general  principles,  or 
delivers  univfcsal  truths,  may  hope  to  be  often 
read,  because  his  work  will  be  equally  useful  at 
all  times,  and  in  every  country ;  but  he  cannot 
expect  it  to  be  received  with  eagerness,  or  to 
spread  with  rapidity,  because  desire  can  have 
no  particular  stimulation  ;  that  which  is  to  be 
loved  long  must  be  loved  with  reason  rather 
than  with  passion.  He  that  lays  out  his  la- 
bours upon  temporary  subjects,  easily  finds 
readers,  and  quickly  loses  them ;  for,  what 
should  make  the  book  valued  when  its  subject 
is  no  more  ? 

These  observations  will  show  the  reason 
why  the  poem  of  Hudibras  is  almost  forgotten, 
however  embellished  with  sentiments  and  di- 
versified with  allusions,  however  bright  with 
wit,  and  however  solid  with  truth.  The  hy- 
pocrisy which  it  detected,  and  the  folly  which 
it  ridiculed,  have  long  vanished  from  public 
notice.  Those  who  had  felt  the  mischief  of 
discord,  and  the  tyranny  of  usurpation,  read  it 
with  rapture,  for  every  line  brought  back  to 
memory  something  known,  and  to  gratified  re- 
sentment by  the  just  censure  of  something 
nated.  But  the  book  which  was  once  quoted 
by  princes,  and  which  supplied  conversation 
to  all  the  assemblies  of  the  gay  and  witty,  is 
now  seldom  mentioned,  and  even  by  those 
that  affect  to  mention  it  is  seldom  read.  So 
vainly  is  wit  lavished  upon  fugitive  topics,  so 
little  can  architecture  secure  duration  when 
the  ground  is  false. 


No.  60.]      SATURDAY,  JUNE  9,  1759. 

CRITICISM  is  a  study  by  which  men  grow  im- 
portant and  formidable  at  a  very  small  expense. 
The  power  of  invention  has  been  conferred  by 
nature  upon  few,  and  the  labour  of  learning 
those  sciences  which  may  by  mere  labour  be  ob- 
tained is  too  great  to  be  willingly  endured  ;  but 
every  man  can  exert  such  judgment  as  he  has 
upon  the  works  of  others ;  and  he  whom  nature 
has  made  weak,  and  idleness  keeps  ignorant, 
may  yet  support  his  vanity  by  the  name  of  a 
Critic. 

I  hope  it  will  give  comfort  to  great  numbers 
who  are  passing  through  the  world  in  obscuri- 
ty, when  I  inform  them  how  easily  distinction 
may  be  obtained.  All  the  other  powers  of  lite- 


rature are  coy  and  haughty,  they  must  be  long 
courted,  and  at  last  are  not  always  gained : 
but  Criticism  is  a  goddess  easy  of  access  and 
forward  of  advance ;  who  will  meet  the 
slow,  and  encourage  the  timorous ;  the  want 
of  meaning  she  supplies  with  words,  and  the 
want  of  spirit  she  recompenses  with  malignity. 

This  profession  has  one  recommendation  pe- 
culiar to  itself,  that  it  gives  vent  to  malignity 
without  real  mischief.  No  genius  was  ever 
blasted  by  the  breath  of  critics.  The  poison 
which,  if  confined,  would  have  burst  the  heart, 
fumes  away  in  empty  hisses,  and  malice  is  set 
at  ease  with  very  little  danger  to  merit.  The 
critic  is  the  only  man  whose  triumph  is  with- 
out another's  pain,  and  whose  greatness  does 
not  rise  upon  another's  ruin. 

To  a  study  at  once  so  easy  and  so  reputable, 
so  malicious  and  so  harmless,  it  cannot  be  ne- 
cessary to  invite  my  readers  by  a  long  or  la- 
boured exhortation  ;  it  is  sufficient,  since  all 
would  be  critics  if  they  could,  to  show  by  one 
eminent  example  that  all  can  be  critics  if  they 
will. 

Dick  Minim,  after  the  common  course  of 
puerile  studies,  in  which  he  was  no  great  pro- 
ficient, was  put  an  apprentice  to  a  brewer,  with 
whom  he  had  lived  two  years,  when  his  uncle 
died  in  the  city,  and  left  him  a  large  fortune  in 
the  stocks.  Dick  had  for  six  months  before 
used  the  company  of  the  lower  players,  of  whom 
he  had  learned  to  scorn  a  trade,  and,  being  now 
at  liberty  to  follow  his  genius,  he  resolved  to  be 
a  man  of  wit  and  humour.  That  he  might  be 
properly  initiated  in  his  new  character,  he  fre- 
quented the  coffee-houses  near  the  theatres, 
where  he  listened  very  diligently,  day  after 
day  to  those  who  talked  of  language  and  senti- 
ments, and  unities  and  catastrophes,  till  by  slow 
degrees  he  began  to  think  that  he  understood 
something  of  the  stage,  and  hoped  in  time  to 
talk  himself. 

But  he  did  not  trust  so  much  to  natural  saga- 
city as  wholly  to  neglect  the  help  of  books. 
When  the  theatres  were  shut,  he  retired  to 
Richmond  with  a  few  select  writers,  whose 
opinions  he  impressed  upon  his  memory  by 
unwearied  diligence ;  and,  when  he  returned 
with  other  wits  to  the  town,  was  able  to  tell, 
in  very  proper  phrases,  that  the  chief  business 
of  art  is  to  follow  nature  ;  that  a  perfect  wri- 
ter is  not  to  be  expected,  because  genius  de- 
cays as  judgment  increases;  that  the  great 
art  is  the  art  of  blotting  ;  and  that,  according 
;o  the  rule  of  Horace,  every  piece  should  be 
iept  nine  years. 

Of  the  great  authors  he  now  began  to  dis- 
play the  characters,  laying  down  as  a  univer- 
sal position,  that  all  had  beauties  and  defects. 
His  opinion  was,  that  Shakespeare,  commit- 
;ing  himself  wholly  to  the  impulse  of  nature, 
wanted  that  correctness  which  learning  would 
lave  given  him  ;  and  that  Jonson,  trusting  to 
earning,  did  not  sufficiently  cast  his  eye  on 
nature.  He  blamed  the  stanza  of  Spenser, 
and  could  not  bear  the  hexameters  of  Sidney. 
~)enham  and  Waller  he  held  the  first  reformers 
of  English  numbers ;  and  thought  that  if 
Waller  could  have  obtained  the  strength  of 
Denham,  or  Denham  the  sweetness  of  Waller 


414 


THE  IDLER. 


there  had  been  nothing  wanting  to  complete 
a  poet.  He  often  expressed  his  commisera- 
tion of  Dryden's  poverty,  and  his  indignation 
at  the  age  which  suffered  him  to  write  for 
bread  ;  he  repeated  with  rapture  the  first  lines 
of  Ml  for  Love,  but  wondered  at  the  corrup- 
tion of  taste  which  could  bear  any  thing  so  un- 
natural as  rhyming  tragedies.  In  Otway  he 
found  uncommon  powers  of  moving  the  pas- 
pions,  but  was  disgusted  by  his  general  negli- 
gence, and  blamed  him  for  making  a  conspira- 
tor his  hero ;  and  never  concluded  his  disquisi- 
tion without  remarking  how  happily  the  sound 
of  the  clock  is  made  to  alarm  the  audience. 
Southern  would  have  been  his  favourite,  but 
that  he  mixes  comic  with  tragic  scenes,  inter- 
cepts the  natural  course  of  the  passions,  and 
fills  the  mind  with  a  wild  confusion  of  mirth 
a  melancholy.  The  versification  of  Rowe  he 
thought  too  melodious  for  the  stage,  and  too 
little  varied  in  different  passions.  He  made  it 
the  great  fault  of  Congreve,  that  all  his  per- 
sons were  wits,  and  that  he  always  wrote  with 
more  art  than  nature.  He  considered  Cato 
rather  as  a  poem  than  a  play,  and  allowed 
Addison  to  be  the  complete  master  of  allegory 
and  grave  humour,  but  paid  no  great  deference 
to  him  as  a  critic.  He  thought  the  chief  merit 
of  Prior  was  in  his  easy  tales  and  lighter 

Eoems,  though  he  allowed  that  his  Solomon 
ad  many  noble  sentiments  elegantly  express- 
ed. In  Swift  he  discovered  an  inimitable  vein 
of  irony,  and  an  easiness  which  all  would 
hope  and  few  would  attain.  Pope  he  was  in- 
clined to  degrade  from  a  poet  to  a  versifier, 
and  thought  his  numbers  rather  luscious  than 
sweet.  He  often  lamented  the  neglect  of  Phae- 
dra and  Hippolitus,  and  wished  to  see  the 
stage  under  better  regulation. 

These  assertions  passed  commonly  uncon- 
tradicted  ;  and  if  now  and  then  an  opponent 
started  up,  he  was  quickly  repressed  by  the  suf- 
frages of  the  company,  and  Minim  went  away 
from  every  dispute  with  elation  of  heart  and 
increase  of  confidence. 

He  now  grew  conscious  of  his  abilities,  and 
began  to  talk  of  the  present  state  of  dramatic 
poetry  ;  wondered  what  was  become  of  the 
comic  genius  which  supplied  our  ancestors  with 
wit  and  pleasantry,  and  why  no  writer  could  be 
found  that  durst  now  venture  beyond  a  farce. 
He  saw  no  reason  for  thinking  that  the  vein  of 
humour  was  exhausted,  since  we  live  in  a  coun- 
try where  liberty  suffers  every  character  to 
spread  itself  to  its  utmost  bulk,  and  which, 
therefore,  produces  more  originals  than  all  the 
rest  of  the  world  together.  Of  tragedy  he  con- 
cluded business  to  be  the  soul,  and  yet  often 
hinted  that  love  predominates  too  much  upon 
the  modern  stage. 

He  was  now  an  acknowledged  critic,  and  had 
his  own  seat  in  a  coffee-house,  and  headed  a 
party  in  the  pit.  Minim  has  more  vanity  than 
ill  nature,  and  seldom  desires  to  do  much  mis- 
chief; he  will  perhaps  murmur  a  little  in  the 
ear  of  him  that  sits  next  him,  but  endeavours 
to  influence  the  audience  to  favour,  by  clapping 
when  an  actor  exclaims,  "  Ye  gods  !"  or  la- 
ments the  misery  of  his  country. 

By  degrees  he  was  admitted  to  rehearsals ;  and 


many  of  his  frienas  are  of  opinion,  that  our  pre- 
sent poets  are  indebted  to  him  for  their  happi- 
est thoughts  ;  by  his  contrivance  the  bell  was 
rung  twice  in  Barbarossa,  and  by  his  persuasion 
the  author  of  Cleone  concluded  his  play  with 
a  couplet ;  for  what  can  be  more  absurd,  said 
Minim,  than  that  part  of  a  play  should  be 
rhymed,  and  part  written  in  blank  verse  ;  and 
by  what  acquisition  of  faculties  is  the  speaker, 
who  never  could  find  rhymes  before,  enabled 
to  rhyme  at  the  conclusion  of  an  act  ? 

He  is  the  great  investigator  of  hidden  beau- 
ties, and  is  particularly  delighted  when  he  finds 
the  sound  an  echo  to  the  sense.  He  has  read  all 
our  poets  with  particular  attention  to  this  deli- 
cacy of  versification,  and  wonders  at  the  su- 
pineness  with  which  their  works  have  been 
hitherto  perused,  so  that  no  man  has  found  the 
sound  of  a  drum  in  this  distich. 

• 

"  When  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic, 
Was  beat  with  fist  instead  of  a  stick  ;" 

and  that  the  wonderful  lines  upon  honour 
and  a  bubble,  have  hitherto  passed  without 
notice  : 

"  Honour  is  like  the  glassy  bubble, 
Which  costs  philosophers  such  trouble  : 
Where,  one  partcrack'd,  the  whole  does  fly 
And  wits  are  crack'd  to  find  out  why. 

In  these  verses,  says  Minim,  we  have  two 
striking  accommodations  of  the  sound  to  the 
sense.  It  is  impossible  to  utter  the  two  lines 
emphatically  without  an  act  like  that  which 
they  describe  ;  bubble  and  trouble  causing  a 
momentary  inflation  of  the  cheeks  by  the  reten- 
tion of  the  breath,  which  is  afterwards  forcibly 
emitted,  as  in  the  practice  of  blowing  bubbles. 
But  the  greatest  excellence  is  in  the  third  line, 
which  is  cracked  in  the  middle  to  exoress  a 
crack,  and  then  shivers  into  monosyllables. 
Yet  hath  this  diamond  lain  neglected  with  com- 
mon stones,  and  among  the  innumerable  ad 
mirers  of  Hudibras  the  observation  of  this 
superlative  passage  has  been  reserved  for  the 
sagacity  of  Minim. 


No.  61.]      SATURDAY,  JUNE  16,  1759. 

MR.  MINIM  had  now  advanced  himself  to  the 
zenith  of  critical  reputation  ;  when  he  was  in 
the  pit,  every  eye  in  the  boxes  was  fixed  upon 
him ;  when  he  entered  his  coffee-house,  he  was 
surrounded  by  circles  of  candidates,  who  passed 
their  noviciate  of  literature  under  his  tuition  : 
his  opinion  was  asked  by  all  who  had  no  opi- 
nion of  their  own,  and  yet  loved  to  debate  and 
decide  ;  and  no  composition  was  supposed  to 
pass  in  safety  to  posterity  till  it  had  been  scour- 
ed by  Minim's  approbation. 

Minim  professes  great  admiration  of  the  wis- 
dom and  munificence  by  which  the  academies  of 
the  continent  were  raised  ;  and  often  wishes  for 
some  standard  of  taste,  for  some  tribunal,  to 
which  merit  may  appeal  from  caprice,  prejudice, 
and  malignity.  He  has  formed  a  plan  for  an 
academy  of  criticism,  where  every  work  of 
imagination  may  be  read  before  it  is  printed,  and 


No.  62.] 


THE  IDLER. 


415 


which  shall  authoritively  direct  the  theatres 
what  pieces  to  receive  or  reject,  to  exclude  or 
to  revive. 

Such  an  institution  would,  in  Dick's  opinion, 
spread  the  fame  of  English  literature  over  Eu- 
rope, and  make  London  the  metropolis  of  ele- 
gance and  politeness,  the  place  to  which  the 
learned  and  ingenious  of  all  countries  would 
repair  for  instruction  and  improvement,  and 
where  nothing  would  any  longer  be  applauded 
or  endured  that  was  not  conformed  to  the  ni- 
cest rules,  and  finished  with  the  highest  ele- 
gance. 

Till  some  happy  conjunction  of  the  planets 
shall  dispose  our  princes  or  ministers  to  make 
themselves  immortal  by  such  an  academy, 
Minim  contents  himself  to  preside  four  nights 
in  a  week  in  a  critical  society  selected  by 
himself,  where  he  is  heard  without  contradic- 
tion, and  whence  his  judgment  is  dissemi- 
nated through  the  great  vulgar  and  the  small. 

When  he  is  placed  in  the  chair  of  criticism, 
he  declares  loudly  for  the  noble  simplicity  of 
our  ancestors,  in  opposition  to  the  petty  refine- 
ments, and  ornamental  luxuriance.  Some- 
times he  is  sunk  in  despair,  and  perceives 
false  delicacy  daily  gaining  ground,  and  some- 
limes  brightens  his  countenance  with  a  gleam 
of  hope,  and  predicts  the  revival  of  the  true 
sublime.  He  then  fulminates  his  loudest  cen- 
sures against  the  monkish  barbarity  of  rhyme ; 
wonders  how  beings  that  pretend  to  reason  can 
be  pleased  with  one  line  always  ending  like 
another ;  tells  how  unjustly  and  unnaturally 
sense  is  sacrificed  to  sound  ;  how  often  the 
best  thoughts  are  mangled  by  the  necessity  of 
confining  or  extending  them  to  the  dimensions  of 
a  couplet ;  and  rejoices  that  genius  has,  in  our 
days,  shaken  of  the  shackles  which  had  en- 
cumbered it  so  long.  Yet  he  allows  that 
rhyme  may  sometimes  be  borne  if  the  lines 
be  often  broken,  and  the  pauses  judiciously 
diversified. 

From  blank  verse  he  makes  an  easy  transi- 
tion to  Milton,  whom  he  produces  as  an  exam- 
ple of  >he  slow  advance  of  lasting  reputation. 
Milton  is  the  only  writer  in  whose  books 
Minim  can  read  for  ever  without  weariness. 
What  cause  is  it  that  exempts  this  pleasure 
from  satiety  he  has  long  and  diligently  inquir- 
ed, and  believes  it  to  consist  in  the  perpetual 
variation  of  the  numbers,  by  which  the  ear  is 
gratified  and  the  attention  awakened.  The 
lines  that  are  commonly  thought  rugged  and 
and  unmusical  he  conceives  to  have  been 
written  to  temper  the  melodious  luxury  of  the 
rest,  or  to  express  things  by  z.  proper  cadence : 
for  he  scarcely  finds  a  verse  that  has  not 
this  favourite  beauty ;  he  declares  that  he 
could  shiver  in  a  hot-house  when  he  reads 
that 

• 

"  the  ground 
Burns  frore,  and  cold  performs  the  effect  of  fire  ; 

and  that  when  Milton  bewails  his  blindness, 
the  v^rse, 

v  80  thick  a  drop  serene  has  quench'd  these  orbs," 


|  has,  he  knowt  not  how,  something  that  strikes 
'  him  with  an  obscure  sensation  like  that  which 
he  fancies  would  be  felt  from  the  sound  of 
darkness. 

Minim  is  not  so  confident  of  his  rules  of 
judgment  as  not  very  eagerly  to  catch  new 
light  from  the  name  of  the  author.  He  is 
commonly  so  prudent  as  to  spare  those  whom 
he  cannot  resist,  unless,  as  will  sometimes  hap- 
pen, he  finds  the  public  combined  against 
them.  But  a  fresh  pretender  to  fame  he  is 
strongly  inclined  to  censure,  till  his  own  ho- 
nour requires  that  he  commend  him.  Till  he 
knows  the  success  of  a  composition  he  in- 
trenches himself  in  general  terms ;  them 
are  some  new  thoughts  and  beautiful  pa.o«a- 
ges,  but  there  is  likewise  much  which  he  would 
have  advised  the  author  to  expunge.  He  has 
several  favourite  epithets,  of  which  he  has 
never  settled  the  J,.eaning,  but  which  are 
very  comm^  *i»\inf  applied  to  books  which  he 
has  not  read,  or  cannot  understand.  O;>e  is 
manly,  another  is  dry,  another  stiff,  and  ano- 
ther flimsy  :  sometimes  he  discovers  delicacy 
of  style,  and  scmetimes  meets  with  strange 
expressions. 

He  is  never  so  great  nor  so  happy,  as  when  a 
youth  of  promising  parts  is  brought  to  receive 
his  directions  for  the  prosecution  of  his  studies. 
He  then  puts  on  a  very  serious  air  ;  he  advises 
the  pupil  to  read  none  but  the  best  authors, 
and,  when  he  finds  one  congenial  to  his  own 
mind,  to  study  his  beauties,  but  avoid  his 
faults,  and,  when  he  sits  down  to  write,  to  con- 
sider how  his  favourite  author  would  think  at 
the  present  time  on  the  present  occasion.  He 
exhorts  him  to  catch  those  moments  when  he 
finds  his  thoughts  expanded  and  his  genius 
exalted,  but  to  take  care  lest  imagination  hurry 
him  beyond  the  bounds  of  nature.  He  holds 
diligence  the  mother  of  success  ;  yet  enjoins 
him  with  great  earnestness,  not  to  read  more 
than  he  can  digest,  and  not  to  confuse  his 
mind,  by  pursuing  studies  of  contrary  ten- 
dencies. He  tells  him,  that  every  man  has 
his  genius,  and  that  Cicero  could  never  be  a 
poet.  The  boy  retires  illuminated,  resolves  to 
follow  his  genius,  and  to  think  how  Milton 
would  have  thought :  and  Minim  feasts  upon 
his  own  beneficence  till  another  day  brings 
another  pupil. 


No.  62.]      SATURDAY,  JUNE  23, 1759. 


TO  THE  IDLER. 


SIR, 


AN  opinion  prevails  almost  universally  in  the 
world,  that  he  who  has  money  has  every  thing. 
This  is  not  a  modern  paradox,  or  the  tenet  of 
a  small  and  obscure  sect,  but  a  persuasion 
which  appears  to  have  operated  upon  most 
minds  in  all  ages,  and  which  is  supported  by 
authorities  so  numerous  and  so  cogent,  that 
nothing  but  long  experience  could  have  given 
me  confidence  to  question  its  truth. 

But  experience  is  the  test  by  which  all  the 
philosophers  of  the  present  age  agree,  that 
speculation  must  be  tried ;  and  I  may  therefore 


416 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  G3. 


be  allowed  to  doubt  the  power  of  money,  since 
I  have  been  a  long  time  rich,  and  I  have  not 
yet  (buna  that  riches  can  make  me  happy. 

My  father  was  a  farmer  neither  wealthy  nor 
indigent,  who  gave  me  a  better  education  than 
was  suitable  to  my  birth,  because  my  uncle  in 
the  city  designed  me  for  his  heir  and  desired 
that  I  might  be  bred  a  gentleman.  My  uncle's 
wealth  was  the  perpetual  subject  of  conver- 
sation in  the  house  ;  and  when  any  little  mis- 
fortune befel  us,  or  any  mortification  dejected 
us,  my  father  always  exhorted  me  to  hold  up 
my  head,  for  my  uncle  would  never  marry. 

My  uncle,  indeed,  kept  his  promise.  Having 
his  mind  completely  busied  between  his  ware- 
house and  the  Change,  he  felt  no  tediousness  of 
life,  nor  any  want  of  domestic  amusements. 
When  my  father  died,  he  received  me  kindly ; 
but  after  a  few  months  rinding  no  great  plea- 
sure in  the  conversation  of  each  other,  we  part- 
ed ;  and  he  remitted  me  a  small  annuity,  on 
which  I  lived  a  quiet  and  studious  life,  without 
any  wish  to  grow  great  by  the  death  of  my 
benefactor. 

But  though  I  never  suffered  any  malignant 
impatience  to  take  holds  on  my  mind,  I  could 
not  forbear  sometimes  to  imagine  to  myself  the 
pleasure  of  being  rich ;  and  when  I  read  of 
diversions  and  magnificence,  resolved  to  try, 
when  time  should  put  the  trial  in  my  power, 
what  pleasure  they  could  afford. 

My  uncle,  in  the  latter  spring  of  his  life, 
when  his  ruddy  cheek  and  his  firm  nerves 
promised  him  a  long  and  healthy  age,  died  of 
an  apoplexy.  His  death  gave  me  neither  joy 
nor  sorrow.  He  did  me  good,  and  I  regarded 
him  with  gratitude  ;  but  I  could  not  please 
him,  and  therefore  could  not  love  him. 

He  had  the  policy  of  little  minds  who  4ove 
to  surprise  :  and  having  always  represented 
his  fortune  as  less  than  it  was,  had,  I  suppose, 
often  gratified  himself  with  thinking,  how  I 
should  be  delighted  to  find  myself  twice  as 
rich  as  I  expected.  My  wealth  was  such  as 
exceeded  all  the  schemes  of  expense  which  I 
had  formed  ;  and  I  soon  began  to  expand  my 
thoughts  and  look  round  me  for  some  purchase 
of  felicity. 

The  most  striking  effect  of  riches  is  the 
splendour  of  dress,  which  every  man  has  ob- 
served to  enforce  respect,  and  facilitate  recep- 
tion ;  and  my  first  desire  was  to  be  fine.  I 
sent  for  a  tailor  who  was  employed  by  the  no- 
bility, and  ordered  such  a  suit  of  clothes  as  I 
had  often  looked  on  with  involuntary  submis- 
sion, and  am  ashamed  to  remember  with  what 
flutters  of  expectation  I  waited  for  the  hour 
when  I  should  issue  forth  in  all  the  splendour 
of  embroidery.  The  clothes  were  brought  and 
for  three  days  I  observed  many  eyes  turned 
towards  me  as  I  passed  ;  but  I  felt  myself  ob- 
structed in  the  common  intercourse  of  civility, 
by  an  uneasy  consciousness  of  my  new  ap- 
pearance ;  as  I  thought  myself  more  observed, 
I  was  more  anxious  about  my  mien  and  beha- 
viour ;  and  the  mien  which  is  formed  by  care 
is  commonly  ridiculous.  A  short  time  accus- 
tomed me  to  myself,  and  my  dress  was  without 
pain  and  without  pleasure. 

For  a  little  while  I  tried  to  be  a  rake,  but  I 


began  too  late  ;  and  having  by  nature  no  turn 
for  a  frolic,  was  in  great  danger  of  ending  in  a 
drunkard.  A  fever,  in  which  not  one  of  my 
companions  paid  me  a  visit,  gave  me  time  for 
reflection.  I  found  that  there  was  no  great 
pleasure  in  breaking  windows  and  lying  in 
the  round-house ;  and  resolved  to  associate 
no  longer  with  those  whom,  though  I  had 
treated  and  bailed  them,  I  could  not  make 
friends. 

I  then  changed  my  measures  kept  running 
horses,  and  had  the  comfort  of  seeing  my  name 
very  often  in  the  news.  I  had  a  chesnut  horse, 
the  grandson  of  Childers,,  who  won  four  plates, 
and  ten  by-matches  ;  and  a  bay  frlly  who  carried 
off"  the  five-years-old  plate,  and  was  expected  to 
perform  much  greater  exploits,  when  my  groom 
broke  her  wind  because  I  happened  to  catch 
him  selling  oats  for  beer.  This  happiness  was 
soon  at  an  end  ;  there  was  no  pleasure  when  I 
lost,  and  when  I  won  I  could  not  much  exalt 
myself  by  the  virtues  of  my  horse.  I  grew 
ashamed  of  the  company  of  jockey-lords,  and 
resolved  to  spend  no  more  of  my  time  in  the 
stable. 

It  was  now  known  that  I  had  money,  and 
would  spend  it,  and  I  passed  four  months  in 
the  company  of  architects,  whose  whole  busi- 
ness was,  to  persuade  me  to  build  a  house.  I 
told  them  that  I  had  more  room  than  I  wanted, 
but  could  not  get  rid  of  their  importunities.  A 
new  plan  was  brought  me  every  morning ;  till 
at  last  my  constancy  was  overpowered,  and  I 
began  to  build.  The  happiness  of  building  last- 
ed but  a  little  while,  for  though  I  love  to  spend, 
I  hate  to  be  cheated  ;  and  I  soon  found,  that  to 
build  is  to  be  robbed. 

How  I  proceed  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness, 
you  shall  hear  when  I  find  myself  disposed  to 
write. 

I  am,  Sir, 

TIM.  RANGER. 


No.  63.]     SATURDAY,  JUNE  30,  1759. 

THE  natural  progress  of  the  works  of  men  is 
from  rudeness  to  convenience,  tiotn  conve- 
nience to  elegance,  and  from  elegance  to 
nicety. 

The  first  labour  is  enforced  by  necessity.  The 
savage  finds  himself  incommoded  by  heat  and 
cold,  by  rain  and  wind  ;  he  shelters  himself  in 
the  hollow  of  a  rock  and  learns  to  dig  a  cave 
where  there  was  none  before.  He  finds  the 
sun  and  the  wind  excluded  by  the  thicket,  and 
when  the  accidents  of  the  chase,  or  the  con- 
venience of  pasturage,  lead  him  into  more 
open  places,  he  forms  a  thicket  for  himself,  by 
planting  stakes  at  proper  distances,  and  laying 
branches  from  one  to  another. 

The  next  gradation  of  skill  and  industry 
produces  a  hovfte  closed  with  doors,  and  divid- 
ed by  partitions  ;  and  apartments  are  multi- 
plied and  disposed  according  to  the  various 
degrees  of  power  or  invention  ;  improvement 
succeeds  improvement,  as  he  that  is  freed 
from  a  greater  evil  grows  impatient  of  a  less, 
till  ease  in  time  is  advanced  to  pleasure. 
The  mind  set  free  from  the  importunities  of 


No.  64.] 


THE  IDLER. 


41? 


natural  want,  gains  leisure  to  go  in  search  o 
superfluous  gratifications,  and  adds  to  the  uses 
of  habitation  the  delights  of  prospect.  Then 
begins  the  reign  of  symmetry ;  orders  o 
architecture  are  invented,  and  one  part  of  the 
edifice  is  conformed  to  another,  without  any 
other  reason,  than  that  the  eye  may  not  be  of- 
fended. 

The  passage  is  very  short  from  elegance  to 
luxury.  Ionic  and  Corinthian  columns  are 
soon  succeeded  by  gilt  cornices,  inlaid  floors 
and  petty  ornaments,  which  show  rather  the 
wealth  than  the  taste  of  the  possessor. 

Language  proceeds,  like  every  thing  else, 
through  improvement  to  degeneracy.  The 
rovers  who  first  take  possession  of  a  country, 
having  not  many  ideas,  and  those  not  nicely 
modified  or  discriminated,  were  contented,  if  by 
general  terms  and  abrupt  sentences  they  could 
make  their  thoughts  known  to  one  another; 
as  life  begins  to  be  more  regulated,  and  pro- 
perty to  become  limited,  disputes  must  be  de- 
cided, and  claims  adjusted  ;  the  differences  ol 
things  are  noted,  and  distinctness  and  proprie- 
ty of  expression  become  necessary.  In  time, 
happiness  and  plenty  give  rise  to  curiosity, 
and  the  sciences  are  cultivated  for  ease  and 
pleasure  ;  to  the  arts,  which  are  now  to  be 
taught,  emulation  soon  adds  the  art  of  teach- 
ing ;  and  the  studious  and  ambitious  contend 
not  only  who  shall  think  best,  but  who  shall 
tell  their  thoughts  in  the  most  pleasing  man- 
ner. 

Then  begin  the  arts  of  rhetoric  and  poetry, 
the  regulation  of  figures,  the  selection  of 
words,  the  modulation  of  periods,  the  graces 
of  transition,  the  complication  of  clauses,  and 
all  the  delicacies  of  style  and  subtilities  of 
composition,  useful  while  they  advance  per- 
spicuity, and  laudable  while  they  increase 
pleasure,  but  easily  to  be  refined  by  needless 
scrupulosity  till  they  shall  more  embarrass 
the  writer  than  assist  the  reader  or  delight 
him. 

The  first  state  is  commonly  antecedent  to 
the  practice  of  writing ;  the  ignorant  essays  of 
imperfect  diction  pass  away  with  the  savage 
generation  that  uttered  them.  No  nation  can 
trace  their  language  beyond  the  second  period, 
and  even  of  that  it  does  not  often  happen 
that  many  monuments  remain. 

The  fate  of  the  English  tongue  is  like  that 
of  others.  We  know  nothing  of  the  scanty 
jargon  of  our  barbarous  ancestors ;  but  we 
have  specimens  of  our  language  when  it  began 
to  be  adapted  to  civil  and  religious  purposes, 
and  find  it  such  as  might  naturally  be  expect- 
ed, artless  and  simple,  unconnected  and  con- 
cise. The  writers  seem  to  have  desired  little 
more  than  to  be  understood,  and  perhaps  sel- 
dom aspired  to  the  praise  of  pleasing.  Their 
verses  were  considered  chiefly  as  memorial, 
and  therefore  did  not  differ  from  prose  but  by 
the  measure  or  the  rhyme. 

In  this  state,  varied  a  little  according  to  the 
different  purposes  or  abilities  of  writers,  our 
language  may  be  said  to  have  continued  to 
the  time  of  Grower,  whom  Chaucer  calls  his 
master,  and  who,  however  obscured  by  his 
scholar's  popularity,  seems  justly  to  claim  the 
3C 


honour  which  has  hitherto  been  denied  liim,  of 
showing  his  countrymen  that  something  more 
was  to  be  desired,  and  that  English  VBrse  might 
be  exalted  into  poetry. 

From  the  time  of  Gower  arid  Chaucer,  the 
English  writers  have  studied  elegance,  and 
advanced  their  language,  by  successive  im- 
provements, to  as  much  harmony  as  it  can 
easily  receive,  and  as  much  copiousness  as 
human  knowledge  has  hitherto  required. 
These  advances  have  not  been  made  at  all 
times  with  the  same  diligence  or  the  same 
success.  Negligence  has  suspended  the 
course  of  improvement,  or  affectation  turned 
it  aside  ;  time  has  elapsed  with  little  change, 
or  change  has  been  made  without  amend- 
ment. But  elegance  has  been  long  kept  in 
view  with  attention  as  near  to  constancy  as 
life  permits,  till  every  man  now  endeavours  to 
excel  others  in  accuracy  o.r  outshine  them  in 
splendour  of  style,  and  the  danger  is,  lest  care 
should  too  soon  pass  to  affectation. 


No  64.]      SATURDAY,  JULY  7,  1759. 

TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

As  nature  has  made  every  man  desirous  of 
happiness,  I  flatter  myself,  that  you  and  your 
readers  cannol  but  feel  some  curiosity  to 
know  the  sequel  of  my  story  ;  for  though,  by 
trying  the  different  schemes  of  pleasure,  I 
have  yet  found  nothing  in  which  I  could  final- 
ly acquiesce ;  yet  the  narrative  of  my  at- 
tempts will  not  be  wholly  without  use,  since 
we  always  approach  nearer  to  truth  as  we  de- 
tect more  and  more  varieties  of  error. 

When  I  had  sold  my  racers,  and  put  the 
orders  of  architecture  out  of  my  head,  my 
next  resolution  was  to  be  a  fine  gentleman.  I 
frequented  the  polite  coffee-houses,  grew  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  men  of  humour,  and 
ained  the  right  of  bowing  familiarly  to  half 
The  nobility.  In  this  new  scene  of  life  my 
great  labour  was  to  learn  to  laugh.  I  had 
seen  used  to  consider  laughter  as  the  effect  of 
merriment ;  but  I  soon  learned  that  it  is  one 
of  the  arts  of  adulation,  and,  from  laughing 
only  to  show  that  I  was  pleased,  I  now  began 
o  laugh  when  I  wished  to  please.  This  was 
at  first  very  difficult.  I  sometimes  heard  the 
story  with  dull  indifference  ;  and,  not  exalting 
myself  to  merriment  by  due  gradations,  burst 
out  suddenly  into  an  awkward  noise  which 
was  not  always  favourably  interpreted.  Some- 
times I  was  behind  the  rest  of  the  company, 
and  lost  the  grace  of  laughing  by  delay,  and 
sometimes  when  I  began  at  the  right  time 
was  deficient  in  loudness  or  in  length.  But, 
>y  diligent  imitation  of  the  best  models,  I  at- 
aincd  at  last  such  flexibility  of  muscles,  that  I 
was  always  a  welcome  auditor  of  a  story, 
and  got  the  reputation  of  a  good-natured  fe.- 
ow. 

This  was  something  ;  but  much  more  was 
o  be  done,  that  I  might  be  universally  allow- 
:d  to  be  a  fine  gentleman.  I  appeared  at 
ourt  on  all  public  days ;  betted  at  gaming- 
ables  and  plaved  at  all  the  routs  of  eminence. 


418 


THE  IDLER. 


I  wont  every  night  to  the  opera,  took  a  fiddler 
ol'  disputed  merit  under  my  protection,  be- 
came the  head  of  a  musical  faction,  and  had 
sometimes  concerts  at  my  own  house.  I  once 
thought  to  have  attained  the  highest  rank  of 
elegance,  by  taking  a  foreign  singer  into 
keeping.  But  my  favourite  fiddler  contrived 
to  be  arrested  on  th,s  night  of  a  concert,  for  a 
finer  suit  of  clothes  than  I  had  ever  presumed 
to  wear,  and  I  lost  all  the  fame  of  patronage 
by  refusing  to  bail  him. 

My  next  ambition  was  to  sit  for  my  picture. 
I  spent  a  whole  winter  in  going  from  painter  to 
painter,  to  bespeak  a  whole  length  of  one,  and 
a  half  length  of  another,  I  talked  of  nothing 
but  attitudes,  draperies,  and  proper  lights  ; 
took  my  friends  to  see  the  pictures  after 
every  sitting ;  heard  every  day  of  a  wonder- 
ful performer  in  crayons  and  miniature,  and 
sent  my  pictures  to  be  copied  ;  was  told  by 
the  judges  that  they  were  not  like,  and  was 
recommended  to  other  artists.  At  length  be- 
ing not  able  to  please  my  friends,  I  grew  less 
pleased  mjself,  and  at  last  resolved  to  think  no 
more  about  it. 

It  was  impossible  to  live  in  total  idleness : 
and  wandering  about  in  search  of  something 
to  do  I  was  invited  to  a  weekly  meeting  of 
virtuosos,  and  felt  myself  instantaneously 
seized  with  an  unextinguishahle  ardour  for  all 
natural  curiosities.  I  ran  from  auction  to  auc- 
tion, became  a  critic  in  shells  and  fossils, 
bought  a  Hortus  aiccus  of  inestimable  value, 
and  purchased  a  secret  art  of  preserving  in- 
sects, which  made  my  collection  the  envy  of 
the  other  philosophers.  I  found  this  pleasure 
mingled  with  much  vexation.  All  the  faults 
of  my  life  were  for  nine  months  circulated 
through  the  town  with  the  most  active  malig- 
nity, because  I  happened  to  catch  a  moth  of 
peculiar  variegation  ;  and  because  I  once 
outbid  all  the  lovers  of  shells,  and  carried  off 
a  nautilus,  it  was  hinted  that  the  validity  of 
my  uncle's  will  ought  to  be  disputed.  I  will 
not  deny  that  I  was  very  proud  both  of  the  moth 
and  of  the  shell,  and  gratified  myself  with 
the  envy  of  my  companions,  and  perhaps  more 
than  became  a  benevolent  being.  But  in  time 
I  grew  weary  of  being  hated  for  that  which 
produced  no  advantage,  gave  my  shells  to 
children  that  wanted  play-things,  and  sup- 
pressed the  art  of  drying  butterflies,  because 
I  would  not  tempt  idleness  and  cruelty  to  kill 
them. 

I  now  began  to  feel  life  tedious,  and  wished 
to  store  myself  with  friends,  with  whom  I 
might  grow  old  in  the  interchange  of  benevo- 
lence. I  had  observed  that  popularity  was  most 
easily  gained  by  an  open  table,  and  therefore 
hired  a  French  cook,  furnished  my  sideboard 
with  great  magnificence,  filled  my  cellar  with 
wines  of  pompous  appellations,  bought  every 
thing  that  was  dear  before  it  was  good,  and 
invited  all  those  who  were  most  famous  for 
judging  of  a  dinner.  In  three  weeks  my  cook 
gave  me  warning,  and,  upon  inquiry  told  me 
that  Lord  Glueasy,  who  dined  with  me  the  day 
before,  had  sent  him  an  offer  of  double  wages. 
My  pride  prevailed :  I  raised  his  wages,  and 
invited  his  lordship  to  another  feast.  I  love 


plain  meat,  and  was  therefore  soon  weary  ol 
spreading  a  table  of  which  I  could  not  partake. 
I  found  that  my  guests,  when  they  went 
away,  criticised  their  entertainment  and  cen- 
sured my  profusion  ;  my  cook  thought  him 
self  necessary,  and  took  upon  him  the  di- 
rection of  the  house  ;  and  I  could  not  rid  my 
self  of  flatterers,  or  break  from  slavery,  but 
by  shutting  up  my  house,  and  declaring  my  re- 
solution to  live  in  lodgings. 

After  all  this,  tell  me,  dear  Idler,  what  I 
must  do  next ;  I  have  health,  I  have  money, 
and  I  hope  that  I  have  understanding  ;  yet, 
with  all  these,  I  have  never  been  able  to  pass 
a  single  day  which  I  did  not  wish  at  an  end 
before  sunset.  Tell  me,  dear  Idler,  what  I 
shall  do. 

I  am, 

Your  humble  servant, 

TIM.  RANGER. 


No.  65.]  SATURDAY,  JULY  14,  17.?9. 

THE  sequel  of  Clarendon's  history,  at  last 
happily  published,  is  an  accession  to  English 
literature  equally  agreeable  to  the  admirers  of 
elegance  and  the  lovers  of  truth ;  many 
doubtful  facts  may  now  be  ascertainec4,  and 
many  questions,  after  long  debate,  may  be  de- 
termined by  decisive  authority.  He  that  re- 
cords transactions  in  which  himself  was  en- 
gaged has  not  only  an  opportunity  of  know- 
ing innumerable  particulars  which  escape 
spectators,  but  has  his  natural  powers  exalted 
by  that  ardour  which  always  rises  at  the  re- 
membrance of  our  own  importance,  and  by 
which  every  man  is  enabled  to  relate  his  own 
actions  better  than  another's. 

The  difficulties  through  which  this  work  has 
struggled  into  light,  and  the  delays  with  which 
our  hopes  have  been  lon»  mocked,  naturally 
lead  the  mind  to  the  consideration  of  the  com- 
mon fate  of  posthumous  compositions. 

He  who  sees  himself  surrounded  by  admirers, 
and  whose  vanity  is  hourly  feasted  with  all  the 
luxuries  of  studied  praise,  is  easily  persuaded 
that  his  influence  will  be  extended  beyond  his 
life  ;  that  they  who  cringe  in  his  presence 
will  reverence  his  memory,  and  that  those  who 
are  proud  to  be  numbered  among  his  friends, 
will  endeavour  to  vindicate  his  choice  by  zeal 
for  his  reputation. 

With  hopes  like  these,  to  the  executors  of 
Swift  was  committed  the  history  of  the  last 
years  of  Glueen  Anne,  and  to  those  of  Pope, 
the  works  which  remained  unprinted  in  his 
closet.  The  performances  of  Pope  were 
burnt  by  those  whom  he  had  perhaps  selected 
from  all  mankind  as  most  likely  to  publish 
them  ;  and  the  history  had  likewise  perished, 
had  not  a  straggling  transcript  fallen  in*o 
busy  hands. 

The  papers  left  in  the  closet  of  Pieresc,  sup- 
plied his  heirs  with  a  whole  winter's  fuel ;  and 
many  of  the  labours  of  the  learned  bishop 
Lloyd  were  consumed  in  the  kitchen  of  hii 
descendants. 

Some  works,  indeed,  have  escaped  total  de- 
struction, hut  yet  have  had  reason  to  lament 


No.  66.] 


THE  IDLER. 


419 


the  fate  of  orphans  exposed  to  the  frauds  o 
unfaithful  guardians.  How  Hale  would  hav 
borne  the  mutilations  which  his  "  Pleas  o 
the  Crown "  have  suffered  from  the  editor 
they  who  know  his  character  will  easily  con 
neive 

The  original  copy  of  Burnet's  history,  thouo-] 
promised  to  some  public*  library,  has  been 
never  given  ;  and  who  then  can  prove  the  fideli 
ty  of  the  publication,  when  the  authenticity  o 
Clarendon's  history,  though  printed  with  the 
sanction  of  one  of  the  first  universities  of  the 
world,  had  not  an  unexpected  manuscript  been 
happily  discovered,  would,  with  the  help  of  fac 
tious  credulity,  have  been  brought  into  ques 
tion  by  the  two  lowest  of  all  human  beings,  a 
scribbler  for  a  party,  and  a  commissioner  of  ex- 
cise ? 

Vanity  is  often  no  less  mischievous  than  neg- 
ligence or  dishonesty.  He  that  possesses  a 
valuable  manuscript,  hopes  to  raise  its  esteem 
by  concealment,  and  delights  in  the  distinction 
which  he  imagines  himself  to  obtain  by  keep- 
ing the  key  of  a  treasure  which  he  neither  uses 
nor  imparts.  From  him  it  falls  to  some  other 
owner,  less  vain  but  more  negligent,  who  con- 
sider it  as  useless  lumber,  and  rids  himself  ol 
the  incumbrance. 

Yet  there  are  some  works  which  the  authors 
must  consign  unpublished  to  posterity,  how- 
ever uncertain  be  the  event,  however  hopeless 
be  the  trust.  He  that  writes  the  history  of 
nis  own  times,  if  he  adheres  steadily  to  truth, 
will  write  that  which  his  own  times  will  not 
easily  endure.  He  must  be  content  to  re- 
posite  his  book  till  all  private  passions  shall 
cease,  and  love  and  hatred  give  way  to  curi- 
osity. 

But  many  leave  the  labours  of  half  their  life 
to  their  executors  and  to  chance,  because  they 
will  not  send  them  abroad  unfinished,  and  are 
unable  to  finish  them,  having  prescribed  to 
themselves  such  a  degree  of  exactness  as  hu- 
man diligence  can  scarcely  attain.  "  Lloyd," 
says  Burnet,  "  did  not  lay  out  his  learning 
with  the  same  diligence  as  he  laid  it  in."  He 
was  always  hesitating  and  inquiring,  raising 
objections  and  removing  them,  and  waiting 
for  clearer  light  and  fuller  discovery.  Baker, 
after  many  years  passed  in  biography,  left  his 
manuscripts  to  be  buried  in  a  library,  because 
that  was  imperfect  which  could  never  be  per- 
fected. 

Of  these  learned  men,  let  those  who  aspire 
to  the  same  praise  imitate  the  diligence,  and 
avoid  the  scrupulosity.  Let  it  be  always  re- 
membered that  life  is  short,  that  knowledge  is 
endless,  and  that  many  doubts  deserve  not  to 
be  cleared.  Let  those  whom  nature  and  study 
have  qualified  to  teach  mankind,  tell  us  what 
they  have  learned  while  they  are  yet  able  to 
tell  it,  and  trust  their  reputation  only  to  them- 
selves. 


*  It  would  be  proper  to  reposite,  in  some  rublic  place, 
(he  manuscript  of  Clarendon,  which  has  no  escaped  all 
suspicion  of  unfaithful  publication. 


No.  66.]     SATURDAY,  JULY  21,  1759 

No  complaint  is  more  frequently  repeated 
among  the  learned,  than  that  of  the  waste 
made  by  time  among  the  labours  of  antiquity. 
Of  those  who  once  filled  the  civilized  world 
with  their  renown,  nothing  is  now  left  but 
their  names  which  are  left  only  to  raise  desires 
that  never  can  be  satisfied,  and  sorrow  which 
never  can  be  comforted. 

Had  all  the  writings  of  the  ancients  been 
faithfully  delivered  down  from  age  to  age,  had 
the  Alexandrian  library  been  spared,  and  the 
Palatine  repositories  remained  unimpaired, 
how  much  might  we  have  known  of  which  we 
are  now  doomed  to  be  ignorant !  how  many 
laborious  inquiries,  and  dark  conjectures ; 
how  many  collations  of  broken  hints,  and  mu- 
tilated passages  might  have  been  spared  ! 
We  should  have  known  the  successions  of 
princes,  the  revolutions  of  empire,  the  actions 
of  the  great,  and  opinions  of  the  wise,  the 
laws  and  constitutions  of  every  state,  and  the 
arts  by  which  public  grandeur  and  happiness 
are  acquired  and  preserved ;  we  should  have 
traced  the  progress  of  life,  seen  colonies  from 
distant  regions  take  possession  of  European 
deserts,  and  troops  of  savages  settled  into  com- 
munities by  the  desire  of  keeping  what  they 
had  acquired  ;  we  should  have  traced  the  gra- 
dations of  civility,  and  travelled  upward  to  the 
original  of  things  by  the  light  of  history,  till  in 
remoter  time  it  had  glimmered  in  fable,  and  at 
last  sunk  into  darkness. 

If  the  works  of  imagination  had  been  lesj 
diminished,  it  is  likely  that  all  future  times 
might  have  been  supplied  with  inexhaustible 
amusement  by  the  fictions  of  antiquity.  The 
;ragedies  of  Sophocles  and  Euripides  would 
lave  shown  all  the  stronger  passions  in  all 
;heir  diversities ;  and  the  comedies  of  Menan- 
der  would  have  furnished  all  the  maxims 
domestic  life.  Nothing  would  have  be«  . 
necessary  to  mortal  wisdom  but  to  have  studi 
;hese  great  masters,  whose  knowledge  would 
lave  guided  doubt,  and  whose  authority  would 
lave  silenced  cavils. 

Such  are  the  thoughts  that  rise  in  every  stu 

dent,   when   his  curiosity  is  eluded,  and  hia 

searches  are  frustrated  ;  yet  it  may  perhaps  be 

doubted,  whether  our  complaints  are  not  some- 

imes  inconsiderate,  and  whether  we  do  not 

magine  more  evil  than  we  feel.     Of  the  an- 

ients,  enough  remains  to  excite  our  emulation 

and  direct    our   endeavours.     Many  of  the 

works  which  time  has  left  us,  we  know  to  have 

>een  those  that  were  most  esteemed,  and  which 

ntiquity  itself  considered  as  models ;  so  that, 

mving  the  originals,  we  may  without  much 

•egret  lose    the    imitations.      The   obscurity 

.vhich  the  want  of  contemporary  writers  often 

jroduces,  only  darkens  single  passages,    and 

hose  commonly  of  slight  importance.     The 

jeneral  tendency  of  every  piece  may  be  known  : 

and    though   that   diligence    deserves  praise 

which  leaves  nothing  unexanrined,  yet  its  mis- 

arriages   are  not  much  to  be  lamented  ;  for 

he  most  useful  truths  are  always   universal, 

nd  unconnected  with  accidents  and  customs. 

Such  ie  the  general  conspiracy  of  human 


420 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  67. 


nature  against  contemporary  merit,  that,  if  we 
had  inherited  from  antiquity  enough  to  afford 
employment  for  the  labourious,  and  amuse- 
ment for  the  i.'.le,  I  know  not  what  room  would 
have  been  left  for  modern  genius  or  modern 
industry  ;  almost  every  subject  would  have 
been  pre-occupied,  and  every  style  would  have 
been  fixed  by  a  precedent  from  which  few 
would  have  ventured  to  depart  Every  writer 
would  have  had  a  rival,  whose  superiority 
was  already  acknowledged,  and  to  whose  fame 
his  work  would,  even  before  it  was  seen,  be 
marked  out  for  a  sacrifice. 

We  see  how  little  the  united  experience  of 
mankind  hath  been  able  to  add  to  the  heroic 
characters  displayed  by  Homer,  and  how  few 
incidents  the  fertile  imagination  of  modern 
Italy  has  yet  produced  which  may  not  be  found 
in  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey.  It  is  likely  that  if 
all  the  works  of  the  Athenian  philosophers 
had  been  extant,  Malbranche  and  Locke  would 
have  been  condemned  to  be  silent  readers  of 
the  ancient  metaphysicians;  and  it  is  apparent, 
that,  if  the  old  writers  had  all  remained,  the 
Idler  could  not  have  written  a  disquisition  on 
the  loss. 


No.  67.]    SATURDAY,  JULY  28,  1759. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

IN  the  observations  which  you  have  made  on 
the  various  opinions  and  pursuits  of  mankind, 
you  must  often,  in  literary  conversations,  have 
met  with  men  who  consider  dissipation  as  the 
great  enemy  of  the  intellect ;  and  maintain, 
that,  in  proportion  as  the  student  keeps  him- 
self within  the  bounds  of  a  settled  plan,  he 
will  certainly  advance  in  science. 

This  opinion  is,  perhaps,  generally  true  ; 
yet  when  we  contemplate  the  inquisitive  nature 
of  the  human  mind,  and  its  perpetual  impa- 
tience of  all  restraint,  it  may  be  doubted  whe- 
ther the  faculties  may  not  be  contracted  by  con- 
fining the  attention  ;  and  whether  it  may  not 
sometimes  be  proper  to  risk  the  certainty  of 
little  for  the  chance  of  much.  Acquisitions  of 
knowledge,  like  blazes  of  genius,  are  often  for- 
tuitous. Those  who  had  proposed  to  them- 
selves a  methodical  course  of  reading,  light 
by  accident  on  a  new  book,  which  seizes  their 
thoughts  and  kindles  their  curiosity,  and  opens 
an  unexpected  prospect,  to  which  the  way 
which  they  had  prescribed  to  themselves  would 
never  have  conducted  them. 

To  enforce  and  illustrate  my  meaning,  I  have 
sent  you  a  journal  of  three  days'  employment, 
found  among  the  papers  of  a  late  intimate  ac- 
quaintance ;  who,  as  will  plainly  appear,  was 
a  man  of  vast  designs,  and  of  vast  perfor- 
mances, though  he  sometimes  designed  one 
thing  and  performed  another.  I  allow  tha 
the  Spectator's  inimitable  productions  of  thii 
kind  may  well  discourage  all  subsequent  jour 
nalists ;  but  as  the  subject  of  this  is  differen 
from  that  of  any  which  the  Spectator  has  given 
ns,  I  leave  it  to  you  to  publish  or  suppres 


Mem.  The  following  three  days  I  propose  to 
'ive  up  to  reading  ;  and  intend,  after  all  the 
elays  which  have  obtruded  themselves  upon 
me,  to  finish  my  "Essay  on  the  Extent  of  the 
Mental  Powers;"  to  revise  my  "Treatise  on 
>ogic ; "  to  begin  the  "  Epic"  which  I  have 
ong  projected ;  to  proceed  in  my  persual  of 
lie  "  Scriptures  with  Grotius's  Comment ;  " 
nd  at  my  leisure  to  regale  myself  with  the 
ivorks  of  classics,  ancient  and  modern,  and  to 
inish  my  "  Ode  to  Astronomy. " 

Monday.  Designed  to  rise  at  six,  but,  by 
ny  servant's  laziness,  my  fire  was  not  lighted 
efore  eight;  when  I  dropped  into  a  slumber 
hat  lasted  till  nine,  at  which  time  I  arose,  and 
after  breakfast  at  ten  sat  down  to  study,  pro- 
>osing  to  begin  upon  my  Essay  :  but,  finding 
•ccasion  to  consult  a  passage  in  Plato,  was 
Lbsorbed  in  the  persual  of  the  Republic  till 
welve.  I  had  neglected  to  forbid  company, 
ind  now  enters  Tom  Careless,  who  after  half 
in  hour's  chat,  insisted  upon  my  going  with 
lim  to  enjoy  an  absurd  character,  that  he  had 
ippointed,  by  an  advertisement,  to  meet  him 
at  a  particular  coffee-house.  After  we  had  for 
some  time  entertained  ourselves  with  him,  we 
sallied  out,  designing  each  to  repair  his  home  , 
jut,  as  it  fell  out,  coming  up  in  the  street  to  a 
man  whose  steel  by  his  side  declared  him  a 
>utcher,  we  overheard  him  opening  an  address 
,o  a  genteelish  sort  of  young  lady,  whom  he 
walked  with :  "  Miss,  though  your  father  is 
master  of  a  coal-lighter,  and  you  will  be  a 
great  fortune,  'tis  true  ;  yet  I  wish  I  may  be 
cut  into  quarters,  if  it  is  not  only  love,  and  not 
ucre  of  gain,  that  is  my  motive  for  offering 
;crms  of  marriage."  As  this  lover  proceeded 
n  his  speech,  he  misled  us  the  length  of  three 
streets,  in  admiration  at  the  unlimited  power 
of  the  tender  passion  that  could  soften  even  the 
.icart  of  a  butcher.  We  then  adjourned  to  a 
;avern,  and  from  thence  to  one  of  the  public 
gardens,  where  I  was  regaled  with  a  most 
imusing  variety  of  men,  possessing  great  ta- 
lents, so  discoloured  by  affectation,  that  they 
only  made  them  eminently  ridiculous  ;  shallow 
things,  who,  by  continual  dissipation,  had  an- 
nihilated the  few  ideas  nature  had  given  them, 
and  yet  were  celebrated  for  wonderful  pretty 
gentlemen  ;  young  ladies  extolled  for  their  wit, 
because  they  were  handsome  ;  illiterate  empty 
women,  as  well  as  men,  in  high  life,  admired 
for  their  knowledge,  from  their  being  resolutely 
positive ;  and  women  of  real  understanding 
so  far  from  pleasing  the  polite  million,  that 
they  frightened  them  away,  and  were  left  soli- 
tary. When  we  quitted  this  entertaining 
scene,  Tom  pressed  me  irresistibly  to  sup 
with  him.  I  reached  home  at  twelve,  and  then 
reflected,  that  though  indeed  I  had,  by  remark- 
ing various  characters,  improved  my  insight 
into  human  nature,  yet  still  I  neglected  the 
studies  proposed,  and  accordingly  took  up  my 
Treatise  on  Logic,  to  give  it  the  intented  re- 
visal,  but  found  my  spirits  too  much  agitated, 
and  could  not  forbear  a  few  satirical  lines,  un- 
der the  title  of  "The  Evening's  Walk." 

Tuesday,  At b.-eakfast,  seeing  my  "Ode 
to  Astronomy"  lying  on  my  desk,  I  was  struck 
with  a  train  of  ideas,  that  I  thought  might 


No.  68.] 


THE  IDLER. 


421 


contribute  to  its  improvement.  I  immediate! 
rang  my  bell  to  forbid  all  visitants,  when  m 
servant  opened  the  door,  with  "  Sir,  Mr.  Jeftre 
Gape.  "  My  cup  dropped  out  of  one  ham 
and  my  poem  out  of  the  other.  I  could  scarce 
ly  ask  him  to  sit  ;  he  told  me  he  was  goin 
to  walk,  but  as  there  was  a  likelihood  of  rain 
he  would  sit  with  me  ;  he  said,  he  intended  a 
first  to  have  called  at  Mr.  Vacant's,  but  as  h 
had  not  seen  me  a  great  while,  he  did  no 
mind  coming  out  of  his  way  to  wait  on  me 
I  made  him  a  bow,  but  th.-mks  for  the  favou 
stuck  in  my  throat.  I  asked  him  if  he  ha< 
been  to  the  coffee-house  ;  he  replied,  tw< 
hours. 

Under  the  oppression  of  this  dull  interrup 
tion,  I  sat  looking  wishfully  at  the  clock  ;  fo 
which,  to  increase  my  satisfaction,  I  had  cho 
sen  the  inscription,  "  Art  is  long,  and  life 
short ;  "  exchanging  questions  and  answers  a 
long  intervals,  and  not  without  some  hint 
that  the  weather-glass  promised  fair  weather 
At  half  an  hour  after  three  he  told  me  he  woul 
trespass  on  me  for  a  dinner,  and  desired  me  to 
send  to  his  house  for  a  bundle  of  papers,  abou 
inclosing  a  common  upon  his  estate,  which  he 
would  read  to  me  in  the  evening.  1  declarec 
myself  busy,  and  Mr.  Gape  went  away. 

Having  dined,  to  compose  my  chagrin,  ] 
took  my  Virgil,  and  several  other  classics,  but 
could  not  calm  my  mind,  or  proceed  in  my 
scheme.  At  about  five  I  laid  my  hand  on  a 
Bible  that  lay  on  my  table,  at  first  with  cold- 
ness and  insensibility  ;  but  was  imperceptibly 
engaged  in  a  close  attention  to  its  sublime  mo- 
rality, and  felt  my  heart  expanded  by  warm 
philanthropy,  and  exalted  to  dignity  of  senti- 
ment. I  then  censured  my  too  great  solicitude, 
and  my  disgust  conceived  at  my  acquaintance, 
who  had  been  so  far  from  designing  to  offend, 
that  he  only  meant  to  show  kindness  and  re- 
spect. In  this  strain  of  mind  I  wrote  "  An 
Essay  on  Benevolence,"  and  "  An  Elegy  on 
Sublunary  Disappointments.  "  When  I  had 
finished  these  at  eleven,  I  supped  and  recol- 
lected how  little  I  had  adhered  to  my  plan,  and 
almost  questioned  the  possibility  of  pursuing 
any  settled  and  uniform  design  ;  however,  I 
was  not  so  far  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  these 
suggestions,  but  that  I  resolved  to  try  once  more 
at  my  scheme.  As  I  observed  the  moon  shin- 
ing through  my  window,  from  a  calm  and 
bright  sky,  spangled  with  innumerable  stars, 
I  indulged  a  pleasing  meditation  on  the  splen- 
did scene,  and  finished  my  "  Ode  to  Astro- 
nomy. " 

Wednesday.  Rose  at  seven,  and  employed 
three  hours  in  perusal  of  the  "  Scriptures  with 
Grotius's  Comment ;"  and  after  breakfast  fell 
into  meditation  concerning  my  projected  Epic ; 
and  being  in  some  doubt  as  to  the  particular 
lives  of  some  heroes,  whom  I  proposed  to  cele- 
brate, I  consulted  Bayle  and  Moreri,  and  was 
engaged  two  hours  in  examining  various  lives 
and  characters,  but  then  resolved  to  go  to  my 
employment.  When  I  was  seated  at  my 
desk,  and  began  to  feel  the  glowing  succes- 
sion of  poetical  ideas,  my  servant  brought  me 
a  letter  from  a  lawyer  requiring  my  instant 
attendance  at  Grav's  Inn  for  half  an  hour.  1 


went  full  of  vexat'ion,  and  was  involved  in 
business  till  eight  at  night ;  and  then,  being 
too  much  fatigued  to  study,  supped,  and 
went  to  bed. 

Here  my  friend's  journal  concludes,  which 
perhaps  is  pretty  much  a  picture  of  the  manner 
in  which  many  prosecute  their  studies.  I  there- 
fore resolved  to  send  it  you,  imagining,  that,  if 
you  think  it  worthy  of  appearing  in  your  paper, 
some  of  your  readers  may  receive  entertain- 
ment by  recognizing  a  resemblance  between 
my  friend's  conduct  and  their  own.  It  must 
be  left  to  the  Idler  accurately  to  ascertain  the 
proper  methods  of  advancing  in  literature  ; 
but  this  one  position,  deduciblc  from  what  has 
been  said  above,  may,  I  think,  be  reasonably 
asserted,  that  he  who  finds  himself  strongly 
attracted  to  any  particular  study,  though  it 
may  happen  to  be  out  of  his  proposed  scheme, 
if  it  is  not  trifling  or  vicious,  had  better  con- 
tinue his  application  to  it,  since  it  is  likely 
that  he  will  with  much  more  ease  and  expe- 
dition, attain  that  which  a  warm  inclination 
stimulates  him  to  pursue,  than  that  at  which  a 
prescribed  law  compels  him  to  toil. 
I  am,  Sir,  &c. 


No.  68.]      SATURDAY,  AUG.  4,  1759. 

AMONG  the  studies  which  have  exercised  the 
ngenious  and  the  learned  for  more  than  three 
centuries,  none  has  been  more  diligently  or 
more  successfully  cultivated  than  the  art  of 
ranslation  ;  by  which  the  impediments  which 
>ar  the  way  to  science,  are,  in  some  measure, 
removed,  and  the  multiplicity  of  languages  be- 
comes less  incommodious. 

Of  every  other  kind  of  writing  the  ancients 
lave  left  us  models  which  all  succeeding  ages 
lave  laboured  to  imitate  ;  but  translation  may 
ustly  be  claimed  by  the  moderns  as  their  own. 
n  the  first  ages  of  the  world  instruction  was 
commonly  oral,  and  learning  traditional,  and 
what  was  not  written  could  not  be  translated. 
iVhen  alphabetical  writing  made  the  convey- 
ance of  opinions  and  the  transmission  of 
vents  more  easy  and  certain,  literature  did 
ot  flourish  in  more  than  one  country  at  once, 
or  distant  nations  had  little  commerce  with 
ach  other ;  and  those  few  whom  curiosity 
ent  abroad  in  quest  of  improvement,  deliver- 
d  their  acquisitions  in  their  own  manner, 
esirous  perhaps  to  be  considered  as  the 
nventors  of  that  which  they  had  learned  from 
thers. 

The  Greeks  for  a  time  travelled  into  Egypt, 
ut  they  translated  10  books  from  the  Egyptian 
anguage ;  and  when  the  Macedonians  had 
verthrown  the  empire  of  Persia,  the  countries 
lat  became  subject  to  Grecian  dominion  stu- 
ied  only  the  Grecian  literature.  The  books 
f  the  conquered  nations,  if  they  had  any 
mong  them,  sunk  into  oblivion  ;  Greece  con- 
dered  herself  as  the  mistress,  if  not  as  Uie  pa- 
ent  of  arts ;  her  language  contained  all  that 
fas  supposed  to  be  known,  and,  except  the 
acred  writings  of  the  Old  Testament  I  know 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  69. 


not  that  the  library  of  Alexandria  adopted  any 
thirty  from  a  foreign  tongue. 

The  Romans  confessed  themselves  the  scho- 
lars of  the  Greeks,  and  do  not  appear  to  have 
expected  what  has  since  happened,  that  the 
ignorance  of  succeeding  ages  would  prefer 
tnem  to  their  teachers.  Every  man,  who  in 
Rome  aspired  to  the  praise  of  literature, 
thoight  it  necessary  to  learn  Greek,  and  had 
no  need  of  versions  when  they  could  study  the 
originals.  Translation,  however,  was  not 
wholly  neglected.  Dramatic  poems  could  be 
understood  by  the  people  in  no  language  but 
their  own,  and  the  Romans  were  sometimes 
entertained  with  the  tragedies  of  Euripides 
and  the  comedies  of  Menander.  Other  works 
were  sometimes  attempted  ;  in  an  old  scho- 
liast there  is  mention  of  a  Latin  Iliad  ;  and 
we  have  not  wholly  lost  Tully's  version  of  the 
poem  of  Aratus  ;  but  it  does  not  appear  that 
any  man  grew  eminent  by  interpreting  ano- 
ther, and  perhaps  it  was  more  frequent  to 
translate  for  exercise  or  amusement,  than  for 
fame. 

The  Arabs  were  the  first  nation  who  felt  the 
ardour  of  translation  :  when  they  had  subdu- 
ed the  eastern  provinces  of  the  Greek  empire, 
they  found  their  captives  wiser  than  them- 
selves, and  made  haste  to  relieve  their  wants 
by  imparted  knowledge.  They  discovered 
that  many  might  grow  wise  by  the  labour  of  a 
few,  and  that  improvements  might  be  made 
with  speed,  when  they  had  the  knowledge  of 
former  ages  in  their  own  language.  They 
therefore  made  haste  to  lay  hold  on  medicine 
and  philosophy,  and  turned  their  chief  authors 
into  Arabic.  Whether  they  attempted  the 
poets  is  not  known  ;  their  literary  zeal  was 
vehement,  but  it  was  short,  and  probably  ex- 
pired before  they  had  time  to  add  the  arts  of 
elegance  those  of  necessity. 

The  study  of  ancient  literature  was  inter- 
rupted in  Europe  by  the  irruption  of  the  north- 
ern nations,  who  subverted  the  Roman  empire, 
and  erected  new  kingdoms  with  new  langua- 
ges. It  is  not  strange,  that  such  confusion 
should  suspend  literary  attention  ;  those  who 
lost,  and  those  who  gained  dominion,  had  im- 
mediate difficulties  to  encounter,  and  imme- 
diate miseries  to  redress,  and  had  little  leisure, 
amidst  the  violence  war,  the  trepidation  of 
flight  the  distresses  of  forced  migration,  or 
the  tumults  of  unsettled  conquest,  to  inquire 
after  speculative  truth^  "to  enjoy  the  amuse- 
ment of  imaginary  adventures,  to  know  the 
history  of  former  agrs,  or  study  the  events 
of  any  other  lives.  But  no  sooner  had  this 
chaos  of  dominion  sunk  into  order,  than 
learning  began  again  to  flourish  in  the  calm 
of  peace.  When  life  and  possessions  were 
secure,  convenience  and  enjoyment  were  soon 
sought,  learning  was  found  the  highest  gra- 
tiricatioi.  of  the  mind,  and  translation  became 
•.me  of  the  means  by  which  it  was  imparted. 

At  last,  by  a  concurrence  of  many  causes, 
the  European  world  was  roused  from  its  lethar- 
gy ;  those  arts  which  had  been  long  obscurely 
studied  in  the  gloom  of  monasteries  became  the 
general  favourites  of  mankind  ;  every  nation 
vied  with  its  neighbour  for  the  prize  of  learn- 


ing ;  the  epidemical  emulation  spread  from 
south  to  north,  and  curiosity  and  translation 
found  their  way  to  Britain. 


No.  69.]     SATURDAY,  AUG.  11,  1759. 

HE  that  reviews  the  progress  of  English  lite- 
rature, will  find  that  translation  was  very  early 
cultivated  among  us,  but  that  some  principles 
either  wholly  erroneous  or  too  far  extended, 
hindered  our  success  from  being  always  equal 
to  our  diligence. 

Chaucer,  who  is  generally  considered  as  the 
father  of  our  poetry,  has  left  a  version  of  Bce- 
tius  on  the  Comforts  of  Philosophy,  the  book 
which  seems  to  have  been  the  favourite  of 
the  middle  ages,  which  had  been  translated 
into  Saxon  by  King  Alfred,  and  illustrated 
with  a  copious  Comment  ascribed  to  Aquinas. 
It  may  be  supposed  that  Chaucer  would  apply 
more  than  common  attention  to  an  author  of 
so  much  celebrity,  yet  he  has  attempted  no- 
thing higher  than  a  version  strictly  literal,  and 
has  degraded  the  poetical  parts  to  prose,  that 
the  constraint  of  versification  might  not  ob- 
struct his  zeal  for  fidelity. 

Caxton  taught  us  typography  about  the  year 
1474.  The  first  book  printed  in  English  was 
a  translation.  Caxton  was  both  the  translator 
and  printer  of  the  Destruction  of  Troye,  a  book 
which,  in  that  infancy  of  learning,  was  con- 
sidered as  the  best  account  of  the  fabulous  ages, 
and  which,  though  now  driven  out  of  notice  by 
authors  of  no  greater  use  or  value,  still  con- 
tinued to  be  read  in  Caxton's  English  to  the 
beginning  of  the  present  century. 

Caxton  proceeded  as  he  began, and  except  the 
poems  of  Gowerand  Chaucer,  printed  nothing 
but  translations  from  the  French,  in  which  the 
original  is  so  scupulously  followed,  that  they 
afford  us  little  knowledge  of  our  own  language; 
though  the  words  are  English,  the  phrase  is 
foreign. 

As  learning  advanced,  new  works  were 
adopted  into  our  language,  but  I  think  with 
little  improvement  of  the  art  of  translation, 
though  foreign  nations  and  other  languages 
offered  us  models  of  a  better  method  ;  till  in  the 
age  of  Elizabeth  we  began  to  find  that  greater 
liberty  was  necessary  to  elegance,  and  that 
elegance  was  necessary  to  general  reception ; 
some  essays  were  then  made  upon  the  Italian 
poets,  which  deserve  the  praise  and  gratitude 
of  posterity. 

But  the  old  practice  was  not  suddenly  for- 
saken ;  Holland  filled  the  nation  with  literal 
translation  ;  and  what  is  yet  more  strange,  the 
same  exactness  was  obstinately  practised  in 
the  versions  of  the  poets.  This  absurd  labour 
of  construing  into  rhyme  was  countenanced  by 
Jonson  in  his  version  of  Horace  ;  and  whether 
it  be  that  more  men  have  learning  than  genius, 
or  that  the  endeavours  of  that  time  were  more 
directed  towards  knowledge  than  delight,  the 
accuracy  of  Jonson  found  more  imitators  than 
the  elegance  of  Fairfax  ;  and  May,  Sandys, 
and  Holiday,  confined  themselves  to  the  toil 
of  rendering  line  for  line,  not  indead  with  equal 


Nc   70.] 


THE  IDLER. 


felicity,  for  May  and  Sandys  were  poets,  and 
Holiday  only  a  scholar  and  a  critic. 

Feltham  appears  to  consider  it  as  the  esta- 
blished law  of  poetical  tranlation,  that  the 
lines  should  be  neither  more  nor  fewer  than 
those  of  the  original ;  and  so  long  had  this 
prejudice  prevailed,  that  Denham  praises 
Fanshaw's  version  of  Guarini  as  the  exam- 
ple of  a  "  new  and  noble  way,"  as  the  first 
attempt  to  break  the  boundaries  of  custom, 
and  assert  the  natural  freedom,  of  the  Muse. 

In  the  general  emulation  of  wit  and  genius 
which  the  festivity  of  the  Restoration  produc- 
ed, the  poets  shook  of  their  constraint,  and 
considered  translation  as  no  longer  confined  to 
servile  closeness.  But  reformation  is  seldom 
the  work  of  pure  virtue,  or  unassisted  reason. 
Translation  was  improved  more  by  accident 
than  conviction.  The  writers  of  the  foregoing 
age  had  at  least  learning  equal  to  their  genius, 
and  being  often  more  able  to  explain  the  sen- 
timents or  illustrate  the  allusions  of  the  an- 
cients, than  to  exhibit  their  graces  and  trans- 
fuse their  spirit,  were  perhaps  willing  some- 
times to  conceal  their  want  of  poetry  by  pro- 
fusion of  literature,  and  therefore  translated 
literally,  that  their  fidelity  might  shelter  their 
insipidity  or  harshness.  The  wits  of  Charles' 
time  had  seldom  more  than  slight  and  superfi- 
cial views  ;  and  their  care  was,  to  hide  their 
want  of  learning  behind  the  colours  of  a  gay 
imagination  :  they  therefore  translated  always 
with  freedom,  sometimes  with  licentiousness, 
and  perhaps  expected  that  their  readers  should 
accept  sprightliness  for  knowledge,  and  con- 
sider ignorance  and  mistake  as  impatience 
and  negligence  of  a  mind  too  rapid  to  stop  at 
difficulties,  and  too  elevated  to  descend  to  mi- 
nuteness. 

Thus  was  translation  made  more  easy  to  the 
writer,  and  more  delightful  to  the  reader ;  and 
there  is  no  wonder  if  ease  and  pleasure  have 
found  their  advocates.  The  paraphrastic  liber- 
ties have  been  almost  universally  admitted  ; 
and  Sherbourn,  whose  learning  was  eminent, 
and  who  had  no  need  of  any  excuse  to  pass 
slightly  over  obscurities,  is  the  only  writer  who 
in  later  times  has  attempted  to  justify  or  revive 
the  ancient  severity. 

There  is  undoubtedly  a  mean  to  be  observed. 
Dryden  saw  very  early  that  closeness  best  pre- 
served an  author's  sense,  and  that  freedom 
best  exhibited  his  spirit ;  he  therefore  will  de- 
serve the  highest  praise,  who  can  give  a  repre- 
sentation at  once  faithful  and  plsasing,  who 
can  convey  the  same  thoughts  with  the  same 
graces,  and  who,  when  he  translates,  chan- 
ges nothing  but  the  language. 


No.  70.]     SATURDAY,  AUG.  18, 1759. 

FEW  faults  of  style  whether  real  or  imaginary, 
excite  the  malignity  of  a  more  numerous  class 
of  readers  than  the  use  of  hard  words. 

If  an  author  be  supposed  to  involve  his 
thoughts  in  voluntary  obscurity,  and  to  ob- 
struct, by  unnecessary  difficulties,  a  mind 
eager  in  pursuit  of  truth  ;  if  he  writes  not  to 
make  others  learned,  but  to  boast  the  learn- 


ing which  he  posse ^--s  himself,  and  wishes  to 
be  admired  rather  than  understood,  he  coun- 
teracts the  first  end  of  writing  and  justly  suf- 
fers the  utmost  severity  of  censure,  or  tho 
more  afflictive  severity  of  neglect. 

But  words  are  only  hard  to  those  who  do 
not  understand  them  ;  and  the  critic  ought  al- 
ways to  inquire,  whether  he  is  incommoded  by 
the  fault  of  the  writer,  or  by  his  own. 

Every  author  does  not  write  for  every  rea- 
der ;  many  questions  are  such  as  the  illiterate 
part  of  mankind  can  have  neither  interest  nor 
pleasure  to  discussing,  and  which  therefore  it 
would  be  a  useless  endeavour  to  level  with 
common  minds,  by  tiresome  circumlocutions  or 
laborious  explanations  ;  and  many  subjects  of 
general  use  may  be  treated  m  a  different 
manner,  as  the  book  is  intended  for  the  learn- 
ed or  the  ignorant.  Diffusion  and  explication 
are  necessary  to  the  instruction  of  those  who, 
being  neither  able  nor  accustomed  to  think 
for  themselves,  can  learn  only  what  is  express- 
ly taught ;  but  they  who  can  form  parallels, 
discover  consequences,  and  multiply  conclu- 
sions, are  best  pleased  with  involution  of  ar- 
gument and  compression  cf  thought ;  they 
desire  only  to  receive  the  seeds  of  knowledge 
which  they  may  branch  out  by  their  own 
power  to  have  the  way  to  truth  pointed  out, 
which  they  can  follow  without  a  guide. 

The  Guardian  directs  one  of  his  pupils  "to 
think  with  the  wise,  but  speak  with  the  vul- 
gar." This  is  a  precept  specious  enough,  but 
not  always  practicable.  Difference  of  thoughts 
will  produce  difference  of  language.  He  that 
thinks  with  more  extent  than  another  will 
want  words  of  larger  meaning ;  he  that  thinks 
with  more  subtil  ity  will  seek  for  terms  ot 
more  nice  discrimination  ;  and  where  is  the 
wonder,  since  words  are  but  the  images  of 
things,  that  he  who  never  knew  the  original 
should  not  know  the  copies  ? 

Yet  vanity  inclines  us  to  find  faults  any 
where  rather  than  in  ourselves.  He  that  reads 
and  grows  no  wiser  seldom  suspects  his  own 
deficiency  ;  but  complains  of  hard  words  and 
obscure  sentences,  and  asks  why  books  arc 
written  which  cannot  be  understood  ? 

Among  the  hards  words  which  are  no  longer 
to  be  used,  it  has  been  long  the  custom  to 
number  terms  of  art.  "  Every  man^says  Swift, 
"  is  more  able  to  explain  the  subject  of  an  art 
than  it  professors  ;  a  farmer  will  tell  you  in 
two  words,  that  he  has  broken  his  leg  ;  but  a 
surgeon,  after  a  long  discourse,  shall  leave 
you  as  ignorant  as  you  were  before."  This 
could  only  have  been  said  by  such  an  exact 
observer  of  life,  in  gratification  of  malignity, 
or  in  ostentation  of  acuteness.  Every  hour 
produces  instances  of  the  necessity  of  terms 
of  art.  Mankind  could  never  conspire  in  uni- 
form affectation  ;  it  is  not  but  by  necessity  that 
every  science  and  every  trade  has  its  peculiar 
language.  They  that  content  themselves  with 
general  ideas  may  rest  in  general  terms  ;  but 
those  whose  studies  or  employments  force 
them  upon  closer  inspection,  rmist  have  names 
for  particular  parts,  and  words  by  which  they 
may  express  various  modes  of  combination, 


424 


THE  IDLER. 


[jtfo.  7J 


such  as  none  but  themselves  have  occasion  to 
consider. 

Artists  are  indeed  sometimes  ready  to  sup- 
pose that  none  can  be  strangers  to  words  to 
which  themselves  are  familiar,  talk  to  an  inci- 
dental inquirer  as  they  talk  to  one  another, 
and  make  their  knowledge  ridiculous  by 
injudicious  obtrusion.  An  art  cannot  be 
taught  but  by  its  proper  terms,  but  it  is  not 
always  necessary  to  teach  the  art. 

That  the  vulgar  express  their  thoughts  clear- 
ly is  far  from  true  ;  and  what  perspicuity  can 
be  found  among  them  proceeds  not  from  the 
easiness  of  their  language,  but  the  shallow- 
ness  of  their  thoughts.  He  that  sees  a  build- 
ing as  a  common  spectator,  contents  himself 
with  relating  that  it  is  great  or  little,  mean  or 
splendid,  lofty  or  low  ;  all  these  words  are 
intelligible  and  common,  but  they  convey  no 
distinct  or  limited  ideas ;  if  he  attempts, 
without  the  terms  of  architecture,  to  delinate 
the  parts,  or  enumerate  the  ornaments,  his 
narration  at  once  becomes  unintelligible.  The 
terms,  indeed,  generally  displease,  because 
they  are  understood  by  few  ;  but  they  are  little 
understood  only  because  few  that  look  upon  an 
edifice,  examine  its  parts,  or  analyse  its  co- 
lumns into  their  members. 

The  state  of  every  other  art  is  the  same  ;  as 
it  is  cursorily  surveyed  or  accurately  examin- 
ed, different  forms  of  expression  become  pro- 
per. In  morality  it  is  one  thing  to  discuss  the 
niceties  of  the  casuist,  and  another  to  direct 
the  practice  of  common  life.  In  agriculture, 
he  that  instructs  the  farmer  to  plough  and  sow, 
may  convey  his  notions  without  the  words 
which  he  would  find  necessary  in  explaining 
to  philosophers  the  process  of  vegetation ; 
and  if  he  who  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  be  ho- 
nest by  the  shortest  way,  will  perplex  his  mind 
with  subtile  speculations  ;  or  if  he,  whose  task 
is  to  reap  and  thresh,  will  not  be  contented 
without  examining  the  evolution  of  the  seed, 
and  circulation  of  the  sap,  the  writers  whom 
either  shall  consult  are  very  little  to  be  blamed, 
though  it  should  sometimes  happen  that  they 
are  read  in  vain. 


No.  71.]      SATURDAY,  AUG.  25,  1759. 

DICK  SHIFTER  was  born  in  Cheapside,  and 
having  passed  reputably  through  all  the  class- 
es of  St.  Paul's  school,  has  been  for  some 
years  a  student  in  the  Temple.  He  is  of 
opinion,  that  intense  application  dulls  the  fa- 
culties, and  thinks  it  necessary  to  temper  the 
severity  of  the  law  by  books  that  engage  the 
mind,  but  do  not  fatigue  it.  He  has  therefore 
made  a  copious  collection  of  plays,  poems, 
and  romances,  to  which  he  has  recourse  when 
he  fancies  himself  tired  with  statutes  and  re- 
ports ;  and  he  seldom  inquires  very  nicely 
whether  he  is  weary  or  idle. 

Dick  has  received  from  his  favourite  authors 
very  strong  impressions  of  a  country  life  ;  and 
though  his  furthest  excursions  have  been  to 
Greenwich  on  one  side,  and  Chelsea  on  the 
other,  he  has  talked  for  several  years  with 
great  pomp  of  language  and  elevation  of  sen- 


timents, about  a  state  too  high  for  contempt 
and  too  low  for  envy,  about  homely  quiet,  and 
blameless  simplicity,  pastoral  delights,  and 
rural  innocence. 

His  friends  who  had  estates  in  the  country, 
often  invited  him  to  pass  the  summer  among 
them,  but  something  or  other  had  always  hin 
dered  him  ;  and  he  considered  that  to  reside 
in  the  house  of  another  man  was  to  incur  a 
kind  of  dependence  inconsistent  with  that 
laxity  of  life  which  he  had  imagined  as  the 
chief  good. 

This  summer  he  resolved  to  be  happy,  and 
procured  a  lodging  to  be  taken  for  him  at  a  soli- 
tary house,  situated  about  thirty  miles  from 
London  on  the  banks  of  a  small  river,  wilh 
corn-fields  before  it  and  a  hill  on  each  -side  co- 
vered with  wood.  He  concealed  the  place  of 
his  retirement,  that  none  might  violate  his  ob- 
scurity, and  promised  himself  many  a  happy 
day  when  he  should  hide  himself  among  the 
trees,  and  contemplate  the  tumults  and  vexa- 
tions of  the  town. 

He  stepped  into  the  post-chaise  with  his 
heart  beating  and  his  eyes  sparkling,  was 
conveyed  through  many  varieties  of  delight- 
ful prospects,  saw  hills  and  meadows,  corn- 
fields and  pasture,  succeed  each  other,  and  for 
four  hours  charged  none  of  his  poets  with  fic- 
tion or  exaggeration.  He  was  now  within  six 
miles  of  happiness,  when,  having  never  felt  so 
much  agitation  before,  he  began  to  wish  his 
journey  at  an  end,  and  the  last  hour  was  pass- 
ed in  changing  his  posture  and  quarrelling 
with  his  driver. 

An  hour  may  be  tedious  but  cannot  be  long. 
He  at  length  alighted  at  his  new  dwelling,  and 
was  received  as  he  expected  ;  he  looked  round 
upon  the  hills  and  rivulets,  but  his  joints  were 
stiff  and  his  muscles  sore,  and  his  first  request 
was  to  see  his  bed-chamber. 

He  rested  well,  and  ascribed  the  soundness 
of  his  sleep  to  the  stillness  of  the  country.  He 
expected  from  that  time  nothing  but  nights  ot 
quiet  and  days  of  rapture,  and,  as  soon  as  he 
had  risen  wrote  an  account  of  his  new  state  to 
one  of  his  friends  in  the  Temple. 

"  Dear  Frank. 

"  I  never  pitied  thee  before.  I  am  now  as  I 
could  wish  every  man  of  wisdom  and  virtue  to 
be,  in  the  regions  of  calm  content  and  placid 
meditation  ;  with  all  the  beauties  of  nature  so- 
liciting my  notice,  and  all  the  diversities  ot 
pleasure  courting  my  acceptance  ;  the  birds  are 
chirping  in  the  hedges,  and  the  flowers  bloom- 
ing in  the  mead  ;  the  breeze  is  whistling  in  the 
wood,  and  the  sun  dancing  on  the  water.  I 
can  now  say  with  truth,  that  a  man,  capable  ol 
enjoying  the  purity  of  happiness,  is  never  more 
busy  than  in  his  hours  of  leisure,  nor  ever  less 
solitary  than  in  a  place  of  solitude. 

"  I  am,  dear  Frank,  &c." 

When  he  had  sent  away  his  letter,  he  walked 
into  the  wood,  with  some  inconvenience,  from 
the  furze  that  pricked  his  legs,  and  the  briers 
that  scratched  his  face.  He  at  last  sat  down 
under  a  tree,  and  heard  with  great  delight  a 
shower,  by  which  he  was  not  wet,  rattling 


No.  72.] 


THE  IDLER. 


among  the  branches  :  this,  said  he,  is  the  true 
.image  of  obscurity  ;  we  hear  of  troubles  and 
commotions,  but  never  feel  them. 

fiis  amusement  did  not  overpower  the  calls 
of  nature,  and  he  therefore  went  back  to  order 
hirf  dinner.  He  knew  that  the  country  pro- 
ducelWhatever  is  eaten  or  drunk,  and  imagin- 
ing that  he  was  now  at  the  source  of  luxury, 
lesplved  to  indulge  himself  with  dainties 
which  he  supposed  might  be  procured  at  a  price 
next  to  nothing,  if  any  price  at  all  was  ex- 
pected; and  intended  to  amaze  the  rustics  with 
his  generosity,  by  paying  more  than  they  would 
ask.  Of  twenty  dishes  which  he  named,  he 
was  amazed  to  find  that  scarcely  one  was  to  be 
had  ;  and  heard,  with  astonishment  and  indig- 
nation, that  all  the  fruits  of  the  earth  were 
sold  at  a  higher  price  than  in  the  streets  of 
London. 

His  meal  was  short  and  sullen ;  and  he  re- 
tired again  to  his  tree,  to  inquire  how  dear- 
ness  could  be  consistant  with  abundance,  or 
how  fraud  should  be  practised  by  simplicity. 
He  was  not  satisfied  withhisown  speculations, 
and  returning  home  early  in  the  evening,  went 
a  while  from  window  to  window,  and  found 
that  he  wanted  something  to  do. 

He  inquired  for  a  newspaper,  and  was  told 
that  farmers  never  minded  news,  but  that  they 
could  send  for  it  from  the  ale-house.  A  mes- 
senger was  despatched,  who  ran  away  full 
speed,  but  loitered  an  hour  behind  the  hedges, 
and  at  last  coming  back  with  his  feet  pur- 
posely bemired,  instead  of  expressing  the  grati- 
tude which  Mr.  Shifter  expected  for  the  bounty 
of  a  shilling,  said  that  the  night  was  wet,  and 
the  way  dirty,  and  he  hoped  that  his  wor- 
ship would  not  think  it  much  to  give  him  half- 
a-crown. 

Dick  now  went  to  bed  with  some  abatement 
of  his  expectations ;  but  sleep,  I  know  not 
how,  revives  our  hopes,  and  rekindles  our  de- 
sires. He  rose  early  in  the  morning,  sur- 
veyed the  landscape,  and  was  pleased.  He 
walked  out,  and  passed  from  field  to  field, 
without  observing  any  beaten  path,  and  won- 
dered that  he  had  not  seen  the  shepherdesses 
dancing,  nor  heard  the  swains  piping  to  their 
flocks. 

At  last  he  saw  some  reapers  and  harvest- 
women  at  dinner.  Here,  said  he,  are  the  true 
Arcadians,  and  advanced  courteously  towards 
them,  as  afraid  of  confusing  them  by  the  dig- 
nity of  his  presence.  They  acknowledged 
his  superiority  by  no  other  token  than  that  o! 
asking  him  for  something  to  drink.  He  ima- 
gined that  he  had  now  purchased  the  privilege 
of  discourse,  and  began  to  descend  to  familiar 
questions,  endeavouring  to  accommodate  his 
discourse  to  the  grossness  of  rustic  under 
standings.  The  clowns  soon  found  that  h< 
did  not  know  wheat  from  rye,  and  began  t 
despise  him  ;  one  of  the  boys,  by  pretending 
to  show  him  a  bird's  nest,  decoyed  him  int 
a  ditch  ;  and  one  of  the  wenches  sold  him 
bargain. 

This  walk  had  given  him  no  great  pleasure 
but  he  hoped  to  find  other  rustics  less  coarse 
manners,  and  less  mischievous   of  disposition 
Next  morning  he  was  accosted  by  an  attornej 
3D 


.vho  told  him,  that,  unless  he  made  fariner 
)obson  satisfaction  for  trampling  his  grass,  he 
ad  orders  to  indict  him.  Shifter  was  offended 
ut  not  terrified ;  and,  telling  the  attorney  that 
e  was  himself  a  lawyer,  talked  so  volubly  of 
ettifoggers  and  barrators,  that  he  drove  him 
way. 

Finding  his  walks  thus  interrupted,  he  was 

nclined  to  ride,  and  being  pleased  with  tho  ap- 

earance   of  a  horse  that  was   grazing   in   a 

eighbouring  meadow,    inquired  the  owner, 

fho  warranted  him  sound,  and  would  not  sell 

im,  but  that  he  was  too  fine  for  a  plain  man, 

)ick  paid  down  the  price,  and,  riding   out  to 

njoy  the  evening,  fell  with  his  new  horse  into 

ditch ;  they  got  out  with  difficulty,  and  as  he 

pas  going    to   mount   again,  a    countryman 

ooked  at  the  horse,  and  perceived  him  to  be 

lind.     Dick  went  to  the  seller,  and  demanded 

ack  his  money  ;  but  was  told  that  a  man  who 

:nted  his  ground  must  do  the  best  for  himself, 

tat  his  landlord  had  his  rent  though  the  year 

as  barren,  and  that,  whether  horses  had  eyes 
r  no,  he  should  sell  them  to  the  highest 
idder. 

Shifter  now  began  to  be  tired  with  rustic 
implicity,  and  on  the  fifth  day  took  posses- 
ion  again  of  his  chambers,  and  bade  farewell 
o  the  regions  of  calm  content  and  placid 
meditation. 


fo.  72.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  1,  1759. 

V!EN  complain  of  nothing  more  frequently 
tian  of  deficient  memory  ;  and,  indeed,  every 
ne  finds  that  many  of  the  ideas  which  he 
esired  to  retain  have  slipped  irretrievably 
away ;  that  the  acquisitions  of  the  mind  are 
ometimes  equally  fugitive  with  the  gifts  of 
brtune  ;  and  that  a  short  intermission  of  at- 
ention  more  certainly  lessens  knowledge  than 
mpairs  an  estate. 

To  assist  this  weakness  of  our  nature, 
many  methods  have  been  proposed,  all  of 
which  may  be  justly  suspected  of  being  inef- 
fectual ;  for  no  art  of  memory,  however  its 
iffect  have  been  boasted  or  admired,  has  been 
ever  adopted  into  general  use,  nor  have  those 
who  possessed  it  appeared  to  excel  others  in 
readiness  of  recollection  or  multiplicity  of  at- 
:ainments. 

There  is  another  art  of  which  all  have  felt 
;he  want,  though  Themistocles  only  confessed 
,t.  -We  suffer  equal  pain  from  the  pertina- 
cious adhesion  of  unwelcome  images,  as  from 
the  evanescence  of  those  which  are  pleasing 
and  useful  •,  and  it  may  be  doubted  whether  we 
should  be  more  benefited  by  the  art  of  memory 
or  the  art  of  forgetfulness. 

Forgetfulness  is  necessary  to  remembrance. 
Ideas  are  retained  by  renovation  of  that  im- 
pression which  time  is  always  wearing  away, 
and  which  new  images  are  striving  to  oblite 
rate.  If  useless  thoughts  could  be  expelled 
from  the  mind,  all  the  valuable  parts  of  our 
knowledge  would  more  frequently  recur,  and 
every  recurrence  would  reinstate  them  in  theh 
former  place. 

It  is  impossible   to  consider  without  some 


426 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  73 


regret  how  much  might  have  been  learned, 
or  how  much  might  have  been  invented  by  a 
rational  and  vigorous  application  of  time,  use- 
lessly or  painfully  passed  in  the  revocation  of 
events  which  have  left  neither  good  nor  evil 
behind  them,  in  grief  for  misfortunes  either  re- 
paired or  irreparable,  in  resentment  of  injuries 
known  only  to  ourselves,  of  which  death  has 
put  the  authors  beyond  our  power. 

Philosophy  has  accumulated  precept  upon 
precept,  to  warn  us  against  the  anticipation  of 
future  calamities.  All  useless  misery  is  cer- 
tainly folly,  and  he  that  feels  evils  before  they 
come  may  be  deservedly  censured  ;  yet  surely 
to  dread  the  future  is  more  reasonable  than  to 
lament  the  past.  The  business  of  life  is  to  go 
forwards  :  he  who  sees  evil  in  prospect  meets 
it  in  his  way ;  but  he  who  catches  it  by  retrospec- 
tion turns  back  to  find  it.  That  which  is  feared 
may  sometimes  be  avoided,  but  that  which  is 
regretted  to-day,  may  be  regretted  again  to- 
morrow. 

Regret  is  indeed  useful  and  virtuous,  and 
not  only  allowable  but  necessary,  when  it 
tends  to  the  amendment  of  life,  or  to  admoni- 
tion of  error  which  we  may  be  again  in  danger 
of  committing.  But  a  very  small  part  of  the 
moments  spent  in  meditation  on  the  past,  pro- 
duce any  reasonable  caution  or  salutary  sor- 
row. Most  of  the  mortification  that  we  have 
suffered,  arose  from  the  concurrence  of  local 
and  temporary  circumstances,  which  can  never 
meet  again  ;  and  most  of  our  disappointments 
have  succeeded  those  expectations,  which  life 
allows  not  be  formed  a  second  time. 

It  would  add  much  to  human  happiness,  if 
an  art  could  be  taught  of  forgetting  all  of 
which  the  remembrance  is  at  once  useless  and 
afflictive,  if  that  pain  which  never  can  end  in 
pleasure  could  be  driven  totally  away,  that  the 
mind  might  perform  its  functions  without  in- 
curnbrance,  and  the  past  might  no  longer  en- 
croach upon  the  present. 

Little  can  be  done  well  to  which  the  whole 
mind  i?  not  applied ;  the  business  of  every  day 
tails  for  the  day  to  which  it  is  assigned  ;  and 
he  will  have  no  leisure  to  regret  yesterday's 
vexations  who  resolves  not  to  have  anew  sub- 
ject of  regret  to-morrow. 

But  to  forget  or  to  remember  at  pleasure, 
are  equally  beyond  'the  power  of  man.  Yet 
as  memory  may  be  assisted  by  method,  and  the 
decays  of  knowledge  repaired  by  stated  times 
of  recollection,  so  the  power  of  forgetting  is 
capable  of  improvement.  Reason  will,  by  a 
resolute  contest,  prevail  over  imagination,  and 
the  power  may  be  obtained  of  transferring  the 
attention  as  judgment  shall  direct 

The  incursions  of  troublesome  thoughts  are 
often  violent  and  importunate  ;  and  it  is  not 
easy  to  a  mind  accustomed  to  their  inroads  to 
expel  them  immediately  by  putting  better  im- 
ages into  motion  ;  but  this  enemy  of  quiet  is 
above  all  others  weakened  by  every  defeat  ; 
the  reflection  which  has  been  once  overpowered 
and  ejected,  seldom  returns  with  any  formi- 
dable vehemence. 

Employment  is  the  great  instrument  of  intel- 
lectual dominion.  The  mind  cannot  retire 
from  its  enemy  into  total  vacancy,  or  turn 


aside  from  one  object  but  by  passing  to  an- 
other. The  gloomy  and  the  resentful  are  al- 
ways found  among  those  who  have  nothing  to 
do,  or  who  do  nothing.  We  must  be  busy 
about  good  or  evil,  and  he  to  whom  the  present 
offers  nothing  will  often  be  looking  backward 
on  the  past. 


No.  73.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  8,  1759. 

THAT  every  man  would  be  rich  if  a  wish  could 
obtain  riches,  is  a  position  which  I  believe  few 
will  contest,  at  least  in  a  nation  like  ours,  in 
which  commerce  has  kindled  a  universal  emu- 
lation of  wealth,  and  in  which  money  receives 
all  the  honours  which  are  the  proper  right  of 
knowledge  and  of  virtue. 

Yet  though  we  are  all  labouring  for  gold,  as 
for  the  chief  good,  and,  by  the  natural  effort  of 
unwearied  diligence,  have  found  many  expedi- 
tious methods  of  obtaining  it,  we  have  not  been 
able  to  improve  the  art  of  using  it,  or  to  make 
it  produce  more  happiness  than  it  afforded  in 
former  times,  when  every  declaimer  expatiated 
on  its  mischiefs,  and  every  philosopher  taught 
his  followers  to  despise  it. 

Many  of  the  dangers  imputed  of  old  to  ex- 
orbitant wealth  are  now  at  an  end.  The  rich 
are  neither  way-laid  by  robbers  nor  watched 
by  informers  ;  there  is  nothing  to  be  dreaded 
from  proscriptions,  or  seizures.  The  neces- 
sity of  concealing  treasure  has  long  ceased  ; 
no  man  now  needs  counterfeit  mediocrity,  and 
condemn  his  plate  and  jewels  to  caverns  and 
darkness,  or  feast  his  mind  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  clouded  splendour,  of  finery  which  is 
useless  till  it  is  shown,  and  which  he  dares  not 
show. 

In  our  time  the  poor  are  strongly  tempted  to 
assume  the  appearance  of  wealth,  but  the 
wealthy  very  rarely  desire  to  be  thought  poor  ; 
for  we  are  at  full  liberty  to  display  riches  by 
every  mode  of  ostentation.  We  fill  our  houses 
with  useless  ornaments,  only  to  show  that  we 
can  buy  them ;  we  cover  our  coaches  with  gold, 
and  employ  artists  in  the  discovery  of  new  fash- 
ions of  expense ;  and  yet  it  cannot  be  found  that 
riches  produce  happiness. 

Of  riches,  as  of  every  thing  else,  the  hope 
is  more  than  the  enjoyment ;  while  •we  consi- 
der them  as  the  means  to  be  used,  at  some  fu- 
ture time,  for  the  attainment  of  felicity,  we 
press  on  our  pursuit  ardently  and  vigorously, 
and  that  ardour  secures  us  from  weariness 
of  ourselves  ;  but  no  sooner  do  we  sit  clown 
to  enjoy  our  acquisitions,  than  we  find  than  in 
sufficient  to  fill  up  the  vacuities  of  life. 

Onecausewhich  is  not  always  observed  of  the 
insufficiency  of  riches  is,  that  they  very  seldom 
make  their  owner  rich.  To  be  rich  is  to  hare 
more  than  is  desired,  and  more  than  is  wanted  ; 
to  have  something  which  may  be  spent  without 
reluctance,  and  scattered  without  care,  with 
which  the  sudden  demands  of  desire  may  be 
gratified,  the  casual  freaks  of  fancy  indulged, 
or  the  unexpected  opportunities  of  benevolence 
improved. 

Avarice  is  always  poor,  but  poor  by  her  own 
fault.  There  is  another  poverty  to  which  the 


No.  74.] 


THE  IDLER. 


427 


rich  are  exposed  with  less  guilt  by  the  officious- 
ness  of  others.  Every  man,  eminent  for  exu- 
berance of  fortune,  is  surrounded  from  morning 
to  evening,  and  from  evening  to  midnight,  by 
flatterers,  whose  art  of  adulation  consists  in  ex- 
citing artificial  wants,  and  in  forming  new 
•»chemes  of  profusion. 

Tom  Tranquil,  when  he  came  to  age,  found 

mself  in  possession  of  a  fortune  of  which  the 
•ventieth  part  might,  perhaps,  have  made  him 
rich.  His  temper  is  easy,  and  his  affections 
soft ;  he  receives  every  man  with  kindness,  and 
hears  him  with  credulity.  His  friends  took 
care  to  settle  him  by  giving  him  a  wife,  whom, 
having  no  particular  inclination,  he  rather  ac- 
cepted than  chose,  because  he  was  told  that  she 
was  proper  for  him. 

He  was  now  to  live  with  dignity  proportion- 
ate to  his  fortune.  What  his  fortune  requires 
or  admits  Tom  does  not  know,  for  he  has  little 
skill  in  computation,  and  none  of  his  friends 
think  it  their  interest  to  improve  it.  If  he  was 
suffered  to  live  by  his  own  choice,  he  would 
leave  every  thing  as  he  finds  it,  and  pass 
through  the  world  distinguished  only  by  inof- 
fensive gentleness.  But  the  ministers  of  luxu- 
ry have  marked  him  out  as  one  at  whose  ex- 
pense they  may  exercise  their  arts.  A  com- 
panion, who  had  just  learned  the  names  of  the 
Italian  masters,  runs  from  sale  to  sale,  and 
buys  pictures,  for  which  Mr.  Tranquil  pays, 
without  inquiring  where  they  shall  be  hung. 
Another  fills  his  garden  with  statues,  which 
Tranquil  wishes  away  but  dares  not  remove. 
One  of  his  friends  is  learning  architecture,  by 
building  him  a  house,  which  he  passed  by  and 
inquired  to  whom  it  belonged  ;  another  has 
been  for  three  years  digging  canals,  and  raising 
mounts  ;  cutting  trees  down  in  one  place,  and 
planting  them  in  another,  on  which  Tranquil 
looks  a  with  serene  indifference,  without  asking 
what  will  be  the  cost.  Another  projector  tells 
him  that  a  waterwork ,  like  that  of  Versailles, 
will  complete  the  beauties  of  his  seat,  and  lays 
his  draughts  before  him ;  Tranquil  turns  his  eyes 
upon  them,  and  the  artist  begins  his  explana- 
tions ;  Tranquil  raises  no  objections  but  orders 
him  to  begin  the  work,  that  he  may  escape  from 
talk  which  he  does  not  understand. 

Thus  a  thousand  hands  are  busy  at  his  ex- 
pense without  adding  to  his  pleasures.  He 
pays  and  receives  visits,  and  has  loitered  in 
public  or  in  solitude,  talking  in  summer  of 
the  town,  and  in  winter  of  the  country,  without 
knowing  that  his  fortune  is  impaired,  till  his 
steward  told  him  this  morning  that  he  could 
pay  the  workmen  no  longer  but  by  mortgag- 
ing a  manor. 


No.  74.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  15,  1759. 

IN  the  mythological  pedigree  of  learning,  me- 
mory is  made  the  mother  of  the  muses,  by  which 
the  masters  of  ancient  wisdom,  perhaps,  meant 
to  show  the  necessity  of  storing  the  mind  copi- 
ously with  true  notions,  before  the  imagination 
should  be  suffered  to  form  fictions  or  collect  em- 
belliehments ;  for  the  works  of  an  ignorant  poet 


can  afford  nothing  higher  than  pleasing  sound, 
and  fiction  is  of  no  other  use  than  to  display 
the  treasures  of  memory. 

The  necessity  of  memory  to  the  acquisition 
of  knowledge  is  inevitably  felt  and  universal- 
ly  allowed,  so  that  scarcely  any  other  of  the 
mental  faculties  are  commonly  considered  as 
necessary  to  a  student :  he  that  admires  the 
proficiency  of  another,  always  attributes  it  to 
the  happiness  of  this  memory  ;  and  he  that 
laments  his  own  defects,  concludes  with  a  wish 
fhat  his  memory  was  better. 

It  is  evident  that  when  the  power  of  retention 
is  weak,  all  the  attempts  at  eminence  of  know- 
ledge must  be  vain  ;  and  as  few  are  willing  to 
be  doomed  to  perpetual  ignorance,  I  may,  per- 
haps, afford  consolation  to  some  that  have  fall- 
en too  easily  into  despondence,  by  observing 
that  such  weakness,  is  in  my  opinion,  very 
rare,  and  that  few  have  reason  to  complain  of 
nature  as  unkindly  sparing  of  the  gifts  of 
memory. 

In  the  common  business  of  life,  we  find  the 
memory  of  one  like  that  of  another,  and  ho- 
nestly impute  omissions  not  to  involuntary 
forgetfulncss,  but  culpable  inattention  ;  but  in 
literary  inquiries,  failure  is  imputed  rather  to 
want  of  memory  than  of  diligence. 

We  consider  ourselves  as  defective  in  me- 
mory, either  because  we  remember  less  than 
we  desire,  or  less  than  we  suppose  others  to 
remember. 

Memory  is  like  all  other  human  'powers, 
with  which  no  man  can  be  satisfied  who  mea- 
sures them  by  what  he  can  conceive,  or  by 
what  he  can  desire.  He  whose  mind  is  most 
capacious,  finds  it  much  too  narrow  for  his 
wishes  ;  he  that  remembers  most,  remembers 
little  compared  with  what  he  forgets.  He, 
therefore,  that,  after  the  perusal  of  a  book, 
finds  few  ideas  remaining  in  his  mind,  is 
not  to  consider  the  disappointment  as  pecu- 
liar to  himself,  or  to  resign  all  hopes  of 
improvement,  because  he  does  not  retain 
what  even  the  author  has,  perhaps,  forgotten. 

He  who  compares  his  memory  with  that  of 
others,  is  often  too  hasty  to  lament  the  inequa- 
lity. Nature  has  sometimes,  indeed,  afforded 
examples  of  enormous,  wonderful,  and  gigan- 
tic memory.  Scaliger  reports  of  himseif,  that, 
in  his  youth,  he  could  repeat  above  a  hundred 
verses  having  once  read  them  ;  and  Barthicus 
declares  that  he  wrote  his  "  Comment  upon 
Cladian "  without  consulting  the  text.  But 
not  to  have  such  degrees  of  memory  is  no 
more  to  be  lamented  than  not  to  have  the 
strength  of  Hercules,  or  the  swiftness  of 
Achilles.  He  that,  in  the  distribution  of  good, 
has  an  equal  share  with  common  men,  may 
justly  be  contented.  Where  there  is  no  strik- 
ing disparity,  it  is  difficult  to  know  of  two 
which  remembers  most,  and  still  more  difficult 
to  discover  which  reads  with  greater  attention, 
which  has  renewed  the  first  impression  by 
more  frequent  repetitions,  or  by  what  acci- 
dental combination  of  ideas  either  mind  might 
have  united  any  particular  narrative  or  argu 
ment  to  its  former  stock. 

But  memory,  however  impartially  distribut- 
ed so  often  deceives  our  trust,  that  almost 


425 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  75 


every  man  attempts,  by  some  artifice  or  other, 
to  secure  its  fidelity. 

It  is  the  practice  of  many  readers  to  note,  in 
the  margin  of  their  books,  the  most  important 
passages,  the  strongest  arguments,  or  the 
brightest  sentiments.  Thus  they  load  their 
minds  with  superfluous  attention,  repress  the 
vehemence  of  curiosity  by  useless  deliberation, 
and  by  frequent  interruption  break  the  current, 
of  narration  or  the  chain  of  reasoning,  and  at 
last  close  the  volume,  and  forget  the  passages 
and  marks  together. 

Others  I  have  found  unalterably  persuaded 
that  nothing  is  certainly  remembered  but  what 
is  transcribed ;  and  they  have,  therefore,  passed 
weeks  and  months  in  transferring  large  quota- 
tions to  a  common-place  book.  Yet  why  any 
part  of  a  book,  which  can  be  consulted  at  plea- 
sure, should  be  copied,  I  was  never  able  to  dis- 
cover. The  hand  has  no  closer  correspondence 
with  the  memory  than  the  eye.  The  act  of 
writing  itself  distracts  the  thoughts,  and  what 
is  read  twice,  is  commonly  better  remember- 
ed than  what  is  transcribed.  The  method, 
therefore,  consumes  time  without  assisting 
memory. 

The  true  art  of  memory  is  the  art  of  atten- 
tion. No  man  will  read  with  much  advantage 
who  is  not  able,  at  pleasure,  to  evacuate  his 
mind,  or  who  brings  not  to  his  author,  an 
intellect  defecated  and  pure,  neither  turbid 
with  care,  nor  agitated  by  pleasure.  If  the 
repositories  of  thought  are  already  full,  what 
can  they  receive  ;  if  the  mind  is  employed  on 
the  past  or  future,  the  book  will  be  held  before 
the  eyes  in  vain.  What  is  read  with  delight  is 
commonly  retained,  because  pleasure  always 
secures  attention ;  but  the  books  which  are  con- 
sulted by  occasional  necessity,  and  perused  with 
impatience,  seldom  leave  any  traces  on  the 
mind. 


No.  75.]      SATURDAY,  SEPT.  22,  1759. 

IN  the  time  when  Bassora  was  considered  as 
the  school  of  Asia,  and  flourished  by  the  repu- 
tation of  its  professors,  and  the  confluence  of  its 
students,  among  the  pupils  that  listened  round 
the  chair  of  Albamazar  was  Gelaleddin,  a  na- 
tive of  Tauris,  in  Persia,  a  young  man,  amia- 
ble in  his  manners  and  beautiful  in  his  form, 
of  boundless  curiosity,  incessant  diligence,  and 
irresistible  genius,  of  quick  apprehension,  and 
tenacious  memory,  accurate  without  narrow- 
ness, and  eager  for  novelty  without  incon- 
stancy. 

No  sooner  did  Gelaleddin  appear  at  Bassora, 
than  his  virtues  and  abilities  raised  him  to  dis- 
tinction. He  passed  from  class  to  class  rather 
admired  than  envied  by  those  whom  the  rapidi- 
ty of  his  progress  left  behind  :  he  was  consult- 
ed by  his  fellow-students  as  anoraculous  guide, 
and  admitted  as  a  competent  auditor  to  the  con- 
ferences of  the  sages. 

After  a  few  years,  having  passed  through  all 
the  exercises  of  probation,  Gelaleddin  was  in- 
vited to  a  professor's  seat,  and  intreated  to  in- 
crease the  splendour  of  Bassora.  Gelaleddin 
affected  to  deliberate  on  the  proposal,  with 


which,  before  he  considered  it,  he  resolved  to 
comply  ;  and  next  morning  retired  to  a  gauden 
planted  for  the  recreation  of  the  students,  and 
entering  a  solitary  walk  began  to  meditate  up- 
on his  future  life. 

"  If  I  am  thus  eminent,"  said  he,  "  in  the 
regions  of  literature,  I  shall  be  yet  more  con- 
spicuous in  any  other  place  ;  if  I  should  now 
devote  myself  to  study  and  retirement,  I  must 
pass  my  life  in  silence,  unacquainted  with  the 
delights  of  wealth,  the  influence  of  power,  the 
pomp  of  greatness  and  the  charms  of  elegance, 
with  all  that  man  envies  and  desires,  with  all 
that  keeps  the  world  in  motion,  by  the  hope 
of  gaining  or  the  fear  of  losing  it.  I  will 
therefore,  depart  to  Tauris,  where  the  Per- 
sian monarch  resides  in  all  the  splendour  of 
absolute  dominion :  my  reputation  will  fly  be 
fore  me,  my  arrival  will  be  congratulated  by 
my  kinsmen  and  friends  ;  I  shall  see  the  eyes 
of  those  who  predicted  my  greatness,  sparkling 
with  exultation,  and  the  faces  of  those  that 
once  despised  me  clouded  with  envy,  or  coun- 
terfeiting kindness  by  artificial  smiles.  I  will 
show  my  wisdom  by  my  discourse,  and  my 
moderation  by  my  silence  ;  I  will  instruct  the 
modest  with  easy  gentleness,  and  repress  the 
ostentatious  by  seasonable  superciliousness. 
My  apartments  will  be  crowded  by  the  inqui- 
sitive, and  the  vain,  by  those  that  honour  and 
those  that  rival  me  ;  my  name  will  soon  reach 
the  court  ;  I  shall  stand  before  the  throne  of 
the  emperor  ;  the  judges  of  the  law  will  con- 
fess my  wisdom,  and  the  nobles  will  contend 
to  heap  gifts  upon  me.  If  I  shall  find  that  my 
merit,  like  that  of  others,  excites  malignity, 
or  feel  myself  tottering  on  the  seat  of  eleva- 
tion, I  may  at  last  retire  to  academical  obscuri- 
ty, and  become,  in  my  lowest  state,  a  profes- 
sor of  Bassora." 

Having  thus  settled  his  determination,  he 
declared  to  his  friends  his  design  of  visiting 
Tauris,  and  saw  with  more  pleasure  than  he 
ventured  to  express,  the  regret  with  which  he 
was  dismissed.  He  could  not  bear  to  delay 
the  honours  to  which  he  was  designed,  and 
therefore  hastened  away,  and  in  a  short  time 
entered  the  capital  of  Persia.  He  was  imme- 
diately immersed  in  the  crowd,  and  passed  un- 
observed to  his  father's  house.  He  entered, 
and  was  received,  though  not  unkindly,  yet 
without  any  excess  of  fondness,  or  exclama- 
tions of  rapture.  His  father  had,  in  his  ab- 
sence, suffered  many  losses,  and  Gelaleddin 
was  considered  as  an  additional  burden  to  a 
falling  family. 

When  he  recovered  from  his  surprise,  he  be- 
gan to  display  his  acquisitions  and  practised  all 
the  arts  of  narration  and  disposition  :  but  the 
poor  have  no  leisure  to  be  pleased  with  elo- 
quence ;  they  heard  his  arguments  without  re- 
flection, and  his  pleasantries  without  a  smile. 
He  then  applied  himself  singly  to  his  brothers 
and  sisters,  but  found  them  all  chained  down 
by  invariable  attention  to  their  own  fortunes, 
and  insensible  of  any  other  excellence  than 
that  which  could  bring  some  remedy  for  indi- 
gence. 

It  was  now  known  in  the  neighbourhood  that 
Gelaleddin  was  returned,  and  he  sat  for  some 


No.  76.] 


days  i-.i  expectation  that  the  learned  wouh 
visit  him  for  consultation,  or  the  great  for  en- 
tertainment. But  who  would  be  pleased  or 
instructed  in  the  mansions  of  poverty  ?  He 
then  frequented  places  of  public  resort,  anc 
endeavoured  to  attract  notice  by  the  copious- 
ness of  his  talk.  The  sprightly  were  silenced 
and  went  away  to  censure  in  some  other  place, 
his  arrogance  and  his  pedantry  ;  and  the  dul 
listened  quietly  for  a  while,  and  then  wonder- 
ed why  any  man  should  take  pains  to  obtain 
so  much  knowledge  which  would  never  do 
him  good. 

He  next  solicited  the  viziers  for  employ- 
ment, not  doubting  but  his  service  would  be 
eagerly  accepted.  He  was  told  by  one  that 
there  was  no  vacancy  in  his  office  ;  by  ano- 
ther, that  his  merit  was  above  any  patronage 
but  that  of  the  emperor  ;  by  a  third  that  he 
would  not  forget  him ;  and  by  the  chief  vizier, 
that  he  did  not  think  literature  of  any  great 
use  in  public  business.  He  was  sometimes  ad- 
mitted to  their  tables,  where  he  exerted  his  wit 
and  diffused  his  knowledge  ;  but  he  observed, 
that  where,  by  endeavour  or  accident,  he  had 
remarkably  excelled,  he  was  seldom  invited  a 
second  time. 

He  now  returned  to  Bassora,  wearied  and 
disgusted,  but  confident  of  resuming  his  former 
rank,  and  revelling  again  in  satiety  of  praise. 
But  he  who  had  been  neglected  at  Tauris,  was 
not  much  regarded  at  Bassora  ;  he  was  con- 
sidered as  a  fugitive,  who  returned  only  be- 
cause he  could  live  in  no  other  place ;  his  com- 
panions found  that  they  had  formerly  over-rat- 
ed his  abilities,  and  he  lived  long  without  no- 
tice or  esteem. 


No.  76.]     SATURDAY,  SEPT.  29,  1759. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

I  WAS  much  pleased  with  your  ridicule  of 
those  shallow  critics,  whose  judgment,  though 
often  right  as  far  as  it  goes,  yet  reaches  only 
to  inferior  beauties,  and  who  unable  to  compre- 
hend the  \yjfiole,  judge  only  by  parts,  and  from 
thence  determine  the  merit  of  extensive  works. 
But  there  is  another  kind  of  critic  still  worse, 
who  judges  by  narrow  rules,  and  those  too 
often  false,  and  which,  though  they  should  be 
true,  and  founded  on  nature,  will  lead  but  a 
very  little  way  toward  the  just  estimation  of 
the  sublime  beauties  in  works  of  genius ;  for 
whatever  part  of  an  art  can  be  executed  or 
criticised  by  rules,  that  part  is  no  longer  the 
work  of  genius,  which  implies  excellence  out 
of  the  reach  of  rules.  For  my  own  part  I  pro- 
fess myself  an  Idler,  and  love  to  give  my  judg- 
ment, such  as  it  is,  from  my  immediate  per- 
ceptions without  much  fatigue  of  thinking  : 
and  I  am  of  opinion,  that  if  a  man  has  not 
those  perceptions  right,  it  will  be  in  vain  for  I 
him  to  endeavour  to  supply  their  place  by  ' 
rules,  which  may  enable  him  to  talk  more 
learnedly  but  not  to  distinguish  more  acutely. 
Another  reason  which  has  lessened  my  affec- 


423 

tion  for  the  study  of  criticism  is,  that  critics, 
so  far  as  I  have  observed,  debar  themselves 
from  receiving  any  pleasure  from  the  polite 
arts,  at  the  same  time  that  they  profess  to  love 
and  admire  them :  for  these  rules  being  always 
uppermost,  give  them  such  a  propensity  "to 
criticise,  that  instead  of  giving  up  the  reii.s  of 
their  imagination  into  their  Author's  hands, 
their  frigid  minds  are  employed  in  examining 
whether  the  performance  be  according  to  the 
rules  of  art 

To  those  who  are  resolved  to  be  critics  in 
spite  of  nature  and  at  the  same  time  have  no 
great  disposition  to  much  reading  and  study,  I 
would  recommend  to  them  to  assume  the  cha- 
racter of  connoisseur,  which  may  be  purchased 
at  a  much  cheaper  rate  than  that  of  a  critic 
in  poetry.  The  remembrance  of  a  few  names 
of  painters,  with  their  general  characters,  with 
a  few  rules  of  the  academy,  which  they 
may  pick  up  among  the  painters,  will  go  a 
great  way  towards  making  a  very  notable 
connoisseur. 

With  a  gentleman  of  this  cast,  I  visited  last 
week  the  Cartoons  at  Hampton-court ;  he  was 
just  returned  from  Italy,  a  connoisseur  of 
course,  and  of  course  his  mouth  full  of  nothing, 
but  the  grace  of  Raffaelle,  the  purity  of  Domi- 
nichino,  the  learning  of  Poussin,  and  the  air  of 
Guido,  the  greatness  of  taste  of  the  Carrachis, 
and  the  sublimity  and  grand  contorno  of  Mi- 
chael Angelo  ;  with  all  the  rest  of  the  cant  of 
criticism,  which  he  emitted  with  that  volubili- 
ty which  generally  those  orators  have  who  an- 
nex no  ideas  to  their  words. 

As  we  were  passing  through  the  rooms,  in 
our  way  to  the  gallery,  I  made  him  observe  a 
whole  length  of  Charles  the  First,  by  Vandyke, 
as  a  perfect  representation  of  the  character  as 
well  as  the  figure  of  the  man.  He  agreed  it 
was  very  fine,  but  it  wanted  spirit  and  contrast, 
and  had  not  the  flowing  line,  without  which  a 
figure  could  not  possibly  be  graceful.  When 
we  entered  the  gallery,  I  thought  I  could  per- 
ceive him  recollecting  his  rules  by  which  he 
was  to  criticise  Raffaelle.  I  shall  pass  over  his 
observation  of  the  boots  being  too  little,  and 
other  criticisms  of  that  kind,  till  we  arrived  at 
St.  Paul  preaching.  "  This,"  says  he,  "  is 
steemed  the  most  excellent  of  all  the  cartoons ; 
what  nobleness,  what  dignity  there  is  in  that 
igure  of  St.  Paul !  and  yet  what  an  addition 
:o  that  nobleness  could  Raffaelle  have  given, 
lad  the  art  of  contrast  been  known  in  his  time ! 
nit,  above  all,  the  flowing  line,  which  consti- 
utes  grace  and  beauty !  You  would  not  have 
•.hen  seen  an  upright  figure  standing  equally  on 
>oth  legs,  and  both  hands  stretched  forward  in 
he  same  direction,  and  his  drapery,  to  all  ap- 
>earance,  without  the  least  art  of  disposition." 
The  following  picture  is  the  Charge  to  Peter. 
'Here,"  says  he,  "are  twelve  upright  figures ; 
what  a  pity  it  is  that  Raffaelle  was  not  ac- 
quainted with  the  pyramidal  principle  !  He 
would  then  have  contrived  the  figures  in  the 
middle  to  have  been  on  higher  ground,  or  the 
fio-ures  at  the  extremities  stooping  or  lying, 
which  would  not  only  have  formed  the  group 
into  the  shape  of  a  pyramid,  but  likewise  con- 
trasted the  standing  figures.  Indeed,"  added 


430 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  77. 


he,  "  1  have  often  lamented  that  so  great  a 
genius  as  Raffaelle  had  not  lived  in  this  enlight- 
ened age,  since  the  art  has  been  reduced  to  prin- 
ciples, and  had  had  his  education  in  one  of  the 
modern  academies  ;  what  glorious  works  might 
we  then  have  expected  from  his  divine  pencil!" 

I  shall  trouble  you  no  longer  with  my 
friend's  observation,  which,  I  suppose,  you  are 
now  able  to  continue  by  yourself.  It  is  cu- 
rious to  observe,  that,  at  the  same  time  that 
great  admiration  is  pretended  for  a  name  of 
lixed  reputation,  objections  are  raised  against 
those  very  qualities  by  which  that  great  name 
was  acquired. 

Those  critics  are  continually  lamenting  that 
Raffaelle  had  not  the  colouring  and  harmony 
of  Rubens,  or  the  light  and  shadow  of  Rem- 
brant,  without  considering  how  much  the  gay 
harmony  of  the  former,  and  affectation  of  the  lat- 
ter, would  take  from  the  dignity  of  Raffaelle ; 
and  yet  Rubens  had  great  harmony,  and  Rem- 
brant  understood  light  and  shadow  ;  but  what 
may  be  an  excellence  in  a  lower  class  of  paint- 
ing, becomes  a  blemish  in  a  higher  ;  as  the 
quick,  sprightly  turn,  which  is  the  life  and 
beauty  of  epigrammatic  compositions,  would 
but  ill  suit  with  the  majesty  of  heroic  poetry. 

To  conclude  ;  I  would  not  be  thought  to  in- 
fer from  any  thing  that  has  been  said,  that  rules 
are  absolutely  unnecessary ;  but  to  censure 
scrupulosity,  a  servile  attention  to  minute  ex- 
actness, which  is  sometimes  inconsistent  with 
higher  excellency,  and  is  lost  in  the  blaze  of 
expanded  genius. 

I  do  not  know  whether  you  will  think  paint- 
ing a  general  subject.  By  inserting  this  letter, 
perhaps,  you  will  incur  the  censure  a  man 
would  deserve,  whose  business  being  to  enter- 
tain a  whole  room,  should  turn  his  back  to  the 
company,  and  talk  to  a  particular  person. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 


No  77.]      SATURDAY,  OCT.  6,  1759. 

EAST  poetry  is  universally  admired  ;  but  I 
know  not  whether  any  rule  has  yet  been  fixed, 
by  which  it  may  be  decided  when  poetry  can 
be  properly  called  easy.  Horace  has  told  us, 
that  it  is  such  as  "every  reader  hopes  to  equal, 
but  after  long  labour  finds  unattainable."  This 
is  a  very  loose  description,  in  which  only  the 
effect  is  noted  ;  the  qualities  which  produce 
this  effect  remain  to  be  investigated. 

Easy  poetry  is  that  in  which  natural  thoughts 
are  expressed  without  violence  to  the  lan- 
guage. The  discriminating  character  of  ease 
consists  principally  in  the  diction  ;  for  all  true 
poetry  requires  that  the  sentiments  be  natural. 
Language  suffers  violence  by  harsh  or  by  dar- 
ing figures,  by  transposition,  by  unusual  accep- 
tations of  words,  and  by  any  license  which 
would  be  avoided  by  a  writer  of  prose.  Where 
ad)'  artifice  appears  in  the  construction  of  the 
verse,  that  verse  is  no  longer  easy.  Any  epi- 
thet which  can  be  ejected  without  diminution 
of  the  sense,  any  curious  iteration  of  the  same 
word,  and  all  unusual,  though  not  ungram- 
matical  structure  of  speech,  destroy  the  grace 
of  fttny  poetry. 


The  first  lines  of  Pope's  Iliad  afford  exam- 
ples of  many  licenses  which  an  easy  writer 
must  decline  : — 

Achilles'  wrath  to  Greece  the  direful  spring 
Of  woes  unmimber'd  heavenly  goddess  sing, 
The  wrath  which  hurl'd  to  Pluto's  gloomy  reign 
The  souls  of  mighty  chiefs  untimely  slain. 

•In  the  first  couplet  the  language  is  distorted 
by  inversions,  clogged  with  superfluities,  and 
clouded  by  a  harsh  metaphor  ;  and  in  the 
second  there  are  two  words  used  in  an  un- 
common sense,  two  epithets  inserted  only  to 
lengthen  the  line  ;  all  these  practises  may  in 
a  long  work  easily  be  pardoned,  but  they  al- 
ways produce  some  degree  of  obscurity  and 
ruggedness. 

Easy  poetry  has  been  so  long  excluded  by 
ambition  of  ornament,  and  luxuriance  of  image- 
ry, that  its  nature  seems  now  to  be  forgotten. 
Affectation,  however  opposite  to  ease,  is  some- 
times mistaken  for  it :  and  those  who  aspire  to 
gentle  elegance,  collect  female  phrases  and 
fashionable  barbarisms,  and  imagine  that  style 
to  be  easy  which  custom  has  made  familiar. 
Such  was  the  idea  of  the  poet  who  wrote  the 
following  verses  to  a  countess  cutting  pa- 
per : — 

Pallas  grew  vap'rish  once  and  odd, 

She  would  not  do  the  least  right  thing 
Either  for  goddess  or  for  god, 

Nor  work,  nor  play,  nor  paint,  nor  sing 

Jove  frowned,  and  "  Use,"  he  cried,  "  those  eye* 

So  skilful,  and  those  hands  so  taper  ; 
Do  something  exquisite  and  wise." — 

She  bow'd,  obey'd  him,  and  cut  paper 

This  vexing  him  who  gave  her  birth. 

Thought  by  all  heaven  a  burning  shame. 
What  does  she  next,  but  bids  of  earth 

Her  Burlington  do  just  the  same  j 

Pallas,  you  give  yourself  strange  airs  , 

But  sure  you'll  find  it  hard  to  spoil 
The  sense  and  taste  of  one  that  bears 

The  name  of  Saville  and  of  Boyla 

Alas  !  one  bad  example  shown, 

How  quickly  all  the  sex  pursue  ! 
See,  Madam  !  see  the  arts  o'erthrown 

Between  John  Overtoil  and  you. 

Itis  the  prerogative  of  easy  poet^g  to  be  un- 
derstood as  long  as  the  language  lasts  ;  but 
modes  of  speech,  which  owe  their  prevalence 
only  to  modish  folly,  or  to  the  eminence  of  those 
that  use  them,  die  away  with  their  inventors, 
and  their  meaning,  in  a  few  years,  is  no  longer 
known. 

Easy  poetry  is  commonly  sought  in  petty 
compositions  upon  minute  subjects  ;  but  ease, 
though  it  excludes  pomp,  will  admit  greatness. 
Many  lines  in  Cato's  soliloquy  are  at  once  easy 
and  sublime: — 

The  divinity  that  stirs  within  us  ; 

'Tis  heaven  itself  that  points  out  an  hereafter, 

And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 

If  there  is  a  power  above  us, 

And  that  there  is  all  nature  cries  aloud 

Thro'  all  her  works,  he  must  delight  in  virtue, 

And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy. 

Nor  is  ease  more  contrary  to  wit  than  to  sub- 
limity: the  celebrated  stanza  of  Cowley,  on  a 


No.  7?.] 


THE  IDLER. 


lady  elaborately  dressed,  loses   nothing  of  its 
freedom  by  the  spirit  of  the  sentiment : — 

Th'  adorning  thec  with  so  much  art 

I«i  but  a  barbarous  skill, 
'Tis  like  the  pois'ning-  of  a  dart, 

Too  apt  before  to  kill. 

Cowley  seems  to  have  possessed  the  power 
of  writing  easily  beyond  any  other  of  our 
poets ;  yet  his  pursuit  of  remote  thoughts  lee 
him  often  into  harshness  of  expression.  Wal- 
ler often  attempted,  but  seldom  attained  it;  for 
he  is  too  frequently  driven  into  transpositions. 
The  poets,  from  the  time  of  Dryden,  have  gra- 
dually advanced  in  embellishment,  and  conse- 
quently departed  from  simplicity  and  ease. 

To  require  from  any  author  many  pieces  o( 
easy  poetry,  would  be,  indeed,  to  oppress  hirn 
with  too  hard  a  task.  It  is  less  difficult  to  write 
a  volume  of  lines  swelled  with  epithets,  bright 
ened  by  figures,  and  stiffened  by  transpositions, 
than  to  produce  a  few  couplets  graced  only  by 
naked  elegance  and  simple  purity,  which  re- 
quires so  much  care  and  skill,  that  I  doubt  whe- 
ther any  of  our  authors  have  yet  been  able, 
for  twenty  lines  together,  nicely  to  observe  the 
true  definition  of  easy  poetry. 


No.  78.]     SATURDAY,  OCT.  13,  1759. 

I  HAVE  passed  the  summer  in  one  of  those 
places  to  which  a  mineral  spring  gives  the  idle 
and  luxurious  an  annual  reason  for  resorting, 
whenever  they  fancy  themselves  offended  by 
the  heat  of  London.  What  is  the  true  motive 
of  this  periodical  assembly  I  have  never  yet 
been  able  to  discover.  The  greater  part  of 
the  visitants  neither  feel  diseases  nor  fear  them. 
What  pleasure  can  be  expected,  more  than  the 
variety  of  the  journey,  I  know  not,  for  the  num- 
bers are  too  great  for  privacy,  and  too  small  for 
diversion.  As  each  is  known  to  be  a  spy  upon 
the  rest,  they  all  live  in  continual  restraint ; 
and  having  but  a  narrow  range  for  censure, 
they  gratify  its  cravings  by  preying  on  one  an- 
other. 

But  every  condition  has  some  advantages. 
In  this  confinement  a  smaller  circle  affords  op- 
portunities for  more  exact  observation.  The 
glass  that  magnifies  its  object  contracts  the 
sight  to  a  point ;  and  the  mind  must  be  fixed 
upon  a  single  character  to  remark  its  minute 
peculiarities.  The  quality  or  habit  which 
passes  unobserved  in  the  tumult  of  successive 
multitudes,  becomes  conspicuous  when  it  is  of- 
fered to  the  notice  day  after  day  ;  and  perhaps 
I  have,  without  any  distinct  notice,  seen  thou- 
sands, like  my  late  companions  ;  for  when  the 
scene  can  be  varied  at  pleasure,  a  slight  dis- 
gust turns  us  aside  before  a  deep  impression 
can  be  made  upon  the  mind. 

There  was  a  select  set,  supposed  to  be  dis- 
tinguished by  superiority  of  intellects,  who  al- 
ways passed  the  evening  together.  To  be  ad- 
mitted to  their  conversation  was  the  highest 
honour  of  the  place  ;  many  youths  aspired  to 
distinction,  by  pretending  to  occasional  invita- 
tions ;  and  the  ladies  were  often  wishing  to  be 
men,  that  they  might  partake  the  pleasures  of 
learned  society. 


I  know  not  whf 'tier  by  merit  or  destiny,  I 
was  soon  after  m»  -rival,  admitted  to  this  en- 
vied party,  which  1'frequented  till  I  had  learn- 
ed the  art  by  which  each  endeavoured  to 
support- his  character. 

Tom  Steady  was  a  vehement  assertor  of  un- 
controverted  truth;  and  by  keeping  himself 
out  of  the  reach  of  contradiction  had  acquired 
all  the  confidence  which  the  consciousness  of 
irresistible  abilities  could  have  given.  I  was 
once  mentioning  a  man  of  eminence,  and  after 
having  recounted  his  virtues,  endeavoured  to 
represent  him  fully,  by  mentioning  his  faults. 
"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Steady,  "  that  he  has  faults  I 
can  easily  believe,  for  who  is  without  them  1 
No  man,  Sir,  is  now  alive,  among  the  innume- 
rable multitudes  that  swarm  upon  the  earth, 
however  wise,  or  however  good,  who  has  not, 
in  some  degree,  his  failings  and  his  faults.  If 
there  be  any  man  faultless,  bring  him  forth  in- 
to public  view,  show  him  openly,  and  let  him 
be  known  ;  but  I  will  venture  to  affirm,  and, 
till  the  contrary  be  plainly  shown,  shall  always 
maintain,  that  no  such  man  is  to  be  found. 
Tell  not  me,  Sir,  of  impeccability  and  perfec- 
tion ;  such  talk  is  for  those  that  are  strangers 
in  the  world ;  I  have  seen  several  nations,  and 
conversed  with  all  ranks  of  people  ;  I  have 
known  the  great  and  the  mean,  the  learned 
and  the  ignorant,  the  old  and  the  young,  the 
clerical  and  the  lay  ;  but  I  have  never  found  a 
man  without  a  fault ;  and  I  suppose  shall  die  in 
*,he  opinion,  that  to  be  human  is  to  be  frail." 

To  all  this  nothing  could  be  opposed.  I  lis 
tened  with  a  hanging  head :  Mr.  Steady  looked 
round  on  the  hearers  with  triumph,  and  saw 
very  eye  congratulating  his  victory  ;  he  de- 
>arted,  and  spent  the  next  morning  in  follow- 
ng  those  who  retired  from  the  company,  and 
;elling  them,  with  injunctions  of  secrecy,  how 
>oor  Sprightly  began  to  take  liberties  with  men 
wiser  than  himself,  but  that  he  suppressed  him 
>y  a  decisive  argument,  which  put  him  totally 
o  silence. 

Dick  Snug  is  a  man  of  sly  remark  and  pithy 
sententiousness  ;  he  never  immerges  himself 
n  the  stream  of  conversation,  but  lies  to  catch 
lis  companions  in  the  eddy  :  he  is  often  very 
successful  in  breaking  narratives,  and  con- 
"ounding  eloquence.  A  gentleman,  giving  the 
istory  of  one  of  his  acquaintance,  made  men- 
ion  of  a  lady  that  had  many  lovers :  "  Then," 
aid  Dick,  "  she  was  either  handsome  or  rich." 
This  observation  being  well  received,  Dick 
vatched  the  progress  of  the  tale ;  and  hear- 
ng  of  a  man  lost  in  a  shipwreck,  remarked, 
hat  "  no  man  was  ever  drowned  upon  dry 
and." 

Will  Startle  is  a  man  of  exquisite  sensioi- 
ity,  whose  delicacy  of  frame,  and  quickness 
f  discernment,  subject  him  to  impressions 
rom  the  slightest  causes ;  and  who,  therefore, 
asses  his  life  between  rapture  and  horror,  in 
[iiiverings  of  delight,  or  convulsions  of  dis- 
ust.  His  emotions  are  too  violent  for  many 
vords  ;  his  thoughts  are  always  discovered 
iy  exclamations.  "  Vile,  odious,  horrid,  de- 
estable,"  and  "  sweet,  charming,  delightful, 
astonishing,"  compose  almost  his  whole  voca- 
ulary,  which  he  utters  with  various  conxor- 


432 


THE  ID7.ER. 


[No.  7!\ 


tions  and  gesticulations,  not  easily  related  or 
described. 

Jack  Solid  is  a  man  of  much  reading,  who 
utters  nothing  but  quotations  ;  but  having 
been,  I  suppose,  too  confident  of  his  memory, 
lie  has  for  some  time  neglected  his  books,  and 
his  stock  grows  every  day  more  scanty.  Mr. 
Solid  has  found  an  opportunity  every  night  to 
repeat,  from  Hudibras. 

Doubtless  the  pleasure  is  as  great 
Of  being  cheated,  as  to  cheat; 

and  from  "Waller. 

Poets  lose  half  the  praise  they  would  have  got, 
Were  it  but  known  what  they  discretely  blot. 

Dick  Misty  is  a  man  of  deep  research,  and 
forcible  penetration.  Others  are  content  with 
superficial  appearances  :  but  Dick  holds,  that 
there  is  no  effect  without  a  cause,  and  values 
himself  upon  his  power  of  explaining  the  diffi- 
culty, and  displaying  the  abstruse.  Upon  a  dis- 
pute among  us,  which  of  two  young  strangers 
was  more  beautiful,  "  You,"  says  Mr.  Misty, 
turning  to  me,  "  like  Amaranthia  better  than 
Chloris.  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  preference, 
for  the  cause  is  evident ;  there  is  in  man  a  per- 
ception of  harmony,  and  a  sensibility  of  per- 
fection, which  touches  the  finer  fibres  of  the 
mental  texture  ;  and  before  reason  can  de- 
scend from  her  throne,  to  pass  her  sentence 
upon  the  things  compared,  drives  us  towards 
the  object  proportioned  to  our  faculties,  by  an 
impulse  gentle,  yet  irresistible ;  for  the  har- 
monic system  of  the  universe,  and  the  recipro- 
cal magnetism  of  similar  natures,  are  always 
operating  towards  conformity  and  union  ;  nor 
can  the  powers  of  the  soul  cease  from  agita- 
tion, till  they  find  something  on  which  they 
can  repose."  To  this  nothing  was  opposed  ; 
and  Amaranthia  was  acknowledged  to  excel 
Chloris. 

Of  the  rest  you  may  expect  an  account  from, 
Sir,  yours, 

ROBIN  SPRITELT. 


No.  79.]      SATURDAY,  OCT.  20,  1759. 


SIR, 


TO  THE  IDLER. 


YOUR  acceptance  of  a  former  letter  on  paint- 
ing, gives  me  encouragement  to  offer  a  few 
more  sketches  on  the  same  subject. 

Amongst  the  painters  and  the  writers  on 
painting,  there  is  one  maxim  universally  ad- 
mitted, and  continually  inculcated.  Imitate 
nature  is  the  invariable  rule  ;  but  I  know  none 
who  have  explained  in  what  manner  this  rule 
is  to  be  understood  ;  the  consequence  of  which 
is,  that  every  one  takes  it  in  the  most  obvious 
sense,  that  objects  are  represented  naturally 
when  they  have  such  relief  that  they  seem  real. 
It  may  appear  strange,  perhaps,  to  hear  this 
nense  of  the  rule  disputed  ;  but  it  must  be  con- 
sidered, that,  if  the  excellence  of  a  painter 
consisted  only  in  this  kind  of  imitation,  paint- 
ing must  lose  its  rank,  and  be  no  longer  con- 
sidered as  a  liberal  art,  and  sister  to  poetry, 


this  imitation  being  merely  mechanical,  in 
which  the  slowest  intellect  is  always  sure  to 
succeed  best ;  for  the  painter  of  genius  cannot 
stoop  to  drudgery,  in  which  the  understanding 
has  no  part ;  and  what  pretence  has  the  art 
to  claim  kindred  with  poetry,  but  by  its  pow- 
ers over  the  imagination  ?  To  this  power  the 
painter  of  genius  directs  his  aim  ;  in  this  sense 
he  studies  nature,  and  often  arrives  at  his  end, 
even  by  being  unnatural  in  the  confined  sense 
of  the  word. 

The  grand  style  of  painting  requires  this 
minute  attention  to  be  carefully  avoided,  and 
must  be  kept  as  separate  from  it  as  the  style  of 
poetry  from  that  of  history.  Poetical  orna- 
ments destroy  that  air  of  truth  and  plainness 
which  ought  to  characterise  history;  but  the 
very  being  of  poetry  consists  in  departing 
from  this  plain  narration,  Jirtd  adopting  every 
ornament  that  will  warm  the  imagination.  To 
desire  to  see  the  excellencies  of  each  style 
united,  to  mingle  the  Dutch  with  the  Italian 
school,  is  to  join  contrarieties  which  cannot 
subsist  together,  and  which  destroy  the  effica- 
cy of  each  other.  The  Italian  attends  only 
to  the  invariable,  the  great  and  general  ideas 
which  are  fixed  and  inherent  in  universal  na- 
ture ;  the  Dutch,  on  the  contrary,  to  literal 
truth,  and  a  minute  exactness  in  the  detail,  as 
I  may  say  of  nature  modified  by  accident. 
The  attention  to  these  petty  peculiarities  is 
is  the  very  cause  of  this  naturalness,  so  much 
admired  in  the  Dutch  pictures,  which,  if  we 
suppose  it  to  be  a  beauty,  is  certainly  of  a 
lower  order,  which  ought  to  give  place  to  a 
beauty  of  a  superior  kind,  since  one  cannot 
be  obtained  but  by  departing  from  the  other. 

If  my  opinion  was  asked  concerning  the 
works  of  Michael  Angelo,  whether  they  would 
receive  any  advantage  from  possessing  this 
mechanical  merit,  I  should  not  scruple  to  say 
they  would  not  only  receive  no  advantage,  but 
would  lose,  in  a  great  measure,  the  effect 
which  they  now  have  on  every  mind  suscepti- 
ble of  great  and  noble  ideas.  His  works  may 
be  said  to  be  all  genius  and  soul ;  and  why 
should  they  be  loaded  with  heavy  matter, 
which  can  only  counteract  his  purpose  by  re- 
tarding the  progress  of  the  imagination. 

If  this  opinion  should  be  thought  one  of  the 
wild  extravagancies  of  enthusiasm,  I  shall  only 
say,  that  those  who  censure  it  are  not  conver- 
sant in  the  works  of  the  great  masters.  It  is 
very  difficult  to  determine  the  exact  degree  of 
enthusiasm  that  the  arts  of  painting  and  poe- 
try may  admit.  There  may  perhaps  be  too 
great  an  indulgence,  as  well  as  too  great  a  re- 
straint of  imagination ;  and  if  the  one  pro- 
duces incoherent  monsters,  the  other  produ- 
ces what  is  full  as  bad,  lifeless  insipidity. 
An  intimate  knowledge  of  the  passions,  and 
good  sense,  but  not  common  sense,  must  at 
last  determine  its  limits.  It  has  been  thought, 
and  I  believe  with  reason,  that  Michael  Angelo 
sometimes  transgressed  those  limits,  and  I 
think  I  have  seen  figures  of  him  of  which  it 
was  very  difficult  to  determine  whether  they 
were  in  the  highest  degree  sublime  or  ex- 
tremely ridiculous.  Such  faults  may  be  said 
to  be  the  ebullitions  of  genius ;  but  at  least 


[No.  80. 


THE  IDLER. 


4H3 


he  had  this  merit,  that  he  never  was  insipid 
and  whatever  passion  his  works  may  excite 
they  will  always  escape  contempt. 

What  I  have  had  und£r  consideration  is  the 
sublimest  style,  particularly  that  of  Michae 
Angela,  the  Homer  of  painting.  Other  kind; 
may  admit  of  this  naturalness,  which  of  the 
lowest  kind  is  the  chief  merit ;  but  in  painting 
as  in  poetry,  the  highest  style  has  the  least  o 
common  nature. 

One  may  very  safely  recommend  a  little 
more  enthusiasm  to  the  modern  painters  ;  too 
much  is  certainly  not  the  vice  of  the  present 
age.  The  Italians  seem  to  have  been  conti- 
nually declining  in  this  respect  from  the  time 
of  Michael  Angelo  to  that  of  Carlo  Maratti, 
and  from  thence  to  the  very  bathos  of  insipidi- 
ty to  which  they  are  now  sunk  ;  so  that  there 
is  no  need  of  remarking,  that  where  I  men- 
tioned the  Italian  painters  in  opposition  to  the 
Dutch,  I  mean  not  the  moderns,  but  the  heads 
of  the  old  Roman  and  Bolognian  schools  ;  nor 
did  I  mean  to  include  in  my  idea  of  an  Italian 
painter,  the  Venetian  school,  which  may  be 
said  to  be  the  Dutch  part  of  the  Italian  genius. 
I  have  only  to  add  a  word  of  advice  to  the 
painters,  that  however  excellent  they  may  be 
in  painting  naturally,  they  would  not  flatter 
themselves  very  much  upon  it ;  and  to  the 
connoisseurs,  that  when  they  see  a  cat  or  rid- 
dle painted  so  finely,  that  as  the  phrase  is, 
"  It  looks  as  if  you  could  take  it  up,"  they 
would  not  for  that  reason  immediately  com- 
pare the  painter  to  Raffaelie  and  Michael 
Angelo. 


No.  80.]     SATURDAY,  OCT.  27,  1759. 

THAT  every  day  has  its  pains  and  sorrows  is 
universally  experienced,  and  almost  univer- 
sally confessed  ;  but  let  us  not  attend  only  to 
mournful  truths ;  if  we  look  impartially  about 
us,  we  shall  find  that  every  day  has  likewise 
its  pleasures  and  its  joys. 

The  time  is  now  come  when  the  town  is 
again  beginning  to  be  full,  and  the  rusticated 
beauty  sees  an  end  of  her  banishment.  Those 
whom  the  tyranny  of  fashion  had  condemned 
to  pass  the  summer  among  shades  and  brooks, 
are  now  preparing  to  return  to  plays,  balls, 
and  assemblies,  with  health  restored  by  retire- 
ment, and  spirits  kindled  by  expectation. 

Many  a  mind,  which  has  languished  some 
months  without  emotion  or  desire,  now  feels 
a  sudden  renovation  of  its  faculties.  It  was 
long  ago  observed  by  Pythagoras,  that  ability 
and  necessity  dwell  near  each  other.  She 
that  wandered  in  the  garden  without  sense  of 
its  fragrance,  and  lay  day  after  day  stretched 
upon  a  couch  behind  a  green  curtain,  unwill- 
ing to  wake  and  unable  to  sleep,  now  sum- 
mons her  thoughts  to  consider  which  of  her 
last  year's  clothes  shall  be  seen  again,  and  to 
anticipate  the  raptures  of  a  new  suit ;  the  day 
and  the  night  are  now  filled  with  occupation  ; 
the  laces,  which  were  too  fine  to  be  worn 
among  rustics,  are  taken  from  the  boxes,  and 
reviewed,  and  the  eye  is  no  sooner  closed  after , 
3E 


its  labours,  than  whole  shops  of  silk  busy  the 
fancy. 

But  happiness  is  nothing  if  it  is  not  known, 
and  very  little  if  it  is  not  envied.  Before  the  day 
of  departure  a  week  is  always  appropriated  to 
the  payment  and  reception  of  ceremonial  vi- 
sits, at  which  nothing  can  be  mentioned  but 
the  delights  of  London.  The  lady  who  is 
hastening  to  the  scene  of  action,  flutters  her 
wings,  displays  her  prospect  of  felicity,  tells 
how  she  grudges  every  moment  of  delay,  and, 
in  the  presence  of  those  whom  she  knows 
condemned  to  stay  at  home,  is  sure  to  won- 
der by  what  arts  life  can  be  made  supportable 
through  a  winter  in  the  country,  and  to  tell 
how  often,  amidst  the  ecstacies  of  an  opera, 
she  shall  pity  those  friends  whom  she  has  left 
behind.  Her  hope  of  giving  pain  is  seldom 
disappointed:  the  affected  indifference  of  one, 
the  faint  congratulations  of  another,  the  wish- 
es of  some  openly  confessed,  and  the  silent 
dejection  of  the  rest,  all  exalt  her  opinion  of 
her  own  superiority. 

But,  however  we  may  labour  for  our  own 
deception,  truth,  though  unwelcome,  will  some- 
times intrude  upon  the  mind.  They  who  have 
already  enjoyed  the  crowds  and  noise  of  the 
great  city,  know  that  their  desire  to  return  is 
little  more  than  the  restlessness  of  a  vacant 
mind,  that  they  are  not  so  much  led  by  hope 
as  driven  by  disgust,  and  wisk  rather  to  leave 
the  country  than  to  see  the  town.  There  is 
commonly  in  every  coach  a  passenger  en- 
wrapped in  silent  expectation,  whose  joy  is 
more  sincere,  and  whose  hopes  are  more  ex 
alted.  The  virgin  whom  the  last  summei 
released  from  her  governess,  and  who  is  now 
going  between  her  mother  and  her  aunt  to  try 
the  fortune  of  her  wit  and  beauty,  suspects 
no  fallacy  in  the  gay  representation.  She  be- 
lieves herself  passing  into  another  world,  and 
images  London  as  an  Elysian  region,  where 
every  hour  has  its  proper  pleasure,  where  no- 
thing is  seen  but  the  blaze  of  wealth,  and 
nothing  heard  but  merriment  and  flattery; 
where  the  morning  always  rises  on  a  show, 
and  the  evening  closes  on  a  ball ;  where  tho 
eyes  are  used  only  to  sparkle,  and  the  feet 
only  to  dance. 

Her  aunt  and  her  mother  amuse  themselves 
on  the  road,  with  telling  her  of  dangers  to  bo 
dreaded,  and  cautions  to  be  observed.  She 
icars  them  as  they  heard  their  predecessors, 
with  incredulity  or  contempt  She  sees  that 
,hey  have  ventured  and  escaped ;  and  one  of 
the  pleasures  which  she  promises  herself  is, 
to  detect  their  falsehoods,  and  be  freed  from 
their  admonitions. 

We  are  inclined  to  believe  those  whom  we 
do  not  know,  because  they  have  never  deceiv- 
ed us.  The  fair  adventurer  may  perhaps  lis- 
;en  to  the  Idler,  whom  she  cannot  suspect  of 
rivalry  or  malice ;  yet  he  scarcely  expects  to 
ye  credited  when  he  tells  her,  that  her  expecta- 
ions  will  likewise  end  in  disappointment. 

The  uniform  necessities  of  human  nature 
>roduce  in  a  great  measure  uniformity  of  life, 
tnd  for  part  of  the  day  make  one  place  like 
tnother;  to  dress  and  undress,  to  eat  and  to 
;leep,  are  the  same  in  London  as  in  the  coun- 


434 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  31 


try.  The  supernumerary  hours  have  indeed  a 
greater  variety  both  of  pleasure  and  of  pain. 
The  stranger  gazed  on  by  multitudes  at  her 
first  appearance  in  the  Park,  is  perhaps  on  the 
highest  summit  of  female  happiness:  but  how 
great  is  the  anguish  when  the  novelty  of 
another  face  draws  her  worshippers  away ! 
The  heart  may  leap  for  a  time  under  a  fine 
gown  ;  but  the  sight  of  a  gown  yet  finer  puts 
an  end  to  rapture.  In  the  first  row  at  an  opera, 
two  hours  may  be  happily  passed  in  listening 
to  the  music  on  the  stage,  and  watching  the 
glances  of  the  company;  but  how  will  the 
night  end  in  despondency  when  she  that 
imagined  herself  the  sovereign  of  the  plftce, 
sees  lords  contending  to  lead  Iris  to  her  chair ! 
There  is  little  pleasure  in  conversation  to  her 
whose  wit  is  regarded  but  in  the  second  place ; 
and  who  can  dance  with  ease  or  spirit  that  sees 
Amaryllis  led  out  before  her  ?  She  that  fancied 
nothing  but  a  succession  of  pleasures,  will 
find  herself  engaged  without  design  in  num- 
berless competitions,  and  mortified  without 
provocation  with  numberless  afflictions. 

But  I  do  not  mean  to  extinguish  that  ardour 
which  I  wish  to  moderate,  or  to  discourage 
those  whom  I  am  endeavouring  to  restrain. 
To  know  the  world  is  necessary,  since  we  are 
born  for  the  help  of  one  another ;  and  to  know 
it  early  is  convenient,  if  it  be  only  that  we  may 
learn  early  to  despise  it.  She  that  brings  to 
London  a  mind  well  prepared  for  improve- 
ment, though  she  misses  her  hope  of  uninter- 
rupted happiness,  will  gain  in  return  an  oppor- 
tunity of  adding  knowledge  to  vivacity,  and 
enlarging  innocence  to  virtue. 


No.  81.]      SATURDAY,  Nov.  3,  1759. 

As  the  English  army  was  passing  towards 
duebec,  along  a  soft  savanna  between  a  moun- 
tain and  a  lake,  one  of  the  petty  chiefs  of  the 
inland  regions  stood  upon  a  rock  surrounded 
by  his  clan,  and  from  behind  the  shelter  of  the 
bushes  contemplated  the  art  and  regularity  of 
European  war.  It  was  evening,  the  tents 
were  pitched :  he  observed  the  security  with 
which  the  troops  rested  in  the  night,  and  the 
order  with  which  the  march  was  renewed  in 
the  morning.  He  continued  to  pursue  them 
with  his  eye  till  they  could  be  seen  no  longer, 
and  then  stood  for  some  time  silent  and 
pensive. 

Then  turning  to  his  followers,  "  My  chil- 
dren," said  he,  "  I  have  often  heard  from  men 
hoary  with  long  life,  that  there  was  a  time 
when  our  ancestors  were  absolute  lords  of  the 
woods,  the  meadows,  and  the  lakes,  wherever 
the  eye  can  reach,  or  the  foot  can  pass.  They 
fished  and  hunted,  feasted  and  danced,  and, 
when  they  were  weary  lay  down  under  the 
first  thicket,  without  danger,  and  without  fear. 
They  changed  their  habitations  as  the  seasons 
required,  convenience  prompted,  or  curiosity 
allured  them ;  and  sometimes  gathered  the 
fruits  of  the  mountain,  and  sometimes  sported 
in  canoes  along  the  coast. 


"Many  years  and  ages  are  supposed  to  have 
been  thus  passed  in  plenty  and  security;  when, 
at  last,  a  new  race  of  men  entered  our  country 
from  the  great  ocean.  They  inclosed  them- 
selves in  habitations  of  stcnc,  which  our  an- 
cestors could  neither  enter  by  violence,  nor 
destroy  by  fire.  They  issued  from  those  fast- 
nesses, sometimes,  covered  like  the  armadillo 
with  shells,  from  which  the  lance  rebounded 
on  the  striker,  and  sometimes  carried  by  migh- 
ty beasts  which  had  never  been  seen  in  our 
vales  or  forests,  of  such  strength  and  swift 
ness,  that  flight  and  opposition  were  vain 
alike.  Those  invaders  ranged  over  the  conti- 
nent, slaughtering  in  their  rage  those  that  re- 
sisted, and  those  that  submitted,  in  their  mirth. 
Of  those  that  remained,  some  were  buried  in 
caverns,  and  condemned  to  dig  metals  fortheir 
masters  ;  some  were  employed  in  tilling  the 
ground,  of  which  foreign  tyrants  devour  .the 
produce  ;  and,  when  the  sword  and  the  mines 
have  destroyed  the  natives,  they  supply  their 
place  by  human  beings  of  another  colour, 
brought  from  some  distant  country  to  perish 
here  under  toil  and  torture. 

"  Some  there  are  who  boast  their  humanity, 
and  content  themselves  to  seize  our  chases  and 
fisheries,  who  drive  us  from  every  track  oi 
ground  where  fertility  and  pleasantness  invite 
them  to  settle,  and  make  no  war  upon  us,  ex 
cept  when  we  intrude  upon  our  own  lands. 

"Others  pretend  to  have  purchased  aright  of 
residence  and  tyranny  ;  but  surely  the  insolence 
of  such  bargains  is  more  offensive  than  the 
avowed  and  open  dominion  of  force.  What 
reward  can  induce  the  possessor  of  a  country 
to  admit  a  stranger  more  powerful  than  him- 
self? Fraud  or  terror  must  operaVe  in  such 
contracts ;  either  they  promised  protection 
which  they  never  have  afforded,  or  instruction 
which  they  never  imparted.  We  hoped  to  be 
secured  by  their  favour  from  some  other  evil, 
or  to  learn  the  arts  of  Europe,  by  which  we 
might  be  able  to  secure  ourselves.  Their 
power  they  never  have  exerted  in  our  defence, 
and  their  arts  they  have  studiously  concealed 
from  us.  Their  treaties  are  only  to  deceive,  and 
their  traffic  only  to  defraud  us.  They  have  a 
written  law  among  them,  of  which  they  boast 
as  derived  from  Him  who  made  the  earth  and 
sea,  and  by  which  they  profess  to  believe  that 
man  will  be  made  happy  when  life  shall  forsake 
him.  Why  is  not  this  law  communicated  to 
us?  It  is  concealed  because  it  is  violated. 
For  how  can  they  preach  it  to  an  Indian  na- 
tion, when  I  am  told  that  one  of  its  first  pre- 
cepts forbids  them  to  do  to  others  what  they 
would  not  that  other  should  do  to  them  ? 

"But  the  time  perhaps  is  now  approaching 
when  the  pride  of  usurpation  shall  be  crushed, 
and  the  cruelties  of  invasion  shall  be  revenged. 
The  sons  of  rapacity  have  now  drawn  their 
swords  upon  each  other,  and  referred  their 
claims  to  the  decision  of  war;  let  us  look  un- 
concerned upon  the  slaughter  and  remember 
that  the  death  of  every  European  delivers  the 
country  from  a  tyrant  and  a  robber ;  for  what 
is  the  claim  of  either  nation,  but  the  claim  of 
the  vulture  to  the  leveret,  of  the  tiger  to  the 
fawn?  Let  them  then  continue  to  dispute 


No.  82.] 


THE  IDLER. 


435 


their  title  to  regions  which  they  cannot  people, 
to  purchase  by  danger  and  blood  the  empty 
dignity  of  dominion  over  mountains  which 
they  will  never  climb,  and  rivers  which  they 
will  never  pass.  Let  us  endeavour  in  the 
mean  time,  to  learn  their  discipline,  and  to 
forge  their  weapons ;  and,  when  they  shall 
be  weakened  with  mutual  slaughter,  let  us 
rush  down  upon  them,  force  their  remains  to 
take  shelter  in  their  ships,  and  reign  once 
more  in  our  native  country." 


No.  82.]      SATURDAY,  Nov.  10,  1759. 


SIR, 


TO  THE  IDLER. 


DISCOURSING  in  my  last  letter  on  the  different 
practice  of  the  Italian  and  Dutch  painters,  I 
observed,  that  "the  Italian  painter  attends 
only  to  the  invariable,  the  great  and  general 
ideas  which  are  fixed  and  inherent  in  universal 
nature." 

I  was  led  into  the  subject  of  this  letter  by 
endeavouring  to  fix  the  original  cause  of  this 
conduct  of  the  Italian  masters.  If  it  can  be 
proved  that  by  this  choice  they  selected  the 
most  beautiful  part  of  the  creation,  it  will  show 
how  much  their  principles  are  founded  on  rea- 
son, and,  at  the  same  time,  discover  the  origin 
of  our  ideas  of  beauty. 

I  suppose  it  will  be  easily  granted,  that  no 
man  can  judge  whether  any  animal  be  beauti- 
ful in  its  kind,  or  deformed,  who  has  seen  only 
one  of  that  species  ;  that  is  as  conclusive  in 
regard  to  the  human  figure  ;  so  that  if  a  man, 
born  blind,  was  to  recover  his  sight,  and  the 
most  beautiful  woman  was  brought  before  him, 
he  could  not  determine  whether  she  was  hand- 
some or  not;  nor,  if  the  most  beautiful  and 
most  deformed  were  produced,  could  he  any 
better  determine  to  which  he  should  give  the 
preference,  having  seen  only  those  two.  To 
distinguish  beauty,  then,  implies  the  having 
seen  many  individuals  of  that  species.  If  it  is 
asked,  how  is  more  skill  acquired  by  the  ob- 
servation of  greater  numbers  ?  I  answer,  that, 
in  consequence  of  having  seen  many,  the 
power  is  acquired,  even  without  seeking  after 
it,  of  distinguishing  between  accidental  blem- 
ishes and  excrescences  which  are  continually 
varying  the  surface  of  Nature's  works,  and  the 
invariable  general  form  which  nature  most 
frequently  produces,  and  always  seems  to  in- 
tend in  her  productions. 

Thus  amongst  the  blades  of  grass  or  leaves 
of  the  same  tree,  though  no  two  can  be  found 
exactly  alike,  yet  the  general  form  is  invaria- 
ble :  a  naturalist,  before  he  chose  one  as  a 
sample,  would  examine  many,  since  if  he  took 
the  first  that  occurred,  it  might  have  by  acci- 
dent, or  otherwise,  such  a  form  as  that  it 
would  scarcely  be  known  to  belong  to  that 
species  ;  he  selects  as  the  painter  does,  the 
most  beautiful,  that  is,  the  most  general  form 
of  nature. 

Every  species  of  the  animal  as  well  as  the 
vegetable  creation  may  be  said  to  have  a  fixed 
or  determinate  form  towards  which  nature  is 


continually  inclining,  like  various  lines  termi- 
nating in  the  centre  ;  or  it  may  be  compared  to 
pendulums  vibrating  in  different  directions  over 
one  central  point,  and  as  they  all  cross  the 
centre,  though  only  one  passes  through  any 
other  point,  so  it  will  be  found  that  perfect  beau- 
ty is  oftener  produced  by  nature  than  deformity ; 
I  do  not  mean  than  deformity  in  "general,  but 
than  any  one  kind  of  deformity.  To  instance 
in  a  particular  part  of  a  feature :  the  line  that 
forms  the  ridge  of  the  nose  is  beautiful  when 
it  is  straight ;  this  then  is  the  central  form, 
which  is  oftener  found  than  either  concave, 
convex,  or  any  other  irregular  form,  that  shall 
be  proposed.  As  we  are  then  more  accustom- 
ed to  beauty  than  deformity,  we  may  con- 
clude that  to  be  the  reason  why  we  approve 
and  admire  it  as  we  approve  and  admire 
customs,  and  fashions  of  dress  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  we  are  used  to  them,  so 
that  though  habit  and  custom  cannot  be  said 
to  be  the  causa  of  beauty,  it  is  certainly  the 
cause  of  our  liking  it ;  and  I  have  no  doubt 
but  that,  if  we  were  more  used  to  deformity 
than  beauty,  deformity  would  then  lose  the 
idea  now  annexed  it,  and  take  that  of  beauty : 
as,  if  the  whole  world  should  agree  that  yes 
and  no  should  change  their  meanings,  yea 
would  then  deny,  and  no  would  affirm. 

Whoever  undertakes  to  proceed  farther  in 
this  argument,  and  endeavours  to  fix  a  general 
criterion  of  beauty  respecting  different  spe- 
cies, or  to  show  why  one  species  is  more  beau- 
tiful than  another,  it  will  be  required  from  him 
first  to  prove  that  one  species  is  more  beautiful 
than  another.  That  we  prefer  one  to  the  other, 
and  with  very  good  reason,  will  be  readily 
granted  ;  but  it  does  not  follow  from  thence 
that  we  think  it  a  more  beautiful  form ;  for  we 
have  no  criterion  of  form- by  which  to  deter 
mine  our  judgment.  He  who  says  a  swan  is 
more  beautiful  than  a  dove,  means  little  more 
than  he  has  more  pleasure  in  seeing  a  swan  than 
a  dove,  either  from  the  stateliness  of  its  motions, 
or  its  being  a  more  rare  bird  ;  and  he  who 
gives  the  preference  to  the  dove,  does  it  from 
some  association  of  ideas  of  innocence  that  he 
always  annexes  to  the  dove  ;  but  if  he  pretendj 
to  defend  the  preference  he  gives  to  one  or  the 
other  by  endeavouring  to  prove  that  this  more 
beautiful  form  proceeds  from  a  particular  gra- 
dation of  magnitude,  undulation  of  a  curve,  or 
direction  of  a  line,  or  whatever  other  conceit 
of  his  imagination  he  shall  fix  on  as  a  criterion 
of  form,  he  will  be  continually  contradicting 
himself,  and  find  at  last  that  the  great  mother 
of  nature  will  not  be  subjected  to  such  narrow 
rules.  Among  the  various  reasons  why  we  pre 
fer  one  part  of  her  works  to  another,  the  most 
general,  I  believe,  is  habit  and  custom  ;  cus- 
tom makes,  in  a  certain  sense,  white  black,  and 
black  white  !  it  is  custom  alone  determines  our 
preference  of  the  colour  of  the  Europeans  to 
the  Ethiopians ;  and  they,  for  the  same  reason, 
prefer  their  own  colour  to  ours.  I  suppose  no- 
body  will  doubt,  if  one  of  their  painters  were 
to  paint  the  goddess  of  beauty,  but  that  he 
would  represent  her  black,  with  thick  lips,  flat 
nose,  and  woolly  hair ;  and,  it  seems  to  me,  he 
would  act  very  unnaturally  if  he  did  not ;  for 


436 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  83. 


by  what  criterion  will  any  one  dispute  the  pro- 
priety of  his  idea  ?  We,  indeed,  say,  that  the 
form  and  colour  of  the  European  is  preferable 
to  that  of  the  ^Ethiopian  ;  but  I  know  of  no 
reaso/i  we  have  for  it,  but  that  we  are  more  ac- 
customed to  it.  It  is  absurd  to  say  that  beauty 
is  possessed  of  attractive  powers,  which  irre- 
sistibly seize 'the  corresponding  mind  with  love 
and  admiration,  since  that  argument  is  equally 
conclusive  in  the  favour  of  the  white  and  the 
black  philosopher. 

The  black  and  white  nations  must,  in  respect 
of  beauty,  be  considered  as  of  different  kinds, 
at  least  a  different  species  of  the  same  kind ; 
from  one  of  which  to  the  other,  as  I  observed, 
no  inference  can  be  drawn. 

Novelty  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  causes  of 
beauty :  that  novelty  is  a  very  sufficient  reason 
why  we  should  admire,  is  not  denied  ;  but  be- 
cause it  is  uncommon  is  it  therefore  beautiful  ? 
The  beauty  that  is  produced  by  colour,  as  when 
we  prefer  one  bird  to  another,  though  of  the 
same  form,  on  account  of  its  colour,  has  no- 
thing to  do  with  this  argument,  which  reaches 
only  to  form.  I  have  here  considered  the  word 
beauty  as  being  properly  applied  to  form  alone. 
There  is  a  necessity  of  fixing  this  confined 
sense ;  for  there  can  be  no  argument  if  the 
sense  of  the  word  is  extended  to  every  thing 
that  is  approved.  A  rose  may  as  well  be  said 
to  be  beautiful  because  it  has  a  fine  smell,  as 
a  bird  because  of  its  colour.  When  we  apply 
the  word  beauty,  we  do  not  mean  always  by 
it  a  more  beautiful  form,  but  something  valu- 
able on  account  of  its  rarity,  usefulness,  colour, 
or  any  other  property.  A  horse  is  said  to  be  a 
beautiful  animal ;  but,  had  a  horse  as  few  good 
qualities  as  a  tortoise,  I  do  not  imagine  that  he 
would  be  then  esteemed  beautiful. 

A  fitness  to  the  end  proposed,  is  said  to  be 
another  cause  of  beauty  ;  but  supposing  we 
were  proper  judges  of  what  form  is  the  most 
proper  in  an  animal  to  constitute  strength  or 
swiftness,  we  always  determine  concerning 
its  beauty,  before  we  exert  our  understanding 
to  judge  of  its  fitness. 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  may  be  inferred, 
that  the  works  of  nature,  if  we  compare  one 
species  with  another,  are  all  equally  beautiful ; 
and  that  preference  is  given  from  custom,  or 
some  association  of  ideas;  and  that,  in  crea- 
tures of  the  same  species,  beauty  is  the  me- 
dium or  centre  of  all  various  forms. 

To  conclude,  then,  by  way  of  corollary ;  if 
it  has  been  proved,  that  the  painter,  by  attend- 
ing to  the  invariable  and  general  ideas  of  na- 
ture, produces  beauty,  he  must,  by  regarding 
minute  particularities  and  accidental  discrimi- 
nations, deviate  from  the  universal  rule,  and 
pollute  his  canvass  with  deformity. 

No.  83.]     SATURDAY,  Nov.  17,  1759. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

I  SUPPOSE  you  have  forgotten  that  many  weeks 
ago  I  promised  to  send  you  a  account  of  my 
companions  at  the  Wells.  You  would  not 


deny  me  a  place  among  tne  most  faithful  vota- 
ries of  idleness,  if  you  knew  how  often  I  have 
recollected  my  engagement,  and  contented  my- 
self to  delay  the  performance  for  some  reason 
which  I  durst  not  examine  because  I  knew  it 
to  be  false  ;  how  often  I  have  sat  down  to  write 
and  rejoiced  at  interruption  ;  and  how  often  I 
have  praised  the  dignity  of  resolution,  deter- 
mined at  night  to  write  in  the  morning,  and 
deferred  it  in  the  morning  to  the  quiet  hours  of 
night. 

I  have  at  last  begun  what  I  have  long  wished 
at  an  end,  and  find  it  more  easy  than  I  expect- 
ed to  continue  my  narration. 

Our  assembly  could  boast  no  such  constella- 
tion of  intellects  as  Clarendon's  band  of  associ- 
ates. We  had  among  us  no  Selden,  Falkland, 
or  Waller ;  but  we  had  men  not  less  important 
in  their  own  eyes,  though  less  distinguished  by 
the  public ;  and  many  a  time  have  we  lamented 
the  partiality  of  mankind,  and  agreed  that  men 
of  the  deepest  inquiry  sometimes  let  their  dis- 
coveries die  away  in  silence,  that  the  most  com- 
prehensive observers  have  seldom  opportunities 
of  imparting  their  remarks,  and  that  modest 
merit  passes  in  the  crowd  unknown  and  un- 
heeded. 

One  of  the  greatest  men  of  the  society  was 
Sim  Scruple,  who  lives  in  a  continual  equipoise 
of  doubt,  and  is  a  constant  enemy  to  confidence 
and  dogmatism.  Sim's  favourite  topic  of  con- 
versation is,  the  narrowness  of  the  human 
mind,  the  fallaciousness  of  our  senses,  the  pre- 
valence of  early  prejudice,  and  the  uncertainty 
of  appearances.  Sim  has  many  doubts  about 
the  nature  of  death,  and  is  sometimes  inclined 
to  believe  that  sensation  may  survive  motion, 
and  that  a  dead  man  may  feel  though  he  can- 
not stir.  He  has  sometimes  hinted  that  man 
might  perhaps  have  been  naturally  a  quadru- 
ped ;  and  thinks  it  would  be  very  proper,  that 
at  the  Foundling  Hospital  some  children  should 
be  inclosed  in  an  apartment  in  which  the 
nurses  should  be  obliged  to  walk  half  upon 
four  and  half  upon  two,  that  the  younglings, 
being  bred  without  the  prejudice  of  example, 
might  have  no  other  guide  than  nature,  and 
might  at  last  come  forth  into  the  world  as  ge- 
nius should  direct,  erect  or  prone,  on  two  legs 
or  on  four. 

The  next  in  dignity  of  mien  and  fluency 
of  talk  was  Dick  Wormwood,  whose  sole  de- 
light is,  to  find  every  thing  wrong.  Dick  never 
enters  a  room  but  he  shows  that  the  door  and 
the  chimney  are  ill-placed.  He  never  walks 
into  the  fields  but  he  finds  ground  ploughed 
which  is  fitter  for  pasture.  He  is  always  an 
enemy  to  the  present  fashion.  He  holds  that 
all  the  beauty  and  virtue  of  women  will  soon 
be  destroyed  by  the  use  of  tea.  He  triumphs 
when  he  talks  on  the  present  system  of  educa- 
tion, and  tells  us  with  great  vehemence,  that 
we  are  learning  words  when  we  should  learn 
things.  He  is  of  opinion  that  we  suck  in  er 
rors  at  the  nurse's  breast  and  thinks  it  extreme- 
ly ridiculous  that  children  should  be  taught  to 
use  the  right  hand  rather  than  the  left. 

Bob  Sturdy  considers  it  as  a  point  of  honour 
to  say  again  what  he  has  once  said,  and  won- 
ders how  any  man  that  has  been  known  to  al- 


No.  84.] 


THE  IDLER. 


ter  his  opinion,  can  look  his  neighbours  in  the 
facs.  Bob  is  the  most  formidable  disputant  of 
the  whole  company  ;  for,  without  troubling 
himself  to  search  for  reasons,  he  tires  his  anta- 

£onist  with  repeated  affirmations.  When  Bob 
as  been  attacked  for  an  hour  with  all  the 
powers  of  eloquence  and  reason,  and  his  posi- 
tion appears  to  all  but  himself  utterly  untenable, 
he  always  closes  the  debate  with  his  first  de- 
claration, introduced  by  a  stout  preface  of  con- 
temptuous civility,  "  All  this  is  very  judi- 
cious ;  you  may  talk,  Sir,  as  you  please  ;  but 
I  will  still  say  what  I  said  at  first. "  Bob  deals 
much  in  universals,  which  he  has  now  obliged 
us  to  the  let  pass  without  exceptions.  He  lives 
on  an  annuity,  and  holds  that  "  there  are  as 
many  thieves  as  traders  ;"  he  is  of  loyalty  un- 
shaken, and  always  maintains;  that  "  he  who 
sees  a  Jacobite  sees  a  rascal." 

Phil  Gentle  is  an  enemy  to  the  rudeness  of 
contradiction  and  the  turbulance  of  debate. 
Phil  has  no  notions  of  his  own,  and  therefore 
willingly  catches  from  the  last  speaker  such  as 
he  shall  drop.  This  inflexibility  of  ignorance 
is  easily  accommodated  to  any  tenet ;  his  only 
difficulty  is,  when  the  disputants  grow  zealous, 
how  to  be  of  two  contrary  opinions  at  once. 
If  no  appeal  is  made  to  his  judgment,  he  has 
the  art  of  distributing  his  attention  and  his 
smiles  in  such  a  manner,  that  each  thinks  him 
of  his  own  party ;  but  if  he  is  obliged  to 
speak,  he  then  observes  that  the  question  is 
difficult ;  that  he  never  received  so  much  plea- 
sure from  a  debate  before  ;  that  neither  of  the 
contravertists  could  have  found  his  match  in 
any  other  company  ;  that  Mr.  Wormwood's 
assertion  is  very  well  supported,  and  yet  there 
is  great  force  in  what  Mr.  Scruple  advanced 
against  it.  By  this  indefinite  declaration  both 
are  commonly  satisfied  ;  for  he  that  has  pre- 
vailed is  in  good  humour  ;  and  he  that  has  felt 
his  own  weakness  is  very  glad  to  have  escaped 
so  well. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  &c. 

ROBIN  SPRITELT. 


No  84.]      SATURDAY,  Nov.  24,   1759. 

BIOGRAPHY  is,  of  the  various  kind  of  narra- 
tive writing,  that  which  is  most  eagerly  read, 
and  most  easily  applied  to  the  purposes  of 
life. 

In  romances,  when  the  wide  field  of  possi- 
bility lies  open  to  invention,  the  incidents 
may  easily  be  made  more  numerous,  the  vicis- 
situdes more  sudden,  and  the  events  more  won- 
derful ;  but  from  the  time  of  life  when  fancy 
begins  to  be  over-ruled  by  reason  and  corrected 
by  experience,  the  most  artful  tale  raises  little 
curiosity  when  it  is  known  to  be  false  ;  though 
it  may,  perhaps,  be  sometimes  read  as  a  model 
of  a  neat  or  elegant  style,  not  for  the  sake  of 
knowing  what  is  contains,  but  how  it  is  written  ; 
or  those  that  are  weary  of  themselves,  may 
have  recourse  to  it  as  a  pleasing  dream,  of 
which,  when  they  awake,  they  voluntarily  dis- 
miss the  images  from  their  minds. 

The  examples  and  events  of  history,  press, 
indeed,  upon  the  mind  with  the  weight  of  truth ; 


but  when  they  are  reposited  in  the  memory, 
they  are  oflener  employed  for  show  than  use, 
and  rather  diversify  conversation  than  regulate 
life.  Few  are  engaged  in  such  scenes  as  give 
them  opportunities  of  growing  wiser  by  the 
downfal  of  statesmen  or  the  defeat  of  generals. 
The  stratagems  of  war,  and  the  intrigues  of 
courts,  are  read  by  far  the  greater  part  of  man- 
kind with  the  same  indifference  as  the  adven- 
tures of  fabled  heroes,  or  the  revolutions  of  a 
fairy  region.  Between  falsehood  and  useless 
truth  there  is  little  difference.  As  gold  which 
he  cannot  spend  will  make  no  man  rich,  so 
knowledge  which  he  cannot  apply  will  make 
no  man  wise. 

The  mischievous  consequences  of  vice  and 
folly,  of  irregular  desires  and  predominant 
passions,  are  best  discovered  by  those  rela- 
tions which  are  levelled  with  the  general  sur- 
face of  life,  which  tell  not  how  any  man  be- 
came great,  but  how  he  was  made  happy  ; 
not  how  he  lost  the  favour  of  his  prince,  but 
how  he  became  discontented  with  himself. 

Those  relations  are  therefore  commonly  ot 
most  value  in  which  the  writer  tells  his  own 
story.  He  that  recounts  the  life  of  another 
commonly  dwells  most  upon  conspicuous 
events,  lessens  the  familiarity  of  his  tale  to 
increase  its  dignity,  shows  his  favourite  at  a. 
distance  decorated  and  magnified  like  the  an 
cient  actors  in  their  tragic  dress,  and  endea- 
vours to  hide  the  man  that  he  may  produce  a 
hero. 

But  if  it  be  true,  which  was  said  by  a  French 
prince,  "  That  no  man  was  a  hero  to  the  ser- 
vants of  his  chamber,"  it  is  equally  true  that 
every  man  is  yet  less  a  hero  to  himself.  He 
that  is  most  elevated  above  the  crowd  by  the 
importance  of  his  employments,  or  the  repu- 
tation of  his  genius,  feels  himself  affected  by 
fame  or  business  but  as  they  influence  his  do- 
mestic life.  The  high  and  low,  as  they  have 
the  same  faculties  and  the  same  senses,  have 
no  less  similitudes  in  their  pains  and  pleasures. 
The  sensations  are  the  same  in  all,  though 
produced  by  very  different  occasions.  The 
prince  feels  the  same  pain  when  an  invader 
seizes  a  province,  as  the  farmer  when  a  thief 
drives  away  his  cow.  Men  thus  equal  in  them- 
selves will  appear  equal  in  honest  and  impar- 
tial biography ;  and  those  whom  fortune  or 
nature  place  at  the  greatest  distance,  may  af- 
ford instruction  to  each  other. 

The  writer  of  his  own  life  has  at  least  the 
first  qualification  of  an  historian,  the  know- 
ledge of  the  truth  ;  and  though  it  may  be  plau- 
sibly objected  that  his  temptations  to  disguise 
it  are  equal  to  his  opportunities  of  knowing  it, 
yet  I  cannot  but  think  that  impartiality  may 
be  expected  with  equal  confidence  from  him 
that  relates  the  passages  of  his  own  life,  as 
from  him  that  delivers  the  transactions  of  an- 
other. 

Certainty  of  knowledge  not  only  exclude* 
mistake,  but  fortifies  veracity.  What  we  col- 
lect by  conjecture,  and  by  conjecture  only  can 
one  man  judge  of  another's  motives  or  senti- 
ments, is  easily  modified  by  fancy  or  by  desire  ; 
as  objects  imperfectly  discerned  take  forms 
from  the  hope  or  fear  of  the  beholder.  But 


438 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  85 


that  which  is  fully  known  cannot  be  falsified 
but  with  reluctance  of  understanding,  and 
alarm  of  conscience :  of  understanding,  the 
lover  of  truth;  of  conscience,  the  sentinel  of 
virtue. 

He  that  writes  the  life  of  another  is  either 
his  friend  or  his  enemy,  and  wishes  either  to 
exalt  his  praise  or  aggravate  his  infamy ;  many 
temptations  to  falsehood  will  occur  in  the  dis- 
guise of  passions,  too  specious  to  fear  much 
resistance.  Love  of  virtue  will  animate  pane- 
gyric, and  hatred  of  wickedness  imbitter  cen- 
sure. The  zeal  of  gratitude,  the  ardour  of 
patriotism,  fondness  for  an  opinion,  or  fidelity 
to  a  party,  may  easily  overpower  the  vigilance 
of  a  mind  habitually  well  disposed,  and  pre- 
vail over  unassisted  and  unfriended  veracity. 

But  he  that  speaks  of  himself  has  no  motive 
to  falsehood  or  partiality  except  self-love,  by 
which  all  have  so  often  been  betrayed,  that  all 
are  on  the  watch  against  its  artifices.  He  that 
writes  an  apology  for  a  single  action,  to  con- 
fute an  accusation,  to  recommend  himself  to 
favour,  is  indeed  always  to  be  suspected  of 
favouring  his  own  cause  ;  but  he  that  aits 
down  calm  and  voluntarily  to  review  his  life 
for  the  admonition  of  posterity,  or  to  amuse 
himself,  and  leaves  this  account  unpublished, 
may  be  commonly  presumed  to  tell  truth,  since 
falsehood  cannot  appease  his  own  mind,  and 
fam.e  will  not  be  heard  beneath  the  tomb. 


No.  85.]      SATURDAY,  DEC.  1,  1759. 

ONE  of  the  peculiarities  which  distinguish  the 
present  age  is  the  multiplication  of  books. 
Every  day  brings  new  advertisements  of  lite- 
rary undertakings,  and  we  are  flattered  with 
repeated  promises  of  growing  wise  on  easier 
terms  than  our  progenitors. 

How  much  either  happiness  or  knowledge 
is  advanced  by  this  multitude  of  authors,  it  is 
not  very  easy  to  decide. 

He  that  teaches  us  any  thing  which  we 
knew  not  before,  is  undoubtedly  to  be  reve- 
renced as  a  master. 

He  that  conveys  knowledge  by  more  pleas- 
ing ways,  may  very  properly  be  loved  as  a 
benefactor  ;  and  he  that  supplies  life  with  in- 
nocent amusement,  will  be  certainly  caressed 
as  a  pleasing  companion. 

But  few  of  those  who  fill  the  world  with 
books  have  any  pretensions  to  the  hope  either 
of  pleasing  or  instructing.  They  have  often 
no  other  task  than  to  lay  two  books  before 
them,  out  of  which  they  compile  a  third,  with- 
out any  new  materials  of  their  own,  and  with 
very  little  application  of  judgment  to  those 
which  former  authors  have  supplied. 

That  all  compilations  are  useless  I  do  not 
assert.  Particles  of  science  are  often  very 
widely  scattered.  Writers  of  extensive  com- 
prehension have  incidental  remarks  upon  to- 
pics very  remote  from  the  principal  subject, 
which  arc  often  more  valuable  than  formal 
treatises,  and  which  yet  are  not  known  because 
they  are  not  promised  in  the  title.  He  that 
collects  tVnse  under  proper  heads  is  very  lau- 


dably employed,  for  though  he  exerts  no  great 
abilities  in  the  work,  he  facilitates  the  progress 
of  others,  and  by  making  that  easy  of  attain- 
ment which  is  already  written,  may  give  some 
mind,  more  vigorous  or  more  adventurous  than 
his  own,  leisure  for  new  thoughts  and  original 
designs. 

But  the  collections  poured  lately  from  the 
press  have  been  seldom  made  at  any  great  ex- 
pense of  time  or  inquiry,  and  therefore  only 
serve  to  distract  choice  without  supplying  any 
real  want. 

It  is  observed  that  "  a  corrupt  society  has 
many  laws :"  I  know  not  whether  it  is  not 
equally  true,  that  "  an  ignorant  age  has  many 
books."  When  the  treasures  of  ancient  know- 
ledg  lie  unexamined,  and  original  authors  are 
neglected  and  forgotten,  compilers  and  plagi- 
aries are  encouraged,  who  give  us  again  what 
we  had  before,  and  grow  great  by  setting  be- 
fore us  what  our  own  sloth  had  hidden  from 
our  view. 

Yet  are  not  even  these  writers  to  be  indis- 
criminately censured  and  rejected.  Truth,  like 
beauty,  varies  its  fashions,  and  is  best  recom- 
mended by  different  dresses  to  different  minds; 
and  he  that  recalls  the  attention  of  mankind 
to  any  part  of  learning  which  time  has  left 
behind  it,  may  be  truly  said  to  advance  the 
literature  of  his  own  age.  As  the  manners  of 
nations  vary,  new  topics  of  persuasion  become 
necessary,  and  new  combinations  of  imagery 
are  produced  ;  and  he  that  can  accommodate 
himself  to  the  reigning  taste,  may  always  have 
readers  who  perhaps  would  not  have  looked 
upon  better  performances. 

To  exact  of  every  man  who  writes,  that  he 
should  say  something  new,  would  be  to  reduce 
authors  to  a  small  number  ;  to  oblige  the  most 
fertile  genius  to  say  only  what  is  new  would 
be  to  contract  his  volumes  to  a  few  pages. 
Yet,  surely,  there  ought  to  be  some  bounds  to 
repetition  ;  libraries  ought  no  more  to  be  heap- 
ed for  ever  with  the  same  thoughts  differently 
expressed,  than  wuh  the  same  books  differ 
ently  decorated. 

The  good  or  evil  which  these  secondary 
writers  produce,  is  seldom  of  any  long  dura- 
tion. As  they  owe  their  existence  to  change 
of  fashion,  they  commonly  disappear  when  a 
new  fashion  becomes  prevalent.  The  authors 
that  in  any  nation  last  from  age  to  age  are  very 
few,  because  there  are  very  few  that  have  any 
other  claim  to  notice  than  that  they  catch  holu 
on  present  curiosity,  and  giatify  some  acci- 
dental desire,  or  produce  some  temporary 
conveniency. 

But  however  the  writers  of  the  day  may 
despair  of  future  fame,  they  ought  at  least  to 
forbear  any  present  mischief.  Though  they 
cannot  arrive  at  eminent  heights  of  excel- 
lence, they  might  keep  themselves  harmless. 
They  might  take  care  to  inform  themselves 
before  they  attempt  to  inform  others,  and  exert 
the  little  influence  which  they  have  for  honest 
purposes. 

But  such  is  the  present  state  of  our  litera- 
ture, that  the  ancient  sage,  who  thought  "a 
great  book  a  great  evil,"  would  now  think  the 
multitude  of  books  a  multitude  of  evils.  He 


JSo.  86.] 


THE  IDLER. 


439 


would  consider  a  bulky  writer  who  engrosse 
c.  year,  and  a  swarm  of  pamphleteers  who  stol 
each  an  hour,  as  equal  wasters  of  human  life 
and  would  make  no  other  difference  betwee 
them,  than  between  a  beast  of  prey  and 
flight  of  locusts. 


No.  86.]       SATURDAY,  DEC.  8,  1759. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

i  AM  a  young  lady  newly  married  to  a  young 
gentleman.  Our  fortune  is  large,  our  mind; 
are  vacant,  our  dispositions  gay,  our  acquaint 
ances  numerous,  and  our  relations  splendid 
We  considered  that  marriage,  like  life,  has  its 
youth;  that  the  first  year  is  the  year  of  gaiety 
and  revel,  and  resolved  to  see  the  shows  anc 
feel  the  joys  of  London  before  the  increase  o 
our  family  should  confine  us  to  domestic  carei 
and  domestic  pleasures. 

Little  time  was  spent  in  preparation  ;  the 
coach  was  harnessed,  and  a  few  days  brought 
us  to  London,  and  we  alighted  at  a  lodging 
provided  for  us  by  Miss  Biddy  Trifle,  a  maiden 
niece  of  my  husband's  father,  where  we  found 
apartments  on  a  second  floor,  which  my  cou- 
sin told  us  would  serve  us  till  we  could  please 
ourselves  with  a  more  commodious  and  ele- 
gant habitation,  and  which  she  had  taken  at  a 
very  high  price,  because  it  was  not  worth  the 
while  to  make  a  hard  bargain  for  so  short  a 
time. 

Here  I  intended  to  lie  concealed  till  my  new 
clothes  were  made,  and  my  new  lodging  hired  ; 
Out  Miss  Trifle  had  so  industriously  given  no- 
tice of  our  arrival  to  all  our  acquaintance, 
that  I  had  the  mortification  next  day  of  seein 
the  door  thronged  with  painted  coaches  and 
chairs  with  coronets,  and  was  obliged  to  re- 
ceive all  my  husband's  relations  on  a  second 
floor. 

Inconveniences  are  often  balanced  by  some 
advantage  :  the  elevation  of  my  apartments 
furnished  a  subject  for  conversation,  which, 
without  some  such  help,  we  should  have  been 
in  danger  of  wanting.  Lady  Stately  told  us 
how  many  years  had  passed  since  she  climbed 
so  many  steps.  Miss  Airy  ran  to  the  window, 
and  thought  it  charming  to  see  the  walkers  so 
little  in  the  street ;  and  Miss  Gentle  went  to 
try  the  same  experiment,  and  screamed  to  find 
herself  so  far  above  the  ground. 

They  all  knew  that  we^intended  to  remove, 
and,  therefore,  all  gave  me  advice  about  a 
proper  choice.  One  street  was  recommended 
for  the  purity  of  its  air,  another  for  its  freedom 
from  noise,  another  for  its  nearness  to  the  park, 
another  because  there  was  but  a  step  from  it 
to  all  places  of  diversion,  and  another,  be- 
cause its  inhabitants  enjoyed  at  once  the  town 
and  country. 

I  had  civility  enough  to  hear  every  recom- 
mendation with  a  look  of  curiosity  while  it 
was  made,  and  of  acquiescence  when  it  was 
concluded,  out  in  my  heart  felt  no  other  desire 
than  to  be  free  from  the  disgrace  of  a  second 


floor,  and  cared  little  where  I  should  fix  if  the 
apartments  were  spacious  and  splendid. 

Next  day  a  chariot  was  hired,  and  Miss 
Trifle  was  despatched  to  find  a  lodging.  She 
returned  in  the  afternoon,  with  an  account  of 
a  charming  place,  to  which  my  husband  went 
in  the  morning  to  make  the  contract.  Being 
young  and  unexperienced,  he  took  with  him 
his  friend  Ned  duick,  a  gentleman  of  great 
skill  in  rooms  and  furniture,  who  sees,  at  a 
single  glance,  whatever  there  is  to  be  com- 
mended or  censured.  Mr.  duick,  at  the  first 
view  of  the  house,  declared  that  it  could  not 
be  inhabited,  for  the  sun  in  the  afternoon  shone 
with  full  glare  on  the  windows  of  the  dining- 
room. 

Miss  Trifle  went  out  again  and  soon  disco- 
vered another  lodging,  which  Mr.  duick  went 
to  survey,  and  found,  that,  whenever  the  wind 
should  blow  from  the  east,  all  the  smoke  of 
the  city  would  be  driven  upon  it. 

A  magnificent  set  of  rooms  was  then  found 
in  one  of  the  streets  near  Westminster-Bridge, 
which  Miss  Trifle  preferred  to  any  which  she 
had  yet  seen  ;  but  Mr.  duick  having  mused 
upon  it  for  a  time,  concluded  that  it  would  be 
too  much  exposed  in  the  morning  to  the  fogg 
that  rise  from  the  river.  Thus  Mr.  duick 
proceeded  to  give  us  every  day  new  testimo- 
nies of  his  taste  and  circumspection  ;  some- 
imes  the  street  was  too  nairow  for  a  double 
range  of  coaches;  sometimes  it  was  an  ob- 
scure place,  not  inhabited  by  persons  of  quali- 
v  Some  places  were  dirty,  and  somecrowd- 
d ;  in  some  houses  the  furniture  was  ill-suit- 
ed, and  in  others  the  stairs  were  too  narrow. 
ie  had  such  fertility  of  objections  that  Miss 
Trifle  was  at  last  tired,  and  desisted  from  all 
attempts  for  our  accommodation. 

In  the  meantime  I  have   still   continued  to 
ee  my  company  on  a  second   floor,  and  am 
asked  twenty  times  a  day  when  I  am  to  leave 
hose  odious  lodgings,  in  which  I   live  tumul- 
uously    without    pleasure,    and    expensively 
without  honour.  My  husband  thinks  so  highly 
>f  Mr.  duick,  that  he   cannot   be  persuaded 
o  remove  without  his  approbation ;  and  Mr. 
duick   thinks   his    reputation    raised  by   the 
multiplication  of  difficulties. 
In  this  distress,  to  whom  can  I  have  recourse  ? 
find  my  temper  vitiated  by  daily  disappoint- 
nent,  by  the  sight  of  pleasure  which  I  cannot 
artake,  and  the  possession  of  riches  which  I 
annot  enjoy.   Dear  Mr.  Idler,  inform  my  hus- 
and  that  he  is  trifling  away,  in  superfluous 
exation,  the  few  months  which   custom  has 
ppropriatcd    to    delight ;    that    matrimonial 
uarrels  are  not    easily  reconciled    between 
lose  that  have  no  children  ;  that  wherever  we 
ettle  he  must  always  find  some  inconveni 
nee ;  but  nothing  is  so  much  to  be  avoided 
s  a  perpetual  state  of  inquiry  and  suspense. 
I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

PEGGY  HEARTLESS. 


STo.  87.]     SATURDAY,  DEC.  15,   1759. 

OF  what  we  know  not,  we  can  only  judge  by 
hat  we  know.     Every  novelty  appears  more 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  88 


wonderfu"  as  it  is  more  remote  from  any  thin 
with  which  experience  or  testimony  have  h: 
therto  acquainted  us  ;  and  if  it  passes  farthe 
beyond  the  notions  that  we  have  been  accus 
tomed  to  form,  it  becomes  at  last  incredibl 
We  seldom  consider  that  human  knowledg 
is  very  narrow,  that  national  manners  ar 
formed  by  chance,  that  uncommon  conjunc 
tures  of  causes  produce  rare  effects,  or  tha 
what  is  impossible  at  one  time  or  place  ma 
yet  happen  in  another.  It  is  always  easier  t 
deny  than  to  inquire.  To  refuse  credit  con 
fers  for  a  moment  an  appearance  of  superior 
ity,  which  every  little  mind  is  tempted  to  as 
sume  when  it  may  be  gained  so  cheaply  as  b; 
withdrawing  attention  from  evidence,  and  de 
clining  the  fatigue  of  comparing  probabilities 
The  most  pertinacious  and  vehement  demon 
strator  may  be  wearied  in  time  by  continua 
negation  ;  and  incredulity,  which  an  old  poet 
in  his  address  to  Raleigh,  calls  "  the  wit  o 
fools,"  obtunds  the  argument  which  it  canno 
answer,  as  woolsacks  deaden  arrows  though 
they  cannot  repel  them. 

Many  relations  of  travellers  have  been  slight- 
ed as  fabulous,  till  more  frequent  voyages  have 
confirmed  their  veracity;  and  it  may  reasona- 
bly be  imagined,  that  many  ancient  historians 
are  unjustly  suspected  of  falsehood,  because 
our  own  times  afford  nothing  that  resembles 
what  they  tell. 

Had  only  the  writers  of  antiquity  informed 
us  that  there  was  once  a  nation  in  which  the 
wife  lay  down  upon  the  burning  pile,  only  to 
mix  her  ashes  with  those  of  her  husband,  we 
should  have  thought  it  a  tale  to  be  told  with 
that  of  Endymion's  commerce  with  the  Moon. 
Had  only  a  single  traveller  related  that  many 
nations  of  the  earth  were  black,  we  should 
have  thought  the  accounts  of  the  Negroes  and 
of  the  Phoenix  equally  credible.  But  of  black 
men  the  numbers  are  too  great  who  are  now 
repining  under  English  cruelty,  and  the  cus- 
tom of  voluntary  cremation  is  not  yet  lost 
among  the  ladies  of  India. 

Few  narratives  will  either  to  men  or  women 
appear  more  incredible  than  the  histories  of 
the  Amazons ;  of  female  nations  of  whose 
constitution  it  was  the  essential  and  funda- 
mental law,  to  exclude  men  from  all  participa- 
tion either  of  public  affairs  or  domestic  busi- 
ness ;  where  female  armies  marched  under  fe- 
male captains,  female  farmers  gathered  the 
harvest,  female  partners  danced  together,  and 
female  wits  diverted  one  another. 

Yet  several  sages  of  antiquity  have  trans- 
mitted accounts  of  the  Amazons  of  Caucasus ; 
and  of  the  Amazons  of  America,  who  have 
given  their  name  to  the  greatest  river  in  the 
world.  Condamine  lately  found  such  memo- 
rials, as  can  be  expected  among  erratic  and 
unlettered  nations,  where  events  are  recorded 
only  by  tradition,  and  new  swarms  settling  in 
the  country  from  time  to  time,  confuse  and  ef- 
face all  traces  of  former  times. 

To  die  with  husbands,  or  to  live  without 
them,  are  the  two  extremes  which  the  prudence 
and  moderation  of  European  ladies  have,  in  all 
ages,  equally  declined  ;  they  have  never  been 
nmired  to  death  by  the  kindness  or  civility  of 


the  politest  nations,  nor  has  the  roughness  and 
brutality  of  more  savage  countries  ever  pro 
voked  them  to  doom  their  male  associates  to 
irrevocable  banishment.  The  Bohemian  ma- 
trons are  said  to  have  made  one  short  struggle 
for  superiority,  but  instead  of  banishing  the 
men,  they  contented  themselves  with  condemn- 
ing them  to  servile  offices  ;  and  their  consti- 
tution thus  left  imperfect,  was  quickly  over- 
thrown. 

There  is,  I  think,  no  class  of  English  women 
from  whom  we  are  in  any  danger  of  Amazo- 
nian usurpation.  The  old  maids  seem  nearest 
to  independence,  and  most  likely  to  be  animat- 
ed by  revenge  against  masculine  authoiity  ; 
they  often  speak  of  men  with  acrimonious  ve- 
hemence, but  it  is  seldom  found  that  they  have 
any  settled  hatred  against  them,  and  it  is  yet 
more  rarely  observed  that  they  have  any  kind- 
ness for  each  other.  They  will  not  easily  com- 
bine in  any  plot ;  and  if  they  should  ever  agree 
to  retire  and  fortify  themselves  in  castles  or  in 
mountains,  the  sentinel  will  betray  the  passes 
in  spite,  and  the  garrison  will  capitulate  upon 
easy  terms,  if  the  besiegers  have  handsome 
sword  knots,  and  are  well  supplied  with  fringe 
and  lace. 

The  gamesters,  if  they  were  united,  would 
make  a  formidable  body  ;  and  since  they  con- 
sider men  only  as  beings  that  are  to  lose  their 
money,  they  might  live  together  without  any 
wish  for  the  officiousness  of  gallantry,  or  the 
delights  of  diversified  conversation.  But  as 
nothing  would  hold  them  together  but  the  hope 
of  plundering  one  another,  their  government 
would  fail  from  the  defect  of  its  principles,  the 
men  would  need  only  to  neglect  them,  and 
.hey  would  perish  in  a  few  weeks  by  a  civi, 
war. 

I  do  not  mean  to  censure  the  ladies  of  Eng- 
and  as  defective  in  knowledge  or  in  spirit, 
vhen  I  suppose  them  unlikely  to  revive  the 
nilitary  honours  of  their  sex.  The  character 
f  the  ancient  Amazons  was  rather  terrible 
han  lovely ;  the  hand  could  not  be  very  deli- 
ate  that  was  only  employed  in  drawing  the 
ow  and  brandishing  the  battle-axe ;  their 
>ower  was  maintained  by  cruelty,  their  cou- 
age  was  deformed  by  ferocity,  and  their  ex- 
mple  only  shows  that  men  and  women  live 
est  together. 


STo.  88.]     SATURDAY,  DEC.  22,   1759. 

WHEN  the  philosophers  of  the  last  age  were 
rst  congregated  irrto  the  Royal  Society,  great 
xpectations  were  raised  of  the  sudden  pro- 
ress  of  useful  arts  ;  the  time  was  supposed  to 
e  near,  when  engines  should  turn  by  a  perpe- 
ual  motion,  and  health  be  secured  by  the  uni- 
ersal  medicine ;  when  learning  should  be  fa- 
ilitated  by  a  real  character,  and  commerce 
xtended  by  ships  which  could  reach  their 
orts  in  defiance  of  the  tempest. 
But  improvement  is  naturally  slow.  The 
octety  met  and  parted  without  any  visible  di- 
linution  of  the  miseries  of  life.  The  gout 
nd  stone  were  still  painful,  the  ground  that 


Wo.  89.] 


THE  IDLER. 


441 


vas  not  ploughed  brought  no  harvest,  and 
leither  oranges  nor  grapes  would  grow  upon 
the  hawthorn.  At  last,  those  who  were  disap- 
pointed began  to  be  angry  ;  those,  likewise, 
who  hated  innovation  were  glad  to  gain  an  op- 
portunity of  ridiculing  men  who  had  depre- 
ciated, perhaps,  with  too  much  arrogance,  the 
knowledge  of  antiquity.  And  it  appears  from 
some  of  their  earliest  apologies,  that  the  phi- 
losophers felt  with  great  sensibility  the  unwel- 
come importunities  of  those,  who  were  daily 
asking,  "  What  have  ye  done  ?" 

The  truth  is,  that  little  had  been  done  com- 
pared with  what  fame  had  been  suffered  to 
promise  ;  and  the  question  could  only  be  an- 
swered by  general  apologies  and  by  new 
hopes,  which,  when  they  were  frustrated,  gave 
a  new  occasion  to  the  same  vexatious  inquiry. 

This  fatal  question  has  disturbed  the  quiet 
of  many  other  minds.  He  that  in  the  latter 
part  of  his  life  too  strictly  inquires  what  he  has 
done,  can  very  seldom  receive  from  his  own 
heart  such  an  account  as  will  give  him  satis- 
faction. 

We  do  not,  indeed,  so  often  disappoint 
others  as  ourselves.  We  not  only  think  more 
highly  than  others  of  our  own  abilities,  but 
allow  ourselves  to  form  hopes  which  we  never 
communicate,  and  please  our  thoughts  with 
employments  which  none  ever  will  allot  us,  and 
with  elevations  to  which  we  are  never  expect- 
ed to  rise  ;  and  when  our  days  and  years  are 
passed  away  in  common  business  or  common 
amusements,  and  we  find,  at  last,  that  we  have 
suffered  our  purposes  to  sleep  till  the  time  of 
action  is  past,  we  are  reproached  only  by  our 
own  reflections ;  neither  our  friends  nor  our 
enemies  wonder  that  we  live  and  die  like  the 
rest  of  mankind  ;  that  we  live  without  notice, 
and  die  without  memorial;  they  know  not 
what  task  we  had  proposed,  and,  therefore, 
cannot  discern  whether  it  is  finished. 

He  that  compares  what  he  has  done  with 
what  he  has  left  undone,  will  feel  the  effect 
which  must  always  follow  the  comparison  of 
imagination  with  reality;  he  will  look  with 
contempt  on  his  own  unimportance,  and  won- 
der to  what  purpose  he  came  into  the  world  ; 
he  will  repine  that  he  shall  leave  behind  him 
no  evidence  of  his  having  been,  that  he  has 
added  nothing  to  the  system  of  life,  but  has 
glided  from  youth  to  age  among  the  crowd, 
without  any  effort  for  distinction. 

Man  is  seldom  willing  to  let  fall  the  opinion 
of  his  own  dignity,  or  to  believe  that  he  does 
little  only  because  every  individual  is  a  very 
little  being.  He  is  better  content  to  want  dili- 

fence  then  power,  and   sooner  confesses  the 
epravity  of  his  will  than  the  imbecility  of  his 
nature. 

From  this  mistaken  notion  of  human  great- 
ness it  proceeds,  that  many  who  pretend  to 
have  made  great  advances  in  wisdom  so  loudly 
declare  that  they  despise  themselves.  If  I  had 
ever  found  any  of  the  self-contemners  much 
irritated  or  pained  by  the  consciousness  of 
their  meanness,  I  should  have  given  them 
consolation  by  observing,  that  a  little  more 
than  nothing  is  as  much  as  can  be  expected 
from  a  being  who,  with  respect  to  the  multi- 
3P 


tudes  about  him  is  himself  little  more  than 
nothing.  Every  man  is  obliged  by  the  Su- 
preme Master  of  the  universe  to  improve  all 
the  opportunities  of  good  which  are  afforded 
him,  and  to  keep  in  continual  activity  such 
abilities  as  are  bestowed  upon  him.  But  he 
has  no  reason  to  repine,  though  his  abilities 
are  small  and  his  opportunities  few.  He  that 
has  improved  the  virtue,  or  advanced  the 
happiness  of  one  fellow-creature,  he  that  has 
ascertained  a  single  moral  proposition,  or  add- 
ed one  useful  experiment  to  natural  knowl- 
edge, may  be  contented  with  his  own  perform- 
ance, and,  with  respect  to  mortals  like  him- 
self, may  demand,  like  Augustus,  to  be  dis- 
missed at  his  departure  with  applause. 


No.  89.]      SATURDAY,  DEC.  29,  1759. 


How  evil  came  into  the  world  —  for  what  rea 
son  it  is  that  life  is  overspread  with  such 
boundless  varieties  of  misery  —  why  the  only 
thinking  being  of  this  globe  is  doomed  to 
think,  merely  to  be  wretched,  and  to  pass  his 
time  from  youth  to  age  in  fearing  or  in  suffer- 
ing calamities,  is  a  question  which  philoso- 
phers have  long  asked,  and  which  philosophy 
could  never  answer. 

Religion  informs  us  that  misery  and  sin 
were  produced  together.  The  depravation  of 
human  will  was  followed  by  a  disorder  of  the 
harmony  of  nature  ;  and  by  that  Providence 
which  often  places  antidotes  in  the  neighbour 
hood  of  poisons,  vice  was  checked  by  misery, 
lest  it  should  swell  to  universal  and  unlimited 
dominion. 

A  state  of  innocence  and  happiness  is  so  re- 
mote from  all  that  we  have  ever  seen,  that 
though  we  can  easily  conceive  it  possible,  and 
may,  therefore,  hope  to  attain  it,  yet  our  specu- 
lations upon  it  must  be  general  and  confused. 
We  can  discover  that  where  there  is  univer- 
sal innocence,  there  will  probably  be  universal 
happiness  ;  for  why  should  afflictions  be  per- 
mitted to  infest  beings  who  are  not  in  dangej 
of  corruption  from  blessings,  and  where  there 
is  no  use  of  terror  nor  cause  of  punishment? 
But  in  a  world  like  ours,  where  our  senses 
assault  us,  and  our  hearts  betray  us,  we  should 
pass  on  from  crime  to  crime,  heedless  and 
remorseless,  if  misery  did  not  stand  in  our 
way,  and  our  own  pains  admonish  us  of  our 
folly. 

Almost  all  the  moral  good  which  is  left 
among  us,  is  the  apparent  effect  of  physical 
evil. 

Goodness  is  divided  by  divines  into  sober- 
ness, righteousness,  and  godliness.  Let  it  be 
examined  how  each  of  these  duties  would  be 
practised  if  there  were  no  physical  evil  to  en- 
force it. 

Sobriety,  or  temperance,  is  nothing  but  the 
forbearance  of  pleasure  ;  and  if  pleasure  was 
not  followed  by  pain,  who  would  forbear  it? 
We  see  every  hour  those  in  whom  the  desire  of 


442 


THE  IDLER. 


|  No.  90. 


present  indulgence  overpowers  all  sense  of 
past  and  all  foresight  of  future  misery.  In  a 
remission  of  the  gout,  the  drunkard  returns  to 
his  wine,  and  the  glutton  to  his  feast ;  and  if 
neither  disease  nor  poverty  were  felt  or  dread- 
ed, every  one  would  sink  down  in  idle  sensu- 
ality, without  any  care  of  others,  or  of  himself. 
To  eat  and  drink;  and  lie  down  to  sleep,  would 
be  the  whole  business  of  mankind. 

Righteousness,  or  the  system  of  social  duty, 
may  be  subdivided  into  justice  and  charity.  Of 
justice  one  of  the  heathen  sages  has  shown, 
with  great  acuteness,  that  it  was  impressed 
upon  mankind  only  by  the  inconveniencies 
which  injustice  had  produced.  "In  the  first 
ages,"  says  he,  "  men  acted  without  any  rule 
but  the  impulse  of  desire ;  they  practised  in- 
justice upon  others,  and  suffered  it  from  others 
n  their  turn  ;  but  in  time  it  was  discoveed,  that 
ihe  pain  of  suffering  wrong  was  greater  than 
Ihe  pleasure  of  doing  it ;  and  mankind,  by  a 

general  compact  submitted  to  the  restraint  of 
LWS,  and  resigned  the  pleasure  to  escape  the 
pain." 

Of  charity  it  is  superfluous  to  observe,  that 
it  could  have  no  place  if  there  were  no  want  ; 
for  of  a  virtue  which  could  not  be  practised, 
the  omission  could  not  be  culpable.  Evil  is  not 
only  the  occasional  but  the  efficient  cause  of 
charity;  we  are  incited  to  the  relief  of  misery 
oy  the  consciousness  that  we  have  the  same 
nature  with  the  sufferer,  that  we  are  in  danger 
of  the  same  distresses,  and  may  sometimes 
implore  the  same  assistance. 

Godliness,  or  piety,  is  elevation  of  the  mind 
towards  the  Supreme  Being,  and  extension  of 
the  thoughts  to  another  life.  The  other  life  is 
future,  and  the  Supreme  Being  is  invisible. 
None  would  have  recourse  to  an  invisible 
power,  but  that  all  other  subjects  had  eluded 
their  hopes.  None  would  fix  their  attention 
upon  the  future,  but  that  they  are  discontented 
with  the  present.  If  the  senses  were  feasted 
with  perpetual  pleasure,  they  would  always 
keep  the  mind  in  subjection.  Reason  has  no 
authority  over  us,  but  by  its  power  to  warn  us 
against  evil. 

In  childhood,  while  our  minds  are  yet  unoc- 
cupied, religion  is  impressed  upon  them,  and 
the  first  years  of  almost  all  who  have  been 
well  educated  are  passed  in  a  regular  discharge 
of  the  duties  of  piety.  But  as  we  advance 
forward  into  the  crowds  of  life,  innumerable 
delights  solicit  our  inclinations,  and  innumera- 
ble cares  distract  our  attention ;  the  time  of 
youth  is  passed  in  noisy  frolics ;  manhood  is 
led  on  from  hope  to  hope,  and  from  project  to 
project;  the  dissoluteness  of  pleasure,  the 
inebriation  of  success,  the  ardour  of  expecta- 
tion, and  the  vehemence  of  competition  chain 
down  the  mind  alike  to  the  present  scene,  nor 
is  it  remembered  how  soon  this  mist  of  trifles 
must  be  scattered,  and  the  bubbles  that  float 
upon  the  rivulet  of  life  be  lost  for  ever  in  the 
gulf  of  eternity.  To  this  consideration 
scarcely  any  man  is  awakened  but  by  some 
pressing  and  resistless  evil.  The  death  of 
those  from  w.iom  he  derived  his  pleasures,  or 
to  whom  he  destined  his  possessions ;  some 
disease  whic  \  shows  him  the  vanity  of  all  ex- 


ternal acquisitions,  or  the  gloom  of  age,  which 
intercepts  his  prospects  of  long  enjoyment, 
forces  him  to  fix  his  hopes  upon  another  state, 
and  when  he  has  contended  with  the  tempests 
of  life  till  his  strength  fails  him,  he  flies,  at  last 
to  the  shelter  of  religion. 

That  misery  does  not  make  all  virtuous,  ex- 
perience too  clearly  informs  us  ;  but  it  is  no 
less  certain  that  of  what  virtue  there  is,  misery 
produces  far  the  greater  part.  Physical  evil 
may  be,  therefore,  endured  with  patience, 
since  it  is  the  cause  of  moral  good ;  and  pa- 
tience itself  is  one  virtue  by  which  we  are  pre- 
pared for  that  state  in  which  evil  shall  be  no 
more. 


No.  90.]     SATURDAY,  JAN.  5,  1760. 

IT  is  a  complaint  which  has  been  made  from 
time  to  time,  and  which  seems  to  have  lately 
become  more  frequent,  that  English  oratory, 
however  forcible  in  argument,  or  elegant  in 
expression,  is  deficient  and  inefficacious,  be- 
cause our  speakers  want  the  grace  and  energy 
of  action. 

Among  the  numerous  projectors  who  are  de- 
sirous to  refine  our  manners,  and  improve  our 
faculties,  some  are  willing  to  supply  the  defi- 
ciency of  our  speakers.  We  have  had  more 
than  one  extortion  to  study  the  neglected  art 
of  moving  the  passions,  and  have  been  en- 
couraged to  believe  that  our  tongues,  however 
feeble  in  themselves,  may,  by  the  help  of  our 
hands  and  legs,  obtain  an  uncontrollable  do- 
minion over  the  most  stubborn  audience,  ani- 
mate the  insensible,  engage  the  careless,  force 
tears  from  the  obdurate,  and  money  from  the 
avaricious. 

If  by  sleight  of  hand  or  nimbleness  of  foot, 
all  these  wonders  can  be  performed,  he  that 
shall  neglect  to  attain  the  free  use  of  his  limbs 
may  be  justly  censured  as  criminally  lazy. 
But  I  am  afraid  that  no  specimen  of  such 
effects  will  easily  be  shown.  If  I  could  once 
find  a  speaker  in  'Change  Alley  raising  the 
price  of  stocks  by  the  power  of  persuasive 
gestures,  I  should  very  zealously  recommend 
the  study  of  his  art ;  but  having  never  seen 
any  action  by  which  language  was  much 
assisted,  I  have  been  hitherto  inclined  to 
doubt  whether  my  countrymen  are  not  blamed 
too  hastily  for  their  calm  and  motionless  utter- 
ance. 

Foreigners  of  many  nations  accompany  their 
speech  with  action :  but  why  should  their  ex- 
ample have  more  influence  upon  us  than  ours 
upon  them  ?  Customs  are  not  to  be  changed 
but  for  better.  Let  those  who  desire  to  re- 
form us  show  the  benefits  of  the  change  pro- 
posed. When  the  Frenchman  waves  his 
hands,  and  writhes  his  body,  in  recounting  the 
revolutions  of  a  game  of  cards,  or  the  Neapoli- 
tan, who  tells  the  hour  of  the  day,  shows  upon 
his  fingers  the  number  which  he  mentions,  I 
do  not  perceive  that  their  manual  exercise  ia 
of  much  use,  or  that,  they  leave  any  image 
more  deeply  impressed  by  their  bustle  anc 
vehemence  of  communication. 


[No.  91. 


THE  IDLER. 


443 


Upon  the  English  stage  there  is  no  want  of 
action,  but  the  difficulty  of  making  it  at  once 
various  and  proper,  and  its  perpetual  tendency 
to  become  ridiculous,  notwithstanding  all  the 
advantages  which  art  and  show,  and  custom 
and  prejudice  can  give  it,  may  prove  how  little 
it  can  be  admitted  into  any  other  place,  where 
it  can  have  no  recommendation  but  from  truth 
and  nature. 

The  use  of  English  oratory  is  only  at  the  bar, 
in  the  parliament,  and  in  the  church.  Neither 
the  judges  of  our  laws,  nor  the  representatives 
of  our  people,  would  be  much  affected  by  la- 
boured gesticulation,  or  believe  any  man  the 
more  because  he  rolled  his  eyes,  or  puffed  his 
cheeks,  or  spread  abroad  his  arms,  or  stamped 
the  ground,  or  thumped  his  breast,  or  turned 
his  eyes  sometimes  to  the  ceiling,  and  some- 
times to  the  floor.  Upon  men  intent  only  upon 
truth,  the  arm  of  an  orator  has  little  power ;  a 
credible  testimony,  or  a  cogent  argument,  will 
overcome  all  the  art  of  modulation,  and  all 
the  violence  of  contortion. 

It  is  well  known  that,  in  the  city  which  may 
be  called  the  parent  of  oratory,  all  the  arts  of 
mechanical  persuasion  were  banished  from  the 
court  of  supreme  judicature.  The  judges  of 
the  Areopagus  considered  action  and  vocife- 
ration as  a  foolish  appeal  to  the  external  senses, 
and  unworthy  to  be  practised  before  those  who 
had  no  desire  of  idle  amusement,  and  whose 
only  pleasure  was  to  discover  right. 

Whether  action  may  not  be  yet  of  use  in 
churches,  where  the  preacher  addresses  a  min- 
gled audience,  may  deserve  inquiry.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  the  senses  are  more  powerful  as  the 
reason  is  weaker:  and  that  he  whose  ears  con- 
vey little  to  his  mind,  may  sometimes  listen 
with  his  eyes  till  truth  may  gradually  take  pos- 
session of  his  heart.  If  there  be  any  use  of 
gesticulation,  it  must  be  applied  to  the  igno- 
rant and  rude,  who  will  be  more  affected  by 
vehemence  than  delighted  by  propriety.  In 
the  pulpit  little  action  can  be  proper,  for  action 
cajyllustrate  nothing  but  that  to  which  it  may 
be  referred  by  nature  or  by  custom.  He  that 
imitates  by  his  hand  a  motion  which  he  de- 
scribes, explains  it  by  a  natural  similitude  ;  he 
that  lays  his  hand  on  his  breast,  when  he  ex- 
presses pity,  enforces  his  words  by  a  custom- 
ary allusion.  But  theology  has  few  topics  to 
which  action  can  be  appropriated  ;  that  action 
which  is  vague  and  indeterminate  will  at  last 
settle  into  habit,  and  habitual  peculiarities  are 
quickly  ridiculous. 

It  is,  perhaps,  the  character  of  the  English, 
to  despise  trifles ;  and  that  art  may  surely  be 
accounted  a  trifle  which  is  at  once  useless  and 
ostentatious,  which  can  seldom  be  practised 
with  propriety,  and  which,  as  the  mind  is 
more  cultivated,  is  less  powerful.  Yet  as  all 
innocent  means  are  to  be  used  for  the  propaga- 
tion of  truth,  I  would  not  deter  those  who  are 
employed  in  preaching  to  common  congrega- 
tions from  any  practice  which  they  may  find 
persuasive  ;  for,  compared  with  the  conversion 
of  sinners,  propriety  and  elegance  are  less 
than  nothing. 


No.  91.]      SATURDAY,  JAK.  12,  1760. 

IT  is  common  to  overlook  what  is  near,  by 
keeping  the  eye  fixed  upon  something  remote. 
In  the  same  manner  present  opportunities  are 
neglected,  and  attainable  good  is  slighted,  by 
minds  busied  in  extensive  ranges,  and  intent 
upon  future  advantages.  Life,  however  short, 
is  made  still  shorter  by  waste  of  time,  and  its 
progress  towards  happiness,  though  naturally 
slow,  is  yet  retarded  by  unnecessary  labour. 

The  difficulty  of  obtaining  knowledge  is  uni- 
versally confessed.  To  fix  deeply  in  the  mind 
the  principles  of  science,  to  settle  their  limita- 
tions, and  deduce  the  long  succession  of  their 
consequences  ;  to  comprehend  the  whole  com- 
pass of  complicated  systems,  with  all  the  argu- 
ments, objections,  and  solutions,  and  to  reposite 
in  the  intellectual  treasury  the  numberless  facts, 
experiments,  apophthegms,  and  positions, 
which  must  stand  single  in  the  memory,  and  of 
which  none  has  only  perceptible  connection 
with  the  rest,  is  a  task  which,  though  under- 
taken with  ardour,  and  pursued  with  diligence, 
must  at  last  be  left  unfinished  by  the  frailty  of 
our  nature. 

To  make  the  way  to  learning  either  less 
short  or  less  smooth,  is  certainly  absurd  ;  yet 
this  is  the  apparent  effect  of  the  prejudice 
which  seems  to  prevail  among  us  in  favour  of 
foreign  authors,  and  of  the  contempt  of  our 
native  literature,  which  this  excursive  curiosity 
must  necessarily  produce.  Every  man  is  more 
speedily  instructed  by  his  own  language,  than 
by  any  other;  before  we  search  the  rest  of 
the  world  for  teachers,  let  us  try  whether  we 
may  not  spare  our  trouble  by  finding  them  at 
home. 

The  riches  of  the  English  language  are 
much  greater  than  they  are  commonly  sup- 
posed. Many  useful  and  valuable  books  lie 
buried  in  shops  and  libraries,  unknown  and  un- 
examined,  unless  some  lucky  compiler  opens 
them  by  chance,  and  finds  an  easy  spoil  of  wit 
and  learning.  I  am  far  from  intending  to  in- 
sinuate that  other  languages  are  not  necessary 
to  him  who  aspires  to  eminence,  and  whose 
whole  life  is  devoted  to  study  ;  but  to  him  who 
reads  only  for  amusement,  or  whose  purpose  is 
not  to  deck  himself  with  the  honour  of  litera- 
ture, but  to  be  qualified  for  domestic  useful- 
ness, and  sit  down  content  with  subordinate 
reputation,  we  have  authors  sufficient  to  fill  up 
all  the  vacancies  of  his  time,  and  gratify  most 
of  his  wishes  for  information. 

Of  our  poets  I  need  say  little,  because  they 
are,  perhaps,  the  only  authors  to  whom  their 
country  has  done  justice.  We  consider  the 
whole  succession  from  Spencer  to  Pope,  as 
superior  to  any  names  which  the  continent  can 
boast ;  and  therefore  the  poets  of  other  nations, 
however  familiarly  they  may  be  sometimes 
mentioned,  are  very  little  read,  except  by  those 
who  design  to  borrow  their  beauties. 

There  is  I  think,  not  one  of  the  liberal  arts 
which  may  not  be  competently  learned  in  the 
Enelish  language.  He  that  searches  after 
mathematical  knowledge  may  busy  himself 
among  his  own  countrymen,  and  will  find  #»e^ 
or  other  able  to  instruct  him  in  every  part  of 


444 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  92. 


tiose  abstruse  sciences.  He  that  is  delighted 
with  experiments,  and  wishes  to  know  the  na- 
ture of  bodies  from  certain  and  visible  effects, 
is  happily  placed  where  the  mechanical  philo- 
sophy was  first  established  by  a  public  institu- 
tion, and  from  which  it  was  spread  to  all  other 
countries. 

The  more  airy  and  elegant  studies  of  philo- 
logy and  criticism  have  little  need  of  any  fo- 
reign help.  Though  our  language,  not  being 
very  analogical,  gives  few  opportunities  for 
grammatical  researches,  yet  we  have  not 
wanted  authors  who  have  considered  the  prin- 
ciples of  speech  ;  and  with  critical  writings  we 
abound  sufficiently  to  enable  pedantry  to  im- 
pose rules  which  can  seldom  be  observed,  and 
vanity  to  talk  or  books  which  are  seldom  read. 

But  our  own  language  has,  from  the  Refor- 
mation to  the  present  time,  been  chiefly  digni- 
fied and  adorned  by  the  works  of  our  divines, 
who,  considered  as  commentators,  controvert- 
ists,  or  preachers,  have  undoubtedly  left  all 
other  nations  far  behind  them.  No  vulgar  lan- 

fuage  can  boast  such  treasures  of  theological 
nowledge,  or  such  multitudes  of  authors  at 
once  learned,  elegant,  and  pious.  Other  coun- 
tries, and  other  communions,  have  authors  per- 
haps equal  in  abilities  and  diligence  to  ours  ; 
but  if  we  unite  number  with  excellence,  there 
is  certainly  no  nation  which  must  not  allow  us 
to  be  superior.  Of  morality  little  is  necessary 
to  be  said,  because  it  is  comprehended  in  prac- 
tical divinity,  and  is,  perhaps,  better  taught  in 
English  sermons  than  in  any  other  books  an- 
cient and  modern.  Nor  shall  I  dwell  on  our 
excellence  in  metaphysical  speculations,  be- 
cause he  that  reads  the  works  of  our  divines 
will  easily  discover  how  far  human  subtility 
has  been  able  to  penetrate. 

Political  knowledge  is  forced  upon  us  by  the 
form  of  our  constitution  ;  and  all  the  myste- 
ries of  government  are  discovered  in  the  attack 
or  defence  of  every  minister.  The  original. law 
of  society,  the  rights  of  subjects,  and  the  pre- 
rogatives of  kings,  have  been  considered  with 
the  utmost  nicety,  sometimes  profoundly  in- 
vestigated, and  sometimes  familiarly  explained. 

Thus  copiously  instructive  is  the  English 
language;  and  thus  needless  is  all  recourse  to 
foreign  writers.  Let  us  not,  therefore,  make 
our  neighbours  proud  by  soliciting  help  which 
we  do  not  want,  nor  discourage  our  own  indus- 
try by  difficulties  which  we  need  not  suffer. 


No.  92.]     SATURDAY,  JAN.  13,  1760. 

WHATEVER  is  useful  or  honourable  will  be  de- 
sired by  many  who  never  can  obtain  it ;  and 
that  which  cannot  be  obtained  when  it  is  de- 
sired, artifice  or  folly  will  be  diligent  to  coun- 
terfeit. Those  to  whom  fortune  has  denied 
gold  and  diamonds,  decorate  themselves  with 
stones  and  metals,  which  have  something  of 
the  show,  but  little  of  the  value  ;  and  every 
moral  excellence,  or  intellectual  faculty,  has 
some  vice  or  folly  which  imitates  its  appear- 
ance. 

Every  man  wishes  to  be  wise,  and  they  who 
cannot  be  wise  arc  almost  always  cunning. 


The  less  is  the  real  discernment  of  those  whom 
business  or  conversation  brings  together,  the 
more  illusions  are  practised,  nor  is  caution  ever 
so  necessary  as  with  associates  or  opponento 
of  feeble  minds. 

Cunning  differs  from  wisdom  as  twilight 
from  open  day.  He  that  walks  in  the  sunshine 
goes  boldly  forward  by  the  nearest  way ;  he 
sees  that  where  the  path  is  straight  and  even 
he  may  proceed  in  security,  and  where  it  is 
rough  and  crooked  he  easily  complies  with  the 
turns,  and  avoids  the  obstructions.  But  the 
traveller  in  the  dusk  fears  more  as  he  sees  less  ; 
he  knows  there  may  be  danger,  and  therefore 
suspects  that  he  is  never  safe,  tries  every  step 
before  he  fixes  his  foot,  and  shrinks  at  every 
noise,  lest  violence  should  approach  him.  Wis- 
dom comprehends  at  once  the  end  and  the 
means,  estimates  easiness  or  difficulty,  and  is 
cautions  or  confident  in  due  proportion.  Cun- 
ning discovers  little  at  a  time,  and  has  no  other 
means  of  certainty  than  multiplication  of  stra- 
tagems and  superfluity  of  suspicion.  The 
man  of  cunning  always  considers  that  he  can 
never  be  too  safe,  and  therefore  always  keeps 
himself  enveloped  in  a  mist,  impenetrable,  as 
he  hopes,  to  the  eye  of  rivalry  or  curiosity. 

Upon  this  principle  Tom  Double  has  formed 
a  habit  of  eluding  the  most  harmless  question. 
What  he  has  no  inclination  to  answer,  he  pre- 
tends sometimes  not  to  hear,  and  endeavours  to 
divert  the  inquirer's  attention  by  some  other 
subject ;  but  if  he  be  pressed  hard  by  repeated 
interrogation,  he  always  evades  a  direct  reply. 
Ask  him  whom  he  likes  best  on  the  stage  ;  he 
is  ready  to  tell  that  there  are  several  excellent 
performers.  Inquire  when  he  was  last  at  the 
coffee-house  ;  he  replies,  that  the  weather  has 
been  bad  lately.  Desire  him  to  tell  the  age  of 
any  of  his  acquaintance;  he  immediately  men 
tions  another  who  is  older  or  younger. 

Will  Puzzle  values  himself  upon  a  long 
reach.  He  foresees  every  thing  before  it  will 
happen,  though  he  never  relates  his  prognos- 
tications till  the  event  is  passed.  Nothin^has 
come  to  pass  for  these  twenty  years  of  wnich 
Mr.  Puzzle  had  not  given  broad  hints,  and  told 
at  least  that  it  was  not  proper  to  tell.  Of  those 
predictions,  which  every  conclusion  will  equal- 
ly verify,  he  always  claims  the  credit,  and 
wonders  that  his  friends  did  not  understand 
them.  He  supposes  very  truly,  that  much 
may  be  known  which  he  knows  not,  and  there- 
fore pretends  to  know  much  of  which  he  and 
all  mankind  are  equally  ignorant.  I  desired 
his  opinion,  yesterday,  of  the  German  war, 
and  was  told,  that  if  the  Prussians  were  well 
supported,  something  great  may  be  expected  ; 
but  that  they  have  very  powerful  enemies  to 
encounter  ;  that  the  Austrian  general  has  long 
experience,  and  the  Russians  are  hardy  and 
resolute ;  but  that  no  human  power  is  invinci- 
ble. I  then  drew  the  conversation  to  our  own 
affairs,  and  invited  him  to  balance  the  proba- 
bilities of  war  and  peace.  He  told  me  that 
war  requires  courage,  and  negotiation  judg- 
ment, and  that  the  time  will  come  when  it  will 
be  seen  whether  our  skill  in  treaty  is  equal  to 
our  bravery  in  battle.  To  this  general  prattle 
he  will  appeal  hereafter,  and  will  demand  to 


No.  93.] 


THE  IDLER. 


445 


have  his  foresight  applauded,  whoever  shall  at 
last  be  conquered  or  victorious. 

With  Ned  Smuggle  all  is  a  secret.  He  be- 
lieves himself  watched  by  observation  and  ma- 
lignity on  every  side,  and  rejoices  in  the  dex- 
terity by  which  he  has  escaped  snares  that 
never  were  laid.  Ned  holds  that  a  man  is  ne- 
ver deceived  if  he  never  trusts,  and  therefore 
•will  not  tell  the  name  of  his  tailor  or  his  hatter. 
He  rides  out  every  morning  for  the  air,  and 
pleases  himself  with  thinking  that  nobody 
knows  where  he  has  been.  When  he  dines 
with  a  friend,  he  never  goes  to  his  house  the 
nearest  way,  but  walks  up  a  bye  street  to  per- 
plex the  scent.  W  hen  he  has  a  coach  called, 
he  never  tells  him  at  the  door  the  true  place  to 
which  he  is  going,  but  stops  him  in  the  way, 
that  he  may  give  him  directions  where  nobody 
can  hear  him.  The  price  of  what  he  buys  or 
sells  is  always  concealed.  He  often  takes 
lodgings  in  the  country  by  a  wrong  name,  and 
thinks  that  the  world  is  wondering  where  he 
can  be  hid.  All  these  transactions  he  regis- 
ters in  a  book,  which,  he  says,  will  some  time 
or  other  amaze  posterity. 

It  is  remarked  by  Bacon,  that  many  men  try 
to  procure  reputation  only  by  objections,  of 
which,  if  they  are  once  admitted,  the  nullity 
never  appears,  because  the  design  is  laid  aside. 
"  This  false  feint  of  wisdom,"  says  he,  "  is 
the  ruin  of  business."  The  whole  power  of 
cunning  is  privative  ;  to  say  nothing,  and  to 
do  nothing,  is  the  utmost  of  its  reach.  Yet 
men  thus  narrow  by  nature,  and  mean  by  art, 
are  sometimes  able  to  rise  by  the  miscarriages 
of  bravery  and  the  openness  of  integrity  ;  and 
by  watching  failures,  and  snatching  opportu- 
nities obtain  advantages  which  belong  proper- 
ly to  higher  characters. 


No.  93.]     SATURDAY,  JAN.  26,  1760, 

SAM  SOFTLY  was  bred  a  sugar-baker;  but 
succeeding  to  a  considerable  estate  on  the 
death  of  his  elder  brother,  he  retired  early 
from  business,  married  a  fortune,  and  settled 
in  a  country-house  near  Kentish-town.  Sam, 
who  formerly  was  a  sportsman,  and  in  his  ap- 
prenticeship used  to  frequent  Barnet  races, 
keeps  a  high  chaise,  with  a  brace  of  seasoned 
geldings.  During  the  summer  months,  the 
principal  passion  and  employment  of  Sam's 
life  is  to  visit,  in  this  vehicle,  the  most  eminent 
seats  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  in  different 
parts  of  the  kingdom,  with  his  wife  and  some 
select  friends.  By  these  periodical  excursions 
Sam  gratifies  many  important  purposes.  He 
assists  the  several  pregnancies  of  his  wife ; 
he  shows  his  chaise  to  the  best  advantage  ;  he 
indulges  his  insatiable  curiosity  for  finery, 
which,  since  he  has  turned  gentleman,  has 
grown  upon  him  to  an  extraordinary  degree ; 
he  discovers  taste  and  spirit;  and,  what  is 
above  all,  he  finds  frequent  opportunities  of 
displaying  to  the  party,  at  every  house  he  sees, 
his  knowledge  of  family  connections.  At  first 
Sam  was  contented  with  driving  a  friend  be- 
tween London  and  his  villa.  Here  he  prided 


himself  in  pointing  out  the  boxes  o  the  citi 
zens  on  each  side  of  the  road,  with  an  accu- 
rate detail  of  their  respective  failures  or  suc- 
cesses in  trade  ;  and  harangued  on  the  seve- 
ral equipages  that  were  accidentally  passing. 
Here,  too,  the  seats  interspersed  on  the  sur- 
rounding hills,  afforded  ample  matter  for  Sam's 
curious  discoveries.  For  one,  he  told  his  com- 
panion, a  rich  Jew  had  offered  money ;  and 
that  a  retired  widow  was  courted  at  another, 
by  an  eminent  dry-salter.  At  the  same  time 
he  discussed  the  utility,  and  enumerated  the 
expenses,  of  the  Islington  turnpike.  But  Sam's 
ambition  is  at  present  raised  to  nobler  under- 
takings. 

When  the  happy  hour  of  the  annual  expe- 
dition arrives,  the  seat  of  the  chaise  is  furnish- 
ed with  "  Ogilvy's  Book  of  Roads,"  and  a 
choice  quantity  of  cold  tongues.  The  most 
alarming  disaster  which  can  happen  to  our 
hero,  who  thinks  he  "  throws  a  whip"  admira- 
bly well,  is  to  be  overtaken  in  a  road  which 
affords  no  "quarter"  for  wheels.  Indeed,  few 
men  possess  more  skill  or  discernment  for  con- 
certing and  conducting  a  "party  of  pleasure." 
When  a  seat  is  to  be  surveyed,  he  has  a  pe- 
culiar talent  in  selecting  some  shady  bench  ir 
the  park,  where  the  company  may  most  com- 
modiously  refresh  themselves  with  cold  tongue, 
chicken,  and  French  rolls  ;  and  is  very  saga- 
cious in  discovering  what  cool  temple  in  the 
garden  will  be  best  adapted  for  drinking  tea, 
brought  for  this  purpose,  in  the  afternoon,  and 
from  which  the  chaise  may  be  resumed  with 
the  greatest  convenience.  In  viewing  the 
house  itself,  he  is  principally  attracted  by  the 
chairs  and  beds,  concerning  the  cost  of  which 
his  minute  inquiries  generally  gain  the  clearest 
information.  An  agate  table  easily  diverts  his 
eyes  from  the  most  capital  strokes  of  Rubens, 
and  a  Turkey  carpet  has  more  charms  than  a 
Titian.  Sam,  however,  dwells  with  some  at- 
tention on  the  family  portraits,  particularly  the 
most  modern  ones ;  and  as  this  is  a  topic  on 
which  the  housekeeper  usually  harangues  in 
a  more  copious  manner,  he  takes  this  opportu- 
nity of  improving  his  knowledge  of  intermar- 
riages. Yet,  notwithstanding  this  appearance 
of  satisfaction,  Sam  has  some  objection  to  all 
he  sees.  One  house  has  too  much  gilding  ; 
at  another,  the  chimney-pieces  are  all  monu- 
ments ;  at  a  third,  he  conjectures  that  the  beau- 
tiful canal  must  certainly  be  dried  up  in  a  hot 
summer.  He  despises  the  statues  at  Wilton, 
because  he  thinks  he  can  see  much  better  carv- 
ing at  Westminster  Abbey.  But  there  is  one 
general  objection  which  he  is  sure  to  make  at 
almost  every  house,  particularly  at  those  which 
are  most  distinguished.  He  allows  that  all 
the  apartments  are  extremely  fine,  but  adds, 
with  a  sneer,  that  they  are  too  fine  to  be  inha- 
bited. 

Misapplied  genius  most  commonly  proven 
ridiculous.  Had  Sam,  as  nature  intended, 
contentedly  continued  in  the  calmer  and  less 
conspicuous  pursuits  of  sugar-baking,  he 
might  have  been  a  respectable  and  useful  cha- 
racter. At  present  he  dissipates  his  life  in  a 
specious  idleness,  which  neither  improves  him- 
self nor  his  friends.  Those  talents  which 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  94. 


might  have  benefitted  society,  he  exposes  to 
contempt  by  false  pretensions.  He  affects 
pleasures  which  he  cannot  enjoy,  and  is  ac- 
quainted only  with  those  subjects  on  which  he 
has  no  right  to  talk,  and  which  it  is  no  merit  to 
understand. 


No.  94.]     SATURDAY,  FEB.  2,  1760. 

IT  is  common  to  find  young  men  ardent  and 
diligent  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  ;  but  the 
progress  of  life  very  often  produces  laxity  and 
indifference ;  and  not  only  those  who  are  at 
liberty  to  choose  their  business  and  amuse- 
ments, but  those  likewise  whose  professions 
engage  them  in  literary  inquiries,  pass  the  lat- 
ter part  of  their  time  without  improvement, 
and  spend  the  day  rather  in  any  other  enter- 
tainment than  that  which  they  might  find 
among  their  books. 

This  abatement  of  the  vigour  of  curiosity  is 
sometimes  imputed  to  the  insufficiency  of 
learning.  Men  are  supposed  to  remit  their 
labours,  because  they  find  their  labours  to 
have  been  vain  ;  and  to  search  no  longer  after 
truth  and  wisdom,  because  they  at  last  de- 
spair of  finding  them. 

But  this  reason  is  for  the  most  part  very 
falsely  assigned.  Of  learning,  as  of  virtue, 
it  may  be  affirmed,  that  it  is  at  once  honoured 
and  neglected.  Whoever  forsakes  it  will  for 
ever  look  after  it  with  longing,  lament  the  loss 
which  he  does  not  endeavour  to  repair,  and  de- 
sire the  good  which  he  wants  resolution  to 
seize  and  keep.  The  Idler  never  applauds  his 
own  idleness,  nor  does  any  man  repent  of  the 
diligence  of  his  youth. 

So  many  hindrances  may  obstruct  the  ac- 
quieition  of  knowledge,  that  there  is  little  rea- 
son for  wondering  that  it  is  in  a  few  hands. 
To  the  greater  part  of  mankind  the  duties  of 
life  are  inconsistent  with  much  study  ;  and  the 
hours  which  they  would  spend  upon  letters 
must  be  stolen  from  their  occupations  and  their 
families.  Many  suffer  themselves  to  be  lured 
by  more  sprightly  and  luxurious  pleasures  from 
the  shades  of  contemplation,  where  they  find 
seldom  more  than  a  calm  delight,  such  as 
though  greater  than  all  others,  its  certainty 
and  its  duration  being  reckoned  with  its  pow- 
er of  gratification,  is  yet  easily  quitted  for 
some  extemporary  joy,  which  the  present  mo- 
ment offers,  and  another,  perhaps,  will  put  out 
of  reach. 

It  is  the  great  excellence  of  learning,  that 
it  borrows  very  little  from  time  or  place  ;  it  is 
not  confined  to  season  or  to  climate,  to  cities, 
or  to  the  country,  but  may  be  cultivated  and 
enjoyed  where  no  other  pleasure  can  be  ob- 
tained. But  this  quality,  which  constitutes 
much  of  its  value,  is  one  occasion  of  neglect; 
what  may  be  done  at  all  times  with  equal  pro- 
priety is  deferred  from  day  to  day,  till  the  mind 
is  gradually  reconciled  to  the  omission,  and 
the  attention  is  turned  to  other  objects.  Thus 
habitual  idleness  gains  too  much  power  to  be 
conquered,  and  the  soul  shrinks  from  the  idea 


of  intellectual   labour  and  intenseness  of  me- 
ditation. 

That  those  who  profess  to  advance  learning 
sometimes  obstruct  it,  cannot  be  denied  ;  the 
continual  multiplication  of  books  not  only  dis- 
tracts choice,  but  disappoints  inquiry.  To 
him  that  has  moderately  stored  his  mind  with 
images,  few  writers  afford  any  novelty;  or 
what  little  they  have  to  add  to  the  common 
stock  of  learning,  is  so  buried  in  the  mass  of 
general  notions,  that  like  silver  mingled  with 
the  ore  of  lead,  it  is  too  little  to  pay  for  the  la- 
bour of  separation  ;  and  he  that  has  often  been 
deceived  by  the  promise  of  a  title,  at  last 
grows  weary  of  examining,  and  is  tempted  to 
consider  all  as  equally  fallacious. 

There  are,  indeed,  some  repetitions  always 
lawful,  because  they  never  deceive.  He  that 
writes  the  history  of  past  times,  undertakes 
only  to  decorate  known  facts  by  new  beauties 
of  method  or  style,  or  at  most  to  illustrate 
them  by  his  own  reflections.  The  author  of  a 
system,  whether  moral  or  physical,  is  obliged 
to  nothing  beyond  care  of  selection  and  regu 
larity  of  disposition.  But  there  are  others  who 
claim  the  name  of  authors  merely  to  disgrace 
it,  and  fill  the  world  with  volumes  only  to  bury 
letters  in  their  own  rubbish.  The  traveller 
who  tells,  in  a  pompous  folio,  that  he  saw  the 
Pantheon  at  Rome,  and  the  Medicean  Venus 
at  Florence:  the  natural  historian,  who,  de- 
scribing the  productions  of  a  narrow  island, 
recounts  all  that  it  has  in  common  with  every 
other  part  of  the  world  ;  the  collector  of  anti- 
quities, that  accounts  every  thing  a  curiosity 
which  the  ruins  of  Herculaneum  happen  to 
emit,  though  an  instrument  already  shown  in 
a  thousand  repositories,  or  a  cup  common  to 
Lhe  ancients,  the  moderns,  and  all  mankind, 
may  be  justly  censured  as  the  persecutors  of 
students,  and  the  thieves  of  that  time  which 
never  can  be  restored. 


No.  95.]     SATURDAY,  FEB.  9,  1760. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

MR.  IDLER, 

'T  is,  I  think,  universally  agreed,  that  seldom 
any  good  is  gotten  by  complaint ;  yet  we  find 
that  few  forbear  to  complain  but  those  who  are 
afraid  of  being  reproached  at  the  authors  of 
;heir  own  miseries.  I  hope,  therefore,  for  the 
common  permission  to  lay  my  case  before  you 
and  your  readers,  by  which  I  shall  disburden 
my  heart,  though  I  cannot  hope  to  receive 
>ither  assistance  or  consolation. 

I  am  a  trader,  and  owe  my  fortune  to  frugali- 
.y  and  industry.  I  began  with  little  ;  but  by 
the  easy  and  obvious  method  of  spending  less 
han  I  gain,  I  have  every  year  added  something 
o  my  stock,  and  expect  to  have  a  seat  in  the 
common-council,  at  the  next  election. 

My  wife,  who  was  as  prudent  as  myself,  died 
six  years  ago,  and  left  me  one  son  and  one 
laughter,  for  whose  sake  I  resolved  never  to 
marry  again,  and  rejected  the  overtuies  of  Mrs. 
Squeeze,  the  broker's  widow,  who  had  ten 
housand  pounds  at  her  own  disposal. 


No.  96.] 


THE  IDLER. 


447 


I  bred  my  sonata  school  near  Islington  ;  and 
when  he  had  learned  arithmetic,  and  wrote  a 
good  hand,  I  took  him  into  the  shop,  designing, 
in  about  ten  years,  to  retire  to  Stratford  or 
Hackney,  and  leave  him  established  in  the 
business. 

For  four  years  he  was  diligent  and  sedate, 
entered  the  shop  before  it  was  opened,  and 
when  it  was  shut  always  examined  the  pins  of 
the  window.  In  any  intermission  of  business 
it  was  his  constant  practise  to  peruse  the  led- 
ger. I  had  always  great  hopes  of  him,  when 
I  observed  how  sorrowfully  he  would  shake 
his  head  over  a  bad  debt,  and  how  eagerly  he 
would  listen  to  me  when  I  told  him  that  he 
might  at  one  time  or  other  become  an  alder- 
man. 

We  lived  together  with  mutual  confidence,  till 
unluckily  a  visit  was  paid  him  by  two  of  his 
school-fellows  who  were  placed,  1  suppose,  in 
the  army,  because  they  were  fit  for  nothing  bet- 
ter :  they  came  glittering  in  their  military  dress, 
accosted  their  old  acquaintance,  and  invited  him 
to  a  tavern,  where,  as  I  have  been  since  inform- 
ed, they  ridiculed  the  meanness  of  commerce, 
and  wondered  how  a  youth  of  spirit  could 
spend  the  prime  of  his  life  behind  a  counter. 

I  did  not  suspect  any  mischief.  I  knew  my 
son  was  never  without  money  in  his  pocket, 
and  was  better  able  to  pay  his  reckoning  than 
his  companions  ;  and  expected  to  see  him  re- 
turn triumphing  in  his  own  advantages,  and 
congratulating  himself  that  he  was  not  one  of 
those  who  expose  their  heads  to  a  musket  bul- 
let for  three  shillings  a  day. 

He  returned  sullen  and  thoughtful ;  I  sup- 
posed him  sorry  for  the  hard  fortune  of  his 
friends ;  and  tried  to  comfort  him  by  saying 
that  the  war  would  soon  be  at  an  end,  and 
that,  if  they  had  any  honest  occupation,  half- 
pay  would  be  a  pretty  help.  He  looked  at  me 
with  indignation  ;  and  snatching  up  his  can- 
dle, told  me,  as  he  went  up  stairs,  that  "  he 
hoped  to  see  a  battle  yet." 

Why  lie  should  hope  to  see  a  battle  I  could 
not  conceive,  but  let  him  go  quietly  to  sleep 
away  his  folly.  Next  day  he  made  two  mis- 
takes in  the  first  bill,  disobliged  a  customer  by 
surly  answers  and  dated  all  his  entries  in  the 
journal  in  a  wrong  month.  At  night  he  met 
his  military  companions  again,  came  home 
late,  and  quarrelled  with  the  maid. 

From  this  fatal  interview  he  has  gradual- 
ly lost  all  his  laudable  passions  and  desires. 
He  soon  grew  useless  in  the  shop,  where,  in- 
deed, I  did  not  willingly  trust  him  any  longer ; 
for  he  often  mistook  the  price  of  goods  to  his 
own  loss,  and  once  gave  a  promissory  note  in- 
stead of  a  receipt. 

I  did  not  know  to  what  degree  he  was  cor- 
rupted, till  an  honest  tailor  gave  me  notice 
that  he  had  bespoke  a  laced  suit,  which  was 
to  be  left  for  him  at  a  house  kept  by  the  sister 
of  one  of  my  journeymen.  I  went  to  this  clan- 
destine lodging,  and  found  to  my  amazement, 
all  the  ornaments  of  a  fine  gentleman,  which 
he  has  taken  upon  credit,  or  purchased  with 
money  subducted  from  the  shop. 

This  detection  has  made  him  desperate.  He 
now  openly  declares  his  resolution  to  be  a  gen- 


tleman ;  says  that  his  soul  is  too  great  for  a 
counting-house  ;  ridicules  the  conversation  of 
city  taverns;  talks  of  new  plays,  and  boxes,  and 
ladies  ;  gives  dutchesses  for  his  toasts  ;  carries 
silver,  for  readiness,  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  ; 
and  comes  home  at  night  in  a  chair,  with  such 
thunders  at  the  door  as  have  more  than  once 
brought  the  watchmen  from  their  stands. 

Little  expenses  will  not  hurt  us  :  and  I  could 
forgive  a  few  juvenile  frolics,  if  he  would  be 
careful  of  the  main :  but  his  favourite  topic  is 
contempt  of  money,  which  he  says  is  of  no 
use  but  to  be  spent.  Riches,  without  honour, 
he  holds  empty  things  ;  and  once  told  me  to 
my  face,  that  wealthy  plodders  were  only  pur- 
veyors to  men  of  spirit. 

He  is  always  impatient  in  the  company  of 
his  old  friends,  and  seldom  speaks  till  he  is 
warmed  with  wine  ;  he  then  entertains  us  with 
accounts  that  we  do  not  desire  to  hear,  of  in- 
trigues among  lords  and  ladies,  and  quarrel? 
between  officers  of  the  guards ;  shows  a  mini- 
ature on  his  snuff-box,  and  wonders  that  any 
man  can  look  upon  the  new  dancer  without 
rapture. 

All  this  is  very  provoking ;  and  yet  all  this 
might  be  borne,  if  the  boy  could  support  his 
pretensions.  But,  whatever  he  may  think,  he 
is  yet  far  from  the  accomplishments  which  he 
has  endeavoured  to  purchase  at  so  dear  a  rate. 
I  have  watched  him  in  public  places.  He 
sneaks  in  like  a  man  that  knows  he  is  where 
he  should  not  be ;  he  is  proud  to  catch  the 
slightest  salutation,  and  often  claims  it  when 
it  is  not  intended.  Other  men  receive  dignity 
from  dress,  but  my  booby  looks  always  more 
meanly  for  his  finery.  Dear  Mr.  Idler,  tell  him 
what  must  at  last  become  of  a  fop,  whom  pride 
will  not  suffer  to  be  a  trader,  and  whom  long 
habits  in  a  shop  forbid  to  be  a  gentleman. 
I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

TIM  WAINSCOT. 


No.  96.]     SATCRDAT,  FEB.  16,  1760. 

HACHO,  a  king  of  Lapland,  was  in  his  youth 
the  most  renowned  of  the  Northern  warriors. 
His  martial  achievements  remain  engraved  on 
a  pillar  of  flint  in  the  rocks  of  Hanga,  and  are 
to  this  day  solemnly  carolled  to  the  harp  by 
the  Laplanders,  at  the  fires  with  which  they 
celebrate  their  nightly  festivities.  Such  was 
his  intrepid  spirit,  that  he  ventured  to  pass  the 
lake  Vether  to  the  isle  of  Wizards,  where  he 
descended  alone  into  the  dreary  vault  in  which 
a  magician  had  been  kept  bound  for  six  ages, 
and  read  the  Gothic  characters  inscribed  on 
his  brazen  mace.  His  eye  was  so  piercing, 
that  as  ancient  chronicles  report,  he  could 
blunt  the  weapons  of  his  enemies  only  by  look- 
ing at  them.  At  twelve  years  of  age  he  car- 
ried an  iron  vessel  of  a  prodigious  weight,  for 
the  length  of  five  furlongs,  in  the  presence  of 
all  the  chiefs  of  his  father's  castle. 

Nor  was  he  less  celebrated  for  his  prudence 
and  wisdom.  Two  of  his  proverbs  are  yet  re- 
membered and  repeated  among  Laplanders. 
To  express  the  vigilance  of  the  Supreme  Be- 
ing, he  was  wont  to  say,  "  Odin's  belt  is  al- 


448 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  91. 


ways  buckled."  To  show  that  the  most  pros- 
perous condition  of  life  is  often  hazardous,  his 
lesson  was,  "  When  you  slide  on  the  smooth- 
est ice,  beware  of  pits  beneath."  He  consolec 
his  countrymen,  when  they  were  once  prepar- 
ing to  leave  the  frozen  deserts  of  Lapland, 
and  resolved  to  seek  some  warmer  climate,  by 
telling  them,  that  the  Eastern  nations,  notwith- 
standing their  boasted  fertility,  passed  every 
night  amidst  the  horrors  of  anxious  apprehen- 
sion, and  were  inexpressibly  affrighted,  and 
almost  stunned,  every  morning,  with  the  noise 
of  the  sun  while  he  was  rising. 

His  temperance  and  severity  of  manner  were 
his  chief  praise.  In  his  early  years  he  never 
tasted  wine  ;  nor  would  he  drink  out  of 
painted  cup.  He  constantly  slept  in  his  ar- 
mour, with  his  spear  in  his  hand ;  nor  would 
he  use  a  battle-axe  whose  handle  was  inlaid 
with  brass.  He  did  not,  however  persevere 
in  this  contempt  of  luxury  j  nor  did  he  close 
his  days  with  honour. 

One  evening,  after  hunting  the  gulos,  or  wild 
dog,  being  bewildered  in  a  solitary  forest,  and 
having  passed  the  fatigues  of  the  day  without 
any  interval  of  refreshment,  he  discovered  a 
large  store  of  honey  in  the  hollow  of  a  pine. 
This  was  a  dainty  which  he  had  never  tasted 
before;  and  being  at  once  faint  and  hungry,  he 
fed  greedily  upon  it.  From  this  unusual  and 
delicious  repast  he  received  so  much  satisfac- 
tion, that,  at  his  return  home,  he  commanded 
honey  to  be  served  up  at  his  table  every  day. 
His  palate,  by  degrees,  became  refined  and  vi- 
tiated ;  he  began  to  lose  his  native  relish  for 
simple  fare,  and  contracted  a  habit  of  indulg- 
ing himself  in  delicacies  ;  he  ordered  the  de- 
lightful gardens  of  his  castle  to  be  thrown  open, 
in  which  the  most  luscious  fruits  had  been  suf- 
fered to  ripen  and  decay,  unobserved  and  un- 
touched, for  many  revolving  autumns,  and 
gratified  his  appetite  with  luxurious  desserts. 
At  length  he  found  it  expedient  to  introduce 
wine,  as  an  agreeable  improvement ;  or  a 
necessary  ingredient  to  his  new  way  of  living  ; 
and  having  once  tasted  it,  he  was  tempted  by 
littln  and  little,  to  give  a  loose  to  the  excesses 
of  intoxication.  His  general  simplicity  of  life 
was  changed  ;  he  perfumed  his  apartments  by 
burning  the  wood  of  the  most  aromatic  fir,  and 
commanded  his  helmet  to  be  ornamented  with 
beautiful  rows  of  the  teeth  of  the  rein-deer. 
Indolence  and  effeminacy  stole  upon  him  by 
pleasing  and  imperceptible  gradations,  relaxed 
the  sinews  of  his  resolution,  and  extinguished 
his  thirst  of  military  glory. 

While  Hacho  was  thus  immersed  in  pleasure 
and  in  repose,  it  was  reported  to  him  one  morn- 
ing, that  the  preceding  night  a  disastrous 
omen  had  been  discovered,  and  that  bats  and 
hideous  birds  had  drank  up  the  oil  which 
nourished  the  perpetual  lamp  in  the  temple  of 
Odin.  About  the  same  time,  a  messenger 
arrived  to  tell  him,  that  the  king  of  Norway 
had  invaded  his  kingdom  with  a  formidable 
army.  Hacho,  terrified  as  he  was  with  the 
omen  of  the  night,  and  enervated  with  indul- 
gence, roused  himself  from  his  voluptuous 
lethargy,  and  recollecting  some  faint  and  few 
s  arks  of  veteran  valour,  marched  forward  to 


meet  him.  Both  armies  joined  battle  in  the 
forest  where  Hacho  had  been  lost  after  hunt- 
ing ;  and  it  so  happened,  that  the  king  of 
Norway  challenged  him  to  single  combat,  near 
the  place  where  he  had  tasted  the  honey.  The 
Lapland  chief,  languid  and  long  disused  to 
arms,  was  soon  overpowered ;  he  fell  to  the 
ground  ;  and  before  his  insulting  adversary 
struck  his  head  from  his  body,  uttered  this  ex- 
clamation, which  the  Laplanders  still  use  as 
an  early  lesson  to  their  children :  "  The  vicious 
man  should  date  his  destruction  from  the  first 
temptation.  How  justly  do  I  fall  a  sacrifice  to 
sloth  and  luxury,  in  the  place  where  I  first 
yielded  to  those  allurements  which  seduced  me 
to  deviate  from  temperance  and  innocence! 
the  honey  which  I  tasted  in  this  forest,  and  not 
the  hand  of  the  king  of  Norway,  conquers 
Hacho." 


No.  97.]      SATURDAY,  FEB.  23,  1760. 

IT  may,  I  think,  be  justly  observed,  that  few 
books  disappoint  their  readers  more  than  the 
narrations  of  travellers.  One  part  of  mankind 
is  naturally  curious  to  learn  the  sentiments, 
manners,  and  condition  of  the  rest :  and  every 
mind  that  has  leisure  or  power  to  extend  its 
views  must  be  desirous  of  knowing  in  what 
proportion  Providence  has  distributed  the 
blessings  of  nature,  or  the  advantages  of  art, 
among  the  several  nations  of  tiie  earth. 

This  general  desire  easily  procures  readers 
to  every  book  from  which  it  can  expect  gratifi- 
cation. The  adventurer  upon  unknown  coasts, 
and  the  describer  of  distant  regions,  is  always 
welcomed  as  a  man  who  has  laboured  for  the 
pleasure  of  others,  and  who  is  able  to  enlarge 
our  knowledge  and  rectify  our  opinions ;  but 
when  the  volume  is  opened,  nothing  is  found 
but  such  general  accounts  as  leave  no  distinct 
idea  behind  them,  or  such  minute  enumera- 
tions as  few  can  read  with  either  profit  or  de- 
light. 

Every  writer  of  travels  should  consider,  that, 
like  all  other  authors,  he  undertakes  either  to 
instruct  or  please,  or  to  mingle  pleasure  with 
instruction.  He  that  instructs,  must  offer  to 
the  mind  something  to  be  imitated,  or  some- 
thing to  be  avoided ;  he  that  pleases  must  offer 
new  images  to  his  reader,  and  enable  him  to 
form  a  tacit  comparison  of  his  own  state  with 
that  of  others. 

The  greater  part  of  travellers  tell  nothing, 
because  their  method  of  travelling  supplies 
them  with  nothing  to  be  told.  He  that  enters 
a  town  at  night  and  surveys  it  in  the  morning, 
and  then  hastens  away  to  another  place,  and 
guesses  at  the  manners  of  the  inhabitants  by 
the  entertainment  which  his  inn  afforded  him, 
may  please  himself  for  a  time  with  a  hasty 
change  of  scenes,  and  a  confused  remem- 
brance of  palaces  and  churches ;  he  may 
gratify  his  eye  with  a  variety  of  landscapes, 
and  regale  his  palate  with  a  succession  of 
vintages :  but  let  him  be  contented  to  please 
limself  without  endeavouring  to  disturb  others. 
Why  should  he  recowl  excursions  by  which 


No.  97.] 


THE  IDLER. 


449 


nothing  could  be  learned,  or  wish  to  make  a 
show  of  knowledge,  which,  without  some 
power  of  intuition,  unknown  to  other  mortals, 
he  never  could  attain  ? 

Of  those  who  crowd  the  world  with  their 
itineraries,  some  have  no  other  purpose  than 
to  describe  the  face  of  the  country  ;  those  who 
sit  idle  at  home,  and  are  curious  to  know  what 
is  done  or  suffered  in  distant  countries,  may  be 
informed  by  one  of  these  wanderers,  that  on  a 
certain  day  he  set  out  early  with  the  caravan, 
and  in  the  first  hour's  march  saw,  towards  the 
south,  a  hill  covered  with  trees,  then  passed 
over  a  stream,  which  ran  northward  with  a 
swift  course,  but  which  is  probably  dry  in  the 
summer  months ;  that  an  hour  after  he  saw 
something  to  the  right  which  looked  at  a  dis- 
tance like  a  castle  with  towers,  but  which  he 
discovered  afterward  to  be  a  craggy  rock  ;  that 
he  then  entered  a  valley,  in  which  he  saw 
several  trees  tall  and  flourishing,  watered  by  a 
rivulet  not  marked  in  the  maps,  of  which  he 
was  not  able  to  learn  the  name  ;  that  the  road 
afterward  grew  stony,  and  the  country  une- 
ven, where  he  observed  among  the  hills  many 
hollows  worn  by  torrents,  and  was  told  that  the 
road  was  passable  only  part  of  the  year,  that 
going  on  they  found  the  remains  of  a  building, 
once  perhaps  a  fortress  to  secure  the  pass,  or  to 
restrain  the  robbers,  of  which  the  present  in- 
habitants can  give  no  other  account  than  that 
it  is  haunted  by  fairies  ;  that  they  went  to  dine 
at  the  foot  of  a  rock,  and  travelled  the  rest  of 
the  day  along  the  banks  of  a  river,  from  which 
the  road  turned  aside  towards  evening,  and 
brought  them  within  sight  of  a  village,  which 
was  once  a  considerable  town,  but  which  af- 
forded them  neither  good  victuals  nor  commo- 
dious lodging. 

Thus  he  conducts  his  reader  through  wet  and 
dry,  over  rough  and  smooth,  without  incidents, 
without  reflection  :  and,  if  he  obtains  his 
company  for  another  day,  will  dismiss  him 
again  at  night,  equally  fatigued  with  a  like 
succession  of  rocks  and  streams,  mountains 
and  ruins. 

This  is  the  common  style  of  those  sons  of 
enterprise,  who  visit  savage  countries,  and 
range  through  solitude  and  desolation ;  who 
pass  a  desert,  and  tell  that  it  is  sandy ;  who 
cross  a  valley,  and  find  that  it  is  green.  There 
are  others  of  more  delicate  sensibility,  that 
visit  only  the  realms  of  elegance  and  softness; 
that  wander  through  Italian  palaces,  and 
amuse  the  gentle  reader  with  catalogues  of 
pictures ;  that  hear  masses  in  magnificent 
churches,  and  recount  the  number  of  the  pil- 
lars or  variegations  of  the  pavement.  And 
there  are  yet  others,  who,  in  disdain  of  trifles, 
copy  inscriptions  elegant  and  rude,  ancient  and 
modern ;  and  transcribe  into  their  book  the 
walls  of  every  edifice,  sacred  or  civil.  He  that 
reads  these  books  must  consider  his  labour  as 
its  own  reward  ;  for  he  will  find  nothing  on 
which  attention  can  fix,  or  which  memory  can 
retain. 

He  float  would  travel  for  the  entertainment 
of  others,  should  remember  that  the  great  ob- 
ject of  remark  is  human  life.  Every  nation 
has  something  particular  in  its  manufactures 
3G 


its  works  of  genius,  its  medicines,  its  agri- 
culture, its  customs,  and  its  policy.  He  only 
is  a  useful  traveller,  who  brings  home  some- 
thing by  which  his  country  may  be  benefitted , 
who  procures  some  supply  of  want,  or  somo 
mitigation  of  evil,  which  may  enable  his  rea- 
ders to  compare  their  condition  with  that  of 
others,  to  improve  it  whenever  it  is  worse,  and 
whenever  it  is  better  to  enjoy  it. 


No.  98.]      SATURDAY,  MARCH  1, 1760. 
TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

I  AM  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman,  who  during 
his  life-time  enjoyed  a  small  income  which 
arose  from  a  pension  from  the  court,  by  which 
he  was  enabled  to  live  in  a  genteel  and  com- 
fortable manner. 

By  the  situation  of  life  in  which  he  was 
placed,  he  was  frequently  introduced  into  the 
company  of  those  of  much  greater  fortunes 
than  his  own,  among  whom  he  was  always 
received  with  complaisance,  and  treated  with 
civility. 

At  six  years  of  age  I  was  sent  to  a  board- 
ing-school in  the  country,  at  which  I  continued 
till  my  father's  death.  This  melancholy  event 
happened  at  a  time  when  I  was  by  no  means  of 
a  sufficient  age  to  manage  for  myself,  while  the 
passions  of  youth  continued  unsubdued,  and 
before  experience  could  guide  my  sentiments 
or  my  actions. 

I  was  then  taken  from  school  by  an  uncle,  to 
the  care  of  whom  my  father  had  committed  me 
on  his  dying  bed.  With  him  I  lived  several 
years ;  and  as  he  was  unmarried,  the  manage- 
ment of  his  family  was  committed  to  me.  In 
this  character  I  always  endeavoured  to  acquit 
myself,  if  not  with  applause,  at  least  without 
censure. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-one,  a  young  gentle- 
man of  some  fortune  paid  his  addresses  to  me, 
and  offered  me  terms  of  marriage.  This  pro- 
posal I  should  readily  have  accepted,  because 
from  vicinity  of  residence,  and  from  many 
opportunities  of  observing  his  behaviour,  I  had 
in  some  sort  contracted  an  affection  for  him. 
My  uncle,  for  what  reason  I  do  not  know,  re- 
fused his  consent  to  this  alliance,  though  it 
would  have  been  complied  with  by  the  father 
of  the  young  gentleman ;  and,  as  the  future 
condition  of  my  life  was  wholly  dependant  on 
him,  I  was  not  willing  to  disoblige  him,  and 
therefore,  though  unwillingly,  declined  the 
offer. 

My  uncle,  who  possessed  a  plentiful  fortune, 
frequently  hinted  to  me  in  conversation,  that  at 
his  death  I  should  be  provided  for  in  such  a 
manner  that  I  should  be  able  to  make  my  fu- 
ture life  comfortable  and  happy.  As  this  pro- 
mise was  often  repeated,  I  was  the  less  anxious 
about  any  provision  for  myself.  In  a  short 
time  my  uncle  was  taken  ill,  and  though  all 
possible  means  were  made  use  of  for  his  re» 
covery,  in  a  few  davs  he  died. 


450 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  'J9 


The  sorrow  arising  from  the  loss  of  a  rela- 
tion, by  whom  I  had  been  always  treated  with 
the  greatest  kindness,  however  grievous,  was 
not  the  worst  of  my  misfortunes.  As  he  en- 
joyed an  almost  uninterrupted  state  of  health, 
he  was  the  less  mindful  of  his  dissolution,  and 
died  intestate  ;  by  which  means  his  whole 
fortune  devolved  to  a  nearer  relation,  the  heir 
at  law.  • 

Thus  excluded  from  all  hopes  of  living  in 
the  manner  with  which  I  have  so  long  flattered 
myself,  I  am  doubtful  what  method  I  shall 
take  to  procure  a  decent  maintenance.  I  have 
been  educated  in  a  manner  that  has  set  me 
above  a  state  of  servitude,  and  my  situation 
renders  me  unfit  for  the  comp*any  of  those  with 
whom  I  have  hitherto  conversed.  But,  though 
disappointed  in  my  expectations,  I  do  not 
despair.  I  will  hope  that  assistance  may  still 
be  obtained  for  innocent  distress,  and  that 
friendship,  though  rare,  is  yet  not  impossible 
to  be  found. 

I  am,  Sir, 

Your  humble  servant, 

SOPHIA  HEEDFUL. 


No.  99.]     SATURDAY,  MARCH  8,  1760. 

As  Ortogrul  of  Basra  was  one  day  wandering 
along  the  streets  of  Bagdat,  musing  on  the 
varieties  of  merchandise  which  the  shops  of- 
fered to  his  view,  and  observing  the  different 
occupations  which  busied  the  multitudes  on 
every  side,  he  was  awakened  from  the  tran- 
quillity of  meditation  by  a  crowd  that  obstruct- 
ed his  passage.  He  raised  his  eyes,  and  saw 
the  chief  vizier,  who  having  returned  from  the 
divan,  was  entering  his  palace. 

Ortogrul  mingled  with  the  attendants,  and 
being  supposed  to  have  some  petition  for  the 
vizier,  was  permitted  to  enter.  He  surveyed 
the  spaciousness  of  the  apartments,  admired 
the  walls  hung  with  golden  tapestry,  and  the 
floors  covered  with  silken  carpets,  and  despis- 
ed the  simple  neatness  of  his  own  little  habi- 
tation. 

Surely,  said  he  to  himself,  this  palace  is  the 
seat  of  happiness,  where  pleasure  succeeds  to 
pleasure,  and  discontent  and  sorrow  can  have 
no  admission.  Whatever  nature  has  provided 
for  the  delight  of  sense,  is  here  spread  forth 
to  be  enjoyed.  What  can  mortals  hope  or  ima- 
gine, which  the  master  of  this  palace  has  not 
obtained  ?  The  dishes  of  luxury  cover  his  table, 
the  voice  of  harmony  lulls  him  in  his  bowers  ; 
he  breathes  the  fragrance  of  the  groves  of 
Java,  and  sleeps  upon  the  down  of  the  cygnets 
of  Ganges.  He  speaks,  and  his  mandate  is 
obeyed ;  he  wishes,  and  .his  wish  is  gratified  ; 
all  whom  he  sees  obey  him,  and  all  whom  he 
hears  flatter  him.  How  different,  Ortogrul,  is 
thy  condition,  who  art  doomed  to  the  perpe- 
tual torments  of  unsatisfied  desire,  and  who 
has  no  amusement  in  thy  power  that  can  with- 
hold thee  from  thy  own  reflections !  They  tell 
thee  that  thou  art  wise ;  but  what  does  wisdom 
avail  with  poverty  ?  None  will  flatter  the  poor, 
and  the  wise  hare  Yery  little  power  of  flatter- 


ing themselves.  That  man  is  surely  the  most 
wretched  of  the  sons  of  wretchedness,  who 
lives  with  his  own  faults  and  follies  always  be- 
fore him,  who  has  none  to  reconcile  him  to 
himself  by  praise  and  veneration.  I  have  long 
sought  content,  and  have  not  found  it ;  I  will 
from  this  moment  endeavour  to  be  rich. 

Full  of  his  new  resolution,  he  shuts  himself 
in  his  chamber  for  six  months,  to  deliberate 
how  he  should  grow  rich  :  he  sometimes  pro- 
posed to  offer  himself  as  a  counsellor  to  one  of 
the  kings  of  India,  and  sometimes  resolved  to 
dig  for  diamonds  in  the  mines  of  Golconda. 
One  day,  after  some  hours  passed  in  violent 
fluctuation  of  opinion,  sleep  insensibly  seized 
him  in  his  chair ;  he  dreamed  that  he  was 
ranging  a  desert  country  in  search  of  some 
one  that  might  teach  him  to  grow  rich  ;  and 
as  he  stood  on  the  top  of  a  hill  shaded  with 
cypress,  in  doubt  whether  to  direct  his  steps, 
his  father  appeared  on  a  sudden  standing  be- 
fore him.  Ortogrul,  said  the  old  man,  I  know 
thy  perplexity  ;  listen  to  thy  father ;  turn  thine 
eye  on  the  opposite  mountain.  Ortogrul  look- 
ed, and  saw  a  torrent  tumbling  down  the  rocks, 
roaring  with  the  noise  of  thunder,  and  scat- 
tering its  foam  on  the  impending  woods.  Now, 
said  his  father,  behold  the  valley  that  lies  be- 
tween the  hills.  Ortogrul  looked,  and  espied 
a  little  well  out  of  which  issued  a  small  rivu- 
let. Tell  me  now,  said  his  father,  dost  thou 
wish  for  sudden  affluence,  that  may  pour  upon 
thee  like  the  mountain  torrent,  or  for  a  slow 
and  gradual  increase,  resembling  the  rill  glid- 
ing from  the  well  ?  Let  me  be  quickly  rich, 
said  Ortogrul ;  let  the  golden  stream  be  quick 
and  violent.  Look  round  thee,  said  his  father, 
once  again.  Ortogrul  looked,  and  perceived 
the  channel  of  the  torrent  dry  and  dusty ;  but 
following  the  rivulet  from  the  well,  he  traced 
it  to  a  wide  lake,  which  the  supply,  slow  and 
constant,  kept  always  full.  He  waked  and 
determined  to  grow  rich  by  silent  profit  and 
persevering  industry. 

Having  sold  his  patrimony,  he  engaged  in 
merchandise,  and  in  twenty  years  purchased 
lands,  on  which  he  raised  a  house,  equal  in 
sumptuousness  to  that  of  the  vizier,  to  which 
he  invited  all  the  ministers  of  pleasure,  expect- 
ing to  enjoy  all  the  felicity  which  he  had  ima- 
gined riches  able  to  afford.  Leisure  soon  made 
him  weary  of  himself,  and  he  longed  to  be  per- 
suaded that  he  was  great  and  happy.  He  was 
courteous  and  liberal ;  he  gave  all  that  ap- 
proached him  hopes  of  pleasing  him,  and  all 
who  should  please  him  hopes  of  being  reward- 
ed. Every  art  of  praise  was  tried,  and  every 
source  of  adulatory  fiction  was  exhausted.  Or- 
togrul heard  his  flatterers  without  delight,  be- 
cause he  found  himself  unable  to  believe  them. 
His  own  heart  told  him  its  frailties,  his  own 
understanding  reproached  him  with  his  faults. 
How  long,  said  he,  with  a  deep  sigh,  have  I 
been  labouring  in  vain  to  amass  wealth  which 
at  last  is  useless  !  Let  no  man  hereafter  wish 
to  be  rich,  who  is  already  too  wise  to  be  flat- 
tered. 


No.  100.] 


THE  IDLER. 


451 


No.  100.]      SATURDAY,  MARCH  15,  1760. 

TO  THE  IDLER. 

SIR, 

THE  uncertainty  and  defects  of  language  have 
produced  very  frequent  complaints  among  the 
learned  ;  yet  there  still  remain  many  words 
among  us  undefined,  which  are  very  necessa- 
ry to  be  rightly  understood,  and  which  produce 
very  mischievous  mistakes  when  they  are  er- 
roneously interpreted. 

I  lived  in  a  state  of  celibacy  beyond  the  usual 
time.  In  the  hurry  first  of  pleasure,  and  af- 
terwards of  business,  I  felt  no  want  of  a 
domestic  companion  ;  but  becoming  weary  of 
labour,  I  soon  grew  more  weary  of  idleness, 
and  thought  it  reasonable  to  follow  the  custom 
of  life,  and  to  seek  some  solace  of  my  cares 
in  female  tenderness,  and  some  amusement  of 
my  leisure  in  female  cheerfulness. 

The  choice  which  has  been  long  delayed  is 
commonly  made  at  last  with  great  caution. 
My  resolution  was,  to  keep  my  passions  neu- 
tral, and  to  marry  only  in  compliance  with  my 
reason.  I  drew  upon  a  page  of  my  pocket- 
book  a  scheme  of  all  female  virtues  and  vices, 
with  the  vices  which  border  upon  every  virtue, 
and  the  virtues  which  are  allied  to  every  vice. 
I  considered  that  wit  was  sarcastic,  and  mag- 
nanimity imperious ;  that  avarice  was  econo- 
mical, and  ignorance  obsequious  ;  and  having 
estimated  the  good  and  evil  of  every  quality, 
employed  my  own  diligence,  and  that  of  my 
friends,  to  find  the  lady  in  whom  nature  and 
reason  had  reached  that  happy  mediocrity 
which  is  equally  remote  from  exuberance  and 
deficience. 

Every  woman  had  her  admirers  and  hercen- 
surers  ;  and  the  expectations  which  one  raised 
were  by  another  quickly  depressed  ;  yet  there 
was  one  in  whose  favour  almost  all  suffrages 
concurred.  Miss  Gentle  was  universally  al- 
lowed to  be  a  good  sort  of  woman.  Her  for- 
tune was  not  large,  but  so  prudently  managed, 
that  she  wore  finer  clothes,  and  saw  more 
company,  than  many  who  were  known  to  be 
twice  as  rich.  Miss  Gentle's  visits  were  every 
where  welcome  ;  and  whatever  family  she  fa- 
voured with  her  company,  she  always  left 
behind  her  such  a  degree  of  kindness  as 
recommended  her  to  others.  Every  day  ex- 
tended her  acquaintance ;  and  all  who  knew 
her  declared  that  they  never  met  with  a  better 
sort  of  woman. 

To  Miss  Gentle  I  made  my  addresses,  and 
was  received  with  great  equality  of  temper. 
She  did  not  in  the  days  of  courtship  assume 
the  privilege  of  imposing  rigorous  commands, 
or  resenting  slight  offences.  If  I  forgot  any 
of  her  injunctions,  I  was  gently  reminded  ;  if 
I  missed  the  minute  of  appointment,  I  was 
easily  forgiven.  I  foresaw  nothing  in  mar- 
riage but  a  halcyon  calm,  and  longed  for  the 
happiness  which  was  to  be  found  in  the  inse- 
parable society  of  a  good  sort  of  woman. 

The  jointure  was  soon  settled  by  the  inter- 
vention of  friends,  and  the  day  came  in  which 
Miss  Gentle  was  made  mine  for  ever.  The 
first  month  was  passed  easily  enough  in  re- 
ceiving and  repaying  the  civilities  of  our 


friends.  The  bride  practised  with  great  exact- 
ness all  the  niceties  of  ceremony,  and  distri- 
buted her  notice  in  the  most  punctilious  pro- 
portions to  the  friends  who  surrounded  us  with 
their  happy  auguries. 

But  the  time  soon  came  when  we  were  left 
to  ourselves,  and  were  to  receive  our  pleasures 
from  each  other,  and  I  then  began  to  perceive 
that  I  was  not  formed  to  be  much  delighted  by 
a  good  sort  of  woman.  Her  great  principle 
is,  that  the  orders  of  a  family  must  not  be 
broken.  Every  hour  of  the  day  has  its  em- 
ployment inviolably  appropriated  ;  nor  will 
any  importunity  persuade  her  to  walk  in  the 

farden  at  the  time  which  she  has  devoted  to 
er  needlework,  or  to  sit  up  stairs  in  that  part 
of  the  forenoon  which  she  has  accustomed 
herself  to  spend  in  the  back  parlour.  She  al- 
lows herself  to  sit  half  an  hour  after  breakfast, 
and  an  hour  after  dinner;  while  I  am  talking 
or  reading  to  her,  she  keeps  her  eye  upon  her 
watch,  and  when  the  minute  of  departure 
comes,  will  leave  an  argument  unfinished,  or 
the  intrigue  of  a  play  unravelled.  She  once 
called  me  to  supper  when  I  was  watching  an 
eclipse,  and  summoned  me  at  another  time  to 
bed  when  I  was  going  to  give  directions  at  a 
fire. 

Her  conversation  is  so  habitually  cautious, 
that  she  never  talks  to  me  but  in  general  terms, 
as  to  one  whom  it  is  dangerous  to  trust.  For 
discriminations  of  character  she  has  no  names : 
all  whom  she  mentions  are  honest  men  and 
agreeable  women.  She  smiles  not  by  sensa- 
tion, but  by  practice.  Her  laughter  is  never 
excited  but  by  a  joke,  and  her  notion  of  a  joke 
is  not  very  delicate.  The  repetition  of  a  good 
joke  does  not  weaken  its  effect;  if  she  has 
laughed  once,  she  will  laugh  again. 

She  is  an  enemy  to  nothing  but  ill-nature 
and  pride  ;  but  she  has  frequent  reason  to  la- 
ment that  they  are  so  frequent  in  the  world. 
All  who  are  not  equally  pleased  with  the  good 
and  the  bad,  with  the  elegant  and  gross,  with 
the  witty  and  the  dull,  all  who  distinguish  excel- 
lence from  defect,  she  considers  as  ill-natured  ; 
and  she  condemns  as  proud  all  who  repress 
impertinence  or  quell  presumption,  or  expect 
respect  from  any  other  eminence  than  that  of 
fortune,  to  which  she  is  always  willing  to  pay 
homage. 

There  are  none  whom  she  openly  hates,  fof 
if  once  she  suffers,  or  believes  herself  to  suf 
fer,  any  contempt  or  insult,  she  never  dismiss- 
es it  from  her  mind,  but  takes  all  opportuni- 
ties to  tell  how  easily  she  can  forgive.  There 
are  none  whom  she  loves  much  better  than 
others ;  for  when  any  of  her  acquaintance 
decline  in  the  opinion  of  the  world,  she  always 
finds  it  inconvenient  to  visit  them ;  her  affec- 
tion continues  unaltered,  but  it  is  impossible 
to  be  intimate  with  the  whole  town. 

She  daily  exercises  her  benevolence  by  pity- 
ing every  misfortune  that  happens  to  every  fa- 
mily within  her  circle  of  notice;  she  is  in 
hourly  terrors  lest  one  should  catch  cold  in  the 
rain,  and  another  be  frighted  by  the  high  wind. 
Her  charity  she  shows  by  lamenting  that  so 
many  poor  wretches  should  languish  in  the 
streets,  and  by  wondering  what  the  great  can 


452 


THE  IDLER. 


[No.  101 


think  on  that  they  do  so  little  good  with  such 
large  estates. 

Her  house  is  elegant  and  her  table  dainty, 
though  she  has  little  taste  of  elegance,  and  is 
wholly  free  from  vicious  luxury ;  but  she  com- 
forts herself  that  nobody  can  say  that  her  house 
is  dirty,  or  that  her  dishes  are  not  well  dress- 
ed. 

This,  Mr.  Idler,  I  have  found  by  long  expe- 
rience to  be  the  character  of  a  good  sort  of  wo- 
man, which  I  have  sent  you  for  the  information 
of  those  by  whom  a  "good  sort  of  a  woman," 
and  a  "  good  woman,"  may  happen  to  be  used 
as  equivalent  terms,  and  who  may  suffer  by 
the  mistake,  like 

Your  humble  servant, 

TIM  WARNER. 


No.  101.]      SATURDAY,  MARCH  22,  1760. 

OMAR,  the  son  of  Hassan,  had  passed  seventy- 
five  years  in  honour  and  prosperity.  The  fa- 
vour of  three  successive  califs  had  filled  his 
house  with  gold  and  silver ;  and  whenever  he 
appeared,  the  benedictions  of  the  people  pro- 
claimed his  passage. 

Terrestrial  happiness  is  of  short  continuance. 
The  brightness  of  the  flame  is  wasting  its  fuel ; 
the  fragrant  flower  is  passing  away  in  its  own 
odours.  The  vigour  of  Omar  began  to  fail, 
the  curls  of  beauty  fell  from  his  head,  strength 
departed  from  his  hands,  and  agility  from  his 
feet.  He  gave  back  to  the  calif  the  keys  of 
trust,  and  the  seals  of  secrecy ;  and  sought  no 
other  pleasure  for  the  remains  of  life  than  the 
converse  of  the  wise,  and  the  gratitude  of  the 
good. 

The  powers  of  his  mind  were  jet  unimpair- 
ed. His  chamber  was  filled  by  visitants,  eager 
to  catch  the  dictates  of  experience,  and  offi- 
cious to  pay  the  tribute  of  admiration.  Caled, 
the  son  of  the  viceroy  of  Egypt,  entered  every 
day  early,  and  retired  late.  He  was  beautiful 
and  eloquent ;  Omar  admired  his  wit  and  loved 
his  docility.  Tell  me,  said  Caled,  thou  to 
whose  voice  nations  have  listened,  and  whose 
wisdom  is  known  to  the  extremities  of  Asia, 
tell  me  how  I  may  resemble  Omar  the  prudent. 
The  arts  by  which  you  have  gained  power  and 
preserved  it,  are  to  you  no  longer  necessary  or 
useful ;  impart  to  me  the  secret  of  your  con- 
duct, and  teach  me  the  plan  upon  which  your 
wisdom  has  built  your  fortune. 

Young  man,  said  Omar,  it  is  of  little  use  to 
form  plans  of  life.  When  I  took  my  first  sur- 
vey of  the  world,  in  my  twentieth  year,  having 
considered  the  various  conditions  of  mankind, 
in  the  hour  of  solitude  I  said  thus  to  myself, 
leaning  against  a  cedar  which  spread  its 
branches  over  my  head  : — Seventy  years  are 
allowed  to  man ;  I  have  yet  fifty  remaining : 
ten  years  I  will  allot  to  the  attainment  of 
knowledge,  and  ten  I  will  pass  in  foreign 
countries;  I  shall  be  learned,  and  therefore 
shall  be  honoured  ;  every  city  will  shout  at  my 
arrival,  and  every  student  will  solicit  my 
friendship.  Twenty  years  thus  passed  will 
etore  my  mind  with  images  which  I  shall  be 


busy  through  the  rest  of  my  life  in  combining 
and  comparing.  I  shall  revel  in  inexhaustible 
accumulations  of  intellectual  riches  ;  I  shall 
find  new  pleasures  for  every  moment,  and  shall 
never  more  be  weary  of  myself.  I  will,  how- 
ever, not  deviate  too  far  from  the  beaten  track 
of  life,  but  will  try  what  can  be  found  in  fe- 
male delicacy.  I  will  marry  a  wife  beautiful 
as  the  Houries,  and  wise  as  Zobeide ;  with  her 
I  will  live  twenty  years  within  the  suburbs  of 
Eagdat,  in  every  pleasure  that  wealth  can  pur- 
chase, and  fancy  can  invent.  I  will  then  re- 
tire to  a  rural  dwelling,  pass  my  last  days  in 
obscurity  and  contemplation,  and  lie  silently 
down  on  the  bed  of  death.  Through  my  life 
it  shall  be  my  settled  resolution,  that  I  will 
never  depend  upon  the  smile  of  princes  ;  that 
I  will  never  stand  exposed  to  the  artifices  of 
courts ;  I  will  never  pant  for  public  honours, 
nor  disturb  my  quiet  with  the  affairs  of  state. 
Such  was  my  scheme  of  life,  which  I  impress 
ed  indelibly  upon  my  memory. 

The  first  part  of  my  ensuing  time  was  to  be 
spent  in  search  of  knowledge  ;  and  I  know 
not  how  I  was  diverted  from  my  design.  I  had 
no  visible  impediments  without,  nor  any  un- 
governable passions  within.  I  regarded  know- 
ledge as  the  highest  honour  and  the  most  en- 
gaging pleasure  ;  yet  day  stole  upon  day,  and 
month  glided  after  month,  till  I  found  that 
seven  years  of  the  first  ten  had  vanished,  and 
left  nothing  behind  them.  I  now  postponed 
my  purpose  of  travelling  ;  for  why  should  I  go 
abroad  while  so  much  remained  to  be  learned 
at  home?  I  immured  myself  for  four  years, 
and  studied  the  laws  of  the  empire.  The  fame 
of  my  skill  reached  the  judges  ;  I  was  found 
able  to  speak  upon  doubtful  questions,  and 
was  commanded  to  stand  at  the  footstool  of 
the  calif.  I  was  heard  with  attention,  I  was 
consulted  with  confidence,  and  the  love  of 
praise  fastened  on  my  heart. 

I  still  wished  to  see  distant  countries,  listen- 
ed with  rapture  to  the  relations  of  travellers, 
and  resolved  some  time  to  ask  my  dismission, 
that  I  might  feast  my  soul  with  novelty  ;  but 
my  presence  was  always  necessary,  and  the 
stream  of  business  hurried  me  along.  Some- 
times I  was  afraid  lest  I  should  be  charged 
with  ingratitude  ;  but  I  still  proposed  to  travel, 
and  therefore  would  not  confine  myself  by 
marriage. 

In  my  fiftieth  year  I  began  to  suspect  that 
the  time  of  travelling  was  past,  and  thought  it 
best  to  lay  hold  on  the  felicity  yet  in  my  power, 
and  indulge  myself  in  domestic  pleasures. 
But  at  fifty  no  man  easily  finds  a  woman  beau- 
tiful as  the  Houries,  and  wise  as  Zobeide.  1 
inquired  and  rejected,  consulted  and  deliberat- 
ed, till  the  sixty-second  year  made  me  ashamcu 
of  gazing  upon  girls.  I  had  now  nothing  left 
but  retirement,  and  for  retirement  I  never 
found  a  time,  till  disease  forced  me  from  public 
employment. 

Such  was  my  scheme,  and  such  has  been  its 
consequence.  With  an  insatiable  thirst  for 
knowledge,  I  trifled  away  the  years  of  improve- 
ment; with  a  restless  desire  of  seeing  different 
countries,  I  have  always  resided  in  the  same 
city;  with  the  highest  expectation  of  connubial 


No.  102  &  103.] 


THE  IDLER. 


453 


felicity,  I  have  lived  unmarried  ;  and  with  un- 
alterable resolutions  of  contemplative  retire- 
ment, I  am  going  to  die  within  the  walls  of 
Baofdat. 


No.  102.]     SATURDAY,  MARCH  29,  1760. 

IT  very  seldom  happens  to  man  that  his  busi- 
ness is  his  pleasure.  What  is  done  from  ne- 
cessity is  so  often  to  be  done  when  against  the 
present  inclination,  and  so  often  fills  the  mind 
with  anxiety,  that  an  habitual  dislike  steals 
upon  us,  and  we  shrink  involuntarily  from  the 
remembrance  of  our  task.  This  is  the  reason 
why  almost  every  one  wishes  to  quit  his  em- 
ployment ;  he  does  not  like  another  state,  but 
is  disgusted  with  his  own. 

From  this  unwillingness  to  perform  more 
than  is  required  of  that  which  is  commonly 
performed  with  reluctance,  it  proceeds  that 
few  authors  write  their  own  lives.  Statesmen, 
courtiers,  ladies,  generals,  and  seamen,  have 
given  to  the  world  their  own  stories,  and  the 
events  with  which  their  different  stations  have 
made  them  acquainted.  They  retired  to  the 
closet  as  to  a  place  of  quiet  and  amusement, 
and  pleased  themselves  with  writing,  because 
they  could  lay  down  the  pen  whenever  they 
were  weary.  But  the  author  however  con- 
spicuous, or  however  important,  either  in  the 
public  eye  or  in  his  own,  leaves  his  life  to  be 
related  by  his  successors,  for  he  cannot  gratify 
his  vanity  but  by  sacrificing  his  ease. 

It  is  commonly  supposed,  that  the  uniformity 
of  a  studious  life  affords  no  matter  for  narra- 
tion :  but  the  truth  is,  that  of  the  most  studious 
life  a  great  part  passes  without  study.  An  au- 
thor partakes  of  the  common  condition  of  hu.- 
manity  ;  he  is  born  and  married  like  another 
man ;  he  has  hopes  and  fears,  expectations 
and  disappointments,  griefs  and  joys,  and 
friends  and  enemies,  like  a  courtier  or  a  states- 
man ;  nor  can  I  conceive  why  his  affairs 
should  not  excite  curiosity  as  much  as  the 
whisper  of  a  drawing-room,  or  the  factions  of 
a  camp. 

Nothing  detains  the  reader's  attention  more 
powerfully  than  deep  involutions  of  distress, 
or  sudden  vicissitudes  of  fortune  ;  and  these 
might  be  abundantly  afforded  by  memoirs  of 
the  sons  of  literature.  They  are  entangled  by 
contracts  which  they  know  not  how  to  fulfil, 
and  obliged  to  write  on  subjects  which  they  do 
not  understand.  Every  publication  is  a  new 
period  of  time,  from  which  some  increase  or 
declension  of  fame  is  to  be  reckoned.  The 

fradations  of  a  hero's  life  are  from  battle  to 
attle,  and  of  an  author's  from  book  to  book. 
Success  and  miscarriage  have  the  same  ef- 
fects in  all  conditions.  The  prosperous  are 
feared,  hated,  and  flattered  ;  and  the  unfortu- 
nate avoided,  pitied,  and  despised.  No  sooner 
is  a  book  published  than  the  writer  may  judge 
of  the  opinion  of  the  world.  If  his  acquain- 
tance press  round  him  in  public  places  or  sa- 
lute him  from  the  other  side  of  the  street ;  if 
invitations  to  dinner  come  thick  upon  him,  and 
those  with  whom  he  dines  keep  him  to  supper; 


if  the  ladies  turn  to  him  when  his  coat  is 
plain,  and  the  footmen  serve  him  with  atten- 
tion and  alacrity;  he  may  be  sure  that  his 
work  has  been  praised  by  some  leader  of  lite- 
rary fashions. 

Of  declining  reputation  the  symptoms  are 
not  less  easily  observed.  If  the  author  enters 
a  coffee-house,  he  has  a  box  to  himself;  if  he 
calls  at  a  bookseller's,  the  boy  turns  his  back ; 
and,  what  is  the  most  fatal  of  all  prognostics, 
authors  will  visit  him  in  a  morning,  and  talk 
to  him,  hour  after  hour,  of  the  malevolence  of 
critics,  the  neglect  of  merit,  the  bad  taste  of 
the  age,  and  the  candour  of  posterity. 

All  this,  modified  and  varied  by  accident 
and  custom,  would  form  very  amusing  scenes 
of  biography,  and  might  recreate  many  a 
mind  which  is  very  little  delighted  with  con- 
spiracies or  battles,  intrigues  of  a  court,  or 
debates  of  a  parliament;  to  this  might  be 
added  all  the  changes  of  the  countenance  of 
a  patron,  traced  from  the  first  glow  which 
flattery  raises  in  his  cheek,  through  ardour  of 
fondness,  vehemence  of  promise,  magnificence 
of  praise,  excuse  of  delay,  and  lamentation  of 
inability,  to  the  last  chill  look  of  final  dismission, 
when  the  one  grows  weary  of  soliciting,  and 
the  other  of  hearing  solicitation. 

Thus  copious  are  the  materials  which  have 
been  hitherto  suffered  to  lie  neglected,  while 
the  repositories  of  every  family  that  has  pro- 
duced a  soldier  or  a  minister  are  ransacked, 
and  libraries  are  crowded  with  useless  folios 
of  state  papers  which  will  never  be  read,  and 
which  contribute  nothing  to  valuable  know- 
ledge. 

I  hope  the  learned  will  be  taught  to  know 
their  own  strength  and  their  value,  and,  in- 
stead of  devoting  their  lives  to  the  honour  of 
those  who  seldom  thank  them  for  their  labours, 
resolve  at  last  to  do  justice  to  themselves. 


No.  103.]     SATURDAY,  APRIL  5,  1760. 

Respicere  ad  longcejussit  spatia  ultima  vita. 

JT7V. 

MUCH  of  the  pain  and  pleasure  of  mankind 
arises  from  the  conjectures  which  every  one 
makes  of  the  thoughts  of  others ;  we  all  en- 
joy praise  which  we  do  not  hear,  and  resent 
contempt  which  we  do  not  see.  The  Idler 
may  therefore  be  forgiven,  if  he  suffers  his 
imagination  to  represent  to  him  what  his  read- 
ers will  say  or  think  when  they  are  informed 
that  they  have  now  his  last  paper  in  their 
hands. 

Value  is  more  frequently  raised  by  scarcity 
than  by  use.  That  which  lay  neglected  when 
it  was  common,  rises  in  estimation  as  its  quan- 
tity becomes  less.  We  seldom  learn  the  true 
want  of  what  we  have,  till  it  is  discovered  that 
we  can  have  no  more. 

This  essay  will,  perhaps,  be  read  with  care 
even  by  those  who  have  not  yet  attended  to 
any  other ;  and  he  that  finds  this  late  attention 
recompensed,  will  not  forbear  to  wish  that  he 
had  bestowed  it  sooner. 


454 


THE  IDLER. 


.  XXII. 


Though  the  Idler  and  his  readers  have  con- 
tracted no  close  friendship,  they  are  perhaps 
both  unwilling  to  part.  There  are  few  things 
not  purely  evil,  of  which  we  can  say,  without 
some  emotion  of  uneasiness,  "  this  is  the  last." 
Those  who  never  could  agree  together,  shed 
tears  when  mutual  discontent  has  determined 
them  to  final  separation  ;  of  a  place  which 
has  been  frequently  visited,  though  without 
pleasure,  the  last  look  is  taken  with  heaviness 
of  heart ;  and  the  Idler  with  all  his  chillness 
of  tranquillity,  is  not  wholly  unaffected  by  the 
thought  that  his  last  essay  is  now  before  him. 

This  secret  horror  of  the  last  is  inseparable 
from  a  thinking  being,  whose  life  is  limited, 
and  to  whom  death  is  dreadful.  We  always 
make  a  secret  comparison  between  a  part  and 
the  whole  :  the  termination  of  any  period  of 
life  reminds  us  that  life  itself  has  likewise  its 
termination ;  when  we  have  done  any  thing 
for  the  last  time,  we  involuntarily  reflect  that 
a  part  of  the  days  allotted  us  is  past,  and  that 
as  more  are  past  there  are  less  remaining. 

It  is  very  happily  and  kindly  provided,  that 
in  every  life  there  are  certain  pauses  and  in- 
terruptions which  force  consideration  upon 
the  careless,  and  seriousness  upon  the  light  ; 
points  of  time  where  one  course  of  action 
ends,  and  another  begins  ;  and  by  vicissitudes 
of  fortune,  or  alteration  of  employment,  by 
change  of  place  or  loss  of  friendship,  we  are 
forced  to  say  of  something,  "this  is  the  last." 

An  even  and  unvaried  tenour  of  life  always 
hides  from  our  apprehension  the  approach  of  its 
end.  Succession  is  not  perceived  but  by  varia- 
tion ;  he  that  lives  to  day  as  he  lived  yesterday, 
and  expects  that  as  the  present  day  is,  such  will 
be  the  morrow,  easily  conceives  time  as  run- 
ning in  a  circle  and  returning  to  itself.  The 
uncertainty  of  our  duration  is  impressed  com- 
monly by  dissimilitude  of  condition ;  it  is  only 
by  finding  life  changeable  that  we  are  remind- 
ed of  its  shortness. 

This  conviction,  however  forcible  at  every 
new  impression,  is  every  moment  fading  from 
the  mind ;  and  partly  by  the  inevitable  incur- 
sion of  new  images,  and  partly  by  voluntary  ex- 
clusion of  unwelcome  thoughts,  we  are  again 
exposed  to  the  universal  fallacy ;  and  we  must 
do  another  thing  for  the  last  time,  before  we 
consider  that  the  time  is  nigh  when  we  shall 
do  no  more. 

As  the  last  Idler  is  published  in  that  solemn 
week  which  the  Christian  world  has  always 
set  apart  for  the  examination  of  the  conscience, 
the  review  of  life,  the  extinction  of  earthly  de- 
sires, and  the  renovation  of  holy  purposes  ;  I 
hope  that  my  readers  are  already  disposed  to 
view  every  incident  with  seriousness,  and  im- 
prove it  by  meditation  ;  and  that  when  they 
«ee  this  series  of  trifles  brought  to  a  conclu- 
sion, they  will  consider  that,  by  outliving  the 
Idler,  they  have  passed  weeks,  months,  and 
years,  which  are  now  no  longer  in  their  power; 
that  an  end  must  in  time  be  put  to  every  thing 
great,  as  to  every  thing  little ;  that  to  life  must 
come  its  last  hour,  and  to  this  system  of  being 
its  last  day,  the  hour  at  which  probation  ceases 
and  repentance  will  be  vain ;  the  day  in  which 
every  work  of  the  hand,  and  imagination  of 


the  heart,  shall  be  brought  to  judgment,  and 
an  everlasting  futurity  shall  be  determined  by 
the  past. 


No.  XXII.* 

MANY  naturalists  are  of  opinion,  that  the  ani- 
mals which  we  commonly  consider  as  mute, 
have  the  power  of  imparting  their  thoughts  to 
one  another.  That  they  can  express  general 
sensations  is  very  certain  :  every  being  that  can 
utter  sounds,  has  a  different  voice  for  pleasure 
and  for  pain.  The  hound  informs  his  fellows 
when  he  scents  his  game ;  the  hen  calls  her 
chickens  to  their  food  by  her  cluck,  and  drives 
them  from  danger  by  her  scream. 

Birds  have  the  greatest  variety  of  notes  , 
they  have  indeed  a  variety,  which  seems  almost 
sufficient  to  make  a  speech  adequate  to  the 
purposes  of  a  life  which  is  regulated  by  in- 
stinct, and  can  admit  little  change  or  improve- 
ment. To  the  cries  of  birds  curiosity  or  su- 
perstition has  been  always  attentive  ;  many 
have  studied  the  languag'e  of  the  feathered 
tribes,  and  some  have  boasted  that  they  under- 
stood it. 

The  most  skilful  or  most  confident  interpre- 
ters of  the  sylvan  dialogues,  have  been  com- 
monly found  among  the  philosophers  of  the 
east,  in  a  country  where  the  calmness  of  the 
air,  and  the  mildness  of  the  seasons,  allow  the 
student  to  pass  a  great  part  of  the  year  in 
groves  and  bowers.  But  what  may  be  done  in 
one  place  by  peculiar  opportunities,  may  be 
performed  in  another  by  peculiar  diligence. 
A  shepherd  of  Bohemia  has,  by  long  abode  in 
the  forests,  enabled  himself  to  understand  the 
voice  of  birds ;  at  least  he  relates  with  great 
confidence  a  story,  of  which  the  credibility  ia 
left  to  be  considered  by  the  learned. 

As  I  was  sitting  (said  he)  within  a  hollow 
rock,  and  watching  my  sheep  that  fed  in  the 
valley,  I  heard  two  vultures  interchangeably 
crying  on  the  summit  of  a  clifF.  Both  voices 
were  earnest  and  deliberate.  My  curiosity 
prevailed  over  the  care  of  the  flock  ;  I  climbed 
slowly  and  silently  from  crag  to  crag,  conceal- 
ed among  the  shrubs,  till  I  found  a  cavity  where 
I  might  sit  and  listen  without  suffering  or  giv- 
ing disturbance. 

I  soon  perceived  that  my  labour  would  be 
well  repaid,  for  an  old  vulture  was  sitting  on  a 
naked  prominence,  with  her  young  about  her, 
whom  she  was  instructing  in  the  arts  of  a  vul- 
ture's life,  and  preparing  by  the  last  lecture, 
for  their  final  dismission  to  the  mountains  and 
the  skies. 

My  children,  said  the  old  vulture,  you  will 
the  less  want  my  instructions,  because  you 
have  had  my  practice  before  your  eyes ;  you 
have  seen  me  snatch  from  the  farm  tnc  house- 
hold fowl,  you  have  seen  me  seize  the  leveret 
in  the  bush,  and  the  kid  in  the  pasturage  ;  you 
know  how  to  fix  your  talons,  and  how  to 
balance  your  flight  when  you  are  laden  with 

*  This  was  the  original  No.  22,  but  or.  the  republica 
tion  of  the  work  in  volumes,  Dr.  Johnson  substituted 
what  now  stands  under  that  heaJ. 


No. 


THE  IDLER. 


455 


your  prey.  But  you  remember  the  taste  of 
more  delicious  food.  I  have  often  regaled  you 
with  the  flesh  of  man.  Tell  us,  said  the  young 
Vultures,  where  man  may  be  found,  and  how 
he  may  be  known  :  his  flesh  is  surelv  the 
natural  food  of  a  vulture.  Why  have"  you 
never  brought  a  man  in  your  talons  to  the 
nest  ?  He  is  too  bulky,  said  the  mother  ;  when 
we  find  a  man  we  can  only  tear  away  his  flesh, 
and  leave  his  bones  upon  the  ground.  Since 
man  is  so  big,  said  the  young  ones,  how  do  you 
kill  him  ?  You  are  afraid  of  the  wolf  and  of 
the  bear,  by  what  power  are  vultures  superior 
to  man?  Is  man  more  defenceless  than  a 
sheep?  We  have  not  the  strength  of  man, 
returned  the  mother,  and  I  am  sometimes  hi 
doubt  whether  we  have  the  subtilty  ;  and  the 
vultures  would  seldom  feast  upon  his  flesh, 
had  not  nature,  that  devoted  him  to  our  uses, 
infused  into  him  a  strange  ferocity,  which  I 
have  never  observed  in  any  other  being  that 
feeds  upon  the  earth.  Two  herds  of  men  will 
often  meet  and  shake  the  earth  with  noise,  and 
fill  the  earth  with  fire.  When  you  hear  noise, 
and  see  fire,  with  flashes  along  the  ground, 
hasten  to  the  place  with  your  swiftest  wing, 
for  men  are  surely  destroying  one  another; 
you  will  then  find  the  ground  smoking  with 
blood  and  covered  with  carcases,  of  which 
many  are  dismembered,  and  mangled  for  the 
convenience  of  the  vulture.  But  when  men 
have  killed  their  prey,  said  the  pupil,  why  do 
they  not  eat  it  ?  When  the  wolf  has  killed  a 
sheep,  he  suffers  not  the  vulture  to  touch  it  till 
he  has  satisfied  himself.  Is  not  man  another 
kind  of  wolf?  Man,  said  the  mother,  is  the 
only  beast  who  kills  that  which  he  does  not 
devour,  and  this  quality  makes  him  so  much  a 
benefactor  to  our  species.  If  men  kill  our 
prey,  and  lay  it  in  our  way,  said  the  young 
one  what  need  shall  we  have  of  labouring  for 


ourselves  ?  Because  man  will  sometimes, 
replied  the  mother,  remain  for  a  long  time 
quiet  in  his  den.  The  old  vultures  will  tell 
you  when  you  are  to  watch  his  motions. 
When  you  see  men  in  great  numbers  moving 
close  together,  like  a  flight  of  storks,  you  may 
conclude  that  they  are  hunting,  and  that  you 
will  soon  revel  in  human  blood.  But  still,  said 
the  young  one,  I  would  gladly  know  the  rea- 
son of  this  mutual  slaughter.  I  could  never 
kill  what  I  could  not  eat.  My  child,  said  the 
mother,  this  is  a  question  which  I  cannot  an- 
swer, though  I  am  reckoned  the  most  subtile 
bird  of  the  mountain.  When  I  was  young,  I 
used  frequently  to  visit  the  ayry  of  an  old  vul 
ture,  who  dwelt  upon  the  Carpathian  rocks  ; 
he  had  made  many  observations  ;  he  knew  the 
places  that  afforded  prey  round  his  habitation, 
as  far  in  every  direction  as  the  strongest  wing 
can  fly  between  the  rising  and  setting  of  tho 
summer  sun  ;  he  had  fed  year  after  year  on  the 
entrails  of  men.  His  opinion  was,  that  men 
had  only  the  appearance  of  animal  life,  being 
really  vegetables,  with  a  power  of  motion;  and 
that  as  the  boughs  of  an  oak  are  dashed  togeth- 
er by  the  storm,  that  swine  may  fatten  upon  the 
falling  acorns,  so  men  are  by  some  unaccounta- 
ble power  driven  one  against  another,  till  they 
lose  their  motion,  that  vultures  may  be  fed. 
Others  think  they  have  observed  something  of 
contnvance  and  policy  among  these  mischiev- 
ous beings ;  and  those  that  hover  more  closely 
round  them,  pretend,  that  there  is  in  every 
herd,  one  that  gives  directions  to  the  rest,  and 
seems  to  be  more  eminently  delighted  with  a 
wide  carnage.  What  it  is  that  entitles  him  to 
such  pre-eminence  we  know  not ;  he  is  seldom 
the  biggest  or  the  swiftest,  but  he  shews  by  his 
eagerness  and  diligence  that  he  is,  more  than 
any  of  the  others,  a  friend  to  vultures. 


. 


RASSELAS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

DESCRIPTION    OF   A   PALACE   IN   A   VALLEY. 

YE  who  listen  with  credulity  to  the  whispers  of 
fancy,  and  pursue  with  eagerness  the  phantoms 
of  hope  ;  who  expect  that  age  will  perform  the 
promises  of  youth,  and  that  the  deficiencies  of  the 
present  day  will  be  supplied  by  the  morrow ;  at- 
tend to  the  history  of  Rasselas  prince  of  Abis- 
sinia. 

Rasselas  was  the  fourth  son  of  the  mighty  em- 
peror, in  whose  dominions  the  father  of  waters 
begins  his  course ;  whose  bounty  pours  down  the 
streams  of  plenty,  and  scatters  over  the  world 
the  harvests  of  Egypt. 

According  to  the  custom  which  has  descend- 
ed from  age  to  age  among  the  monarchs  of  the 
torrid  zone,  Rasselas  was  confined  in  a  private 
palace,  with  the  other  sons  and  daughters  of 
Abissinian  royalty,  till  the  order  of  succession 
should  call  him  to  the  throne. 

The  place,  which  the  wisdom  or  policy  of  anti- 
quity had  destined  for  the  residence  of  the  Abissi- 
nian princes,  was  a  spacious  valley  in  the  kingdom 
of  Amhara,  surrounded  on  every  side  by  moun- 
tains, of  which  the  summits  overhang  the  middle 
part.  The  only  passage  by  which  it  could  be  en- 
tered was  a  cavern  that  passed  under  a  rock,  of 
which  it  had  long  been  disputed  whether  it  was 
the  work  of  nature  or  of  human  industry.  The 
outlet  of  the  cavern  was  concealed  by  a  thick 
wood,  and  the  mouth  which  opened  into  the 
valley  was  closed  with  gates  of  iron,  forged  by 
the  artificers  of  ancient  days,  so  massy,  that  no 
man,  without  the  help  of  engines,  could  open  or 
shut  them. 

From  the  mountains  on  every  side  rivulets  de- 
scended, that  filled  all  the  valley  with  verdure  and 
fertility,  and  formed  a  lake  in  the  middle,  inhabit- 
ed by  fish  of  every  species,  and  frequented  by 
every  fowl  whom  nature  has  taught  to  dip  the 
wing  in  water.  This  lake  discharged  its  super- 
fluities by  a  stream,  which  entered  a  dark  cleft  of 
the  mountain  on  the  northern  side,  and  fell  with 
dreadful  noise  from  precipice  to  precipice,  till  it 
was  heard  no  more. 

The  sides  of  the  mountains  were  covered  with 
trees,  the  banks  of  the  brooks  were  diversified 
with  flowers  ;  every  blast  shook  spices  from  the 
rocks,  and  every  month  dropped  fruits  upon  the 
ground.  All  animals  that  bite  the  grass,  or 
browse  the  shrubs,  whether  wild  or  tame,  wan- 
dered in  this  extensive  circuit,  sacured  from  beasts 


of  prey  by  the  mountains  which  confined  them. 
On  one  part  were  flocks  and  herds  feeding  in  the 
pastures,  on  another  all  the  beasts  of  chase  frisk- 
ing in  the  lawns :  the  sprightly  kid  was  bounding 
on  the  rocks,  the  subtle  monkey  frolicking  in 
the  trees,  and  the  solemn  elephant  reposing  in 
the  shade.  All  the  diversities  of  the  world  were 
brought  together.  The  blessings  of  nature  were 
collected,  and  its  evils  extracted  and  excluded. 

The  valley,  wide  and  fruitful,  supplied  its  inha- 
bitants with  the  necessaries  of  life ;  and  all  de- 
lights and  superfluities  were  added  at  the  annual 
visit  which  the  emperor  paid  his  children,  when 
the  iron  gate  was  opened  to  the  sound  of  music ; 
and  during  eight  days,  every  one  that  resided  in 
the  valley  was  required  to  propose  whatever 
might  contribute  to  make  seclusion  pleasant,  to 
fill  up  the  vacancies  of  attention,  and  lessen  the 
tediousness  of  time.  Every  desire  was  immedi- 
ately granted.  All  the  artificers  of  pleasure  were 
called  to  gladden  the  festivity;  the  musicians  ex- 
erted the  power  of  harmony,  and  the  dancers 
showed  their  activity  before  the  princes,  in  hopes 
that  they  should  pass  their  lives  in  blissful  capti- 
vity, to  which  those  only  were  admitted  whose 
performance  was  thought  able  to  add  novelty  to 
luxury.  Such  was  the  appearance  of  security  and 
delight  which  this  retirement  afforded,  that  they 
to  whom  it  was  new  always  desired  that  it  rnigh't 
be  perpetual ;  and  as  those  on  whom  the  iron  gate 
had  once  closed  were  never  suffered  to  return,  the 
effect  of  longer  experience  could  not  be  known. 
Thus  every  year  produced  new  scenes  of  delight, 
and  new  competitors  for  imprisonment 

The  palace  stood  on  an  eminence,  raised  about 
thirty  paces  above  the  surface  of  the  lake.  It  was 
divided  into  many  squares,  or  courts,  built  with 
greater  or  less  magnificence,  according  to  the 
rank  of  those  for  whom  they  were  designed.  Tho 
roofs  were  turned  into  arches  of  massy  stone, 
joined  by  a  cement  that  grew  harder  by  time  ; 
and  the  building  stood  from  century  to  century, 
deriding  the  solstitial  rains  and  equinoctial  hurri- 
canes, without  need  of  reparation. 

This  house,  which  was  so  large  as  to  be  fully 
known  to  none  but  some  ancient  officers,  who 
successively  inherited  the  secrets  of  the  place, 
was  built  as  if  Suspicion  herself  had  dictated  the 
plan.  To  every  room  there  was  an  open  and 
secret  passage  ;  every  square  had  a  communica- 
tion with  the  rest,  either  from  the  upper  stories 
by  private  galleries,  or  by  subterraneous  passages 
from  the  lower  apartments.  Many  of  the  columns 


RASSELAS. 


457 


had  unsuspected  cavities,  in  which  a  long  race  of 
monarchs  had  reposited  their  treasures.  They 
then  closed  up  the  opening  with  marble,  which 
was  never  to  be  removed  but  in  the  utmost  exi- 
gencies of  the  kingdom;  and  recorded  their  accu- 
mulations in  a  book,  which  was  itself  concealed  in 
a  tower,  not  entered  but  by  the  emperor,  attended 
by  the  prince  who  stood  next  in  succession. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    DISCONTENT   OF   RASSELAS    IN    THE   HAPFI 
VALLEY. 

HERE  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Abissinia  lived 
only  to  know  the  soft  vicissitudes  of  pleasure  and 
repose,  attended  by  all  that  were  skilful  to  delight, 
and  gratified  with  whatever  the  senses  can  enjoy. 
They  wandered  in  gardens  of  fragrance,  and  slept 
in  the  fortresses  of  security.  Every  art  was  prac- 
tised to  make  them  pleased  with  their  own  condi- 
tion. The  sages  who  instructed  them  told  them 
of  nothing  but  the  miseries  of  public  life,  and 
described  all  beyond  the  mountains  as  regions  of 
calamity,  where  discord  was  always  raging,  and 
where  man  preyed  upon  man.  To  heighten  their 
opinion  of  their  own  felicity,  they  were  daily  en- 
tertained with  songs,  the  subject  of  which  was 
the  happy  valley.  Their  appetites  were  excited 
by  frequent  enumerations  of  different  enjoyments, 
and  revelry  and  merriment  were  the  business  of 
every  hour,  from  the  dawn  of  morning  to  the 
close  of  the  evening. 

These  methods  were  generally  successful:  few 
of  the  princes  had  ever  wished  to  enlarge  their 
bounds,  but  passed  their  lives  in  full  conviction 
that  they  had  all  within  their  reach  that  art  or 
nature  could  bestow,  and  pitied  those  whom  na- 
ture had  excluded  from  this  seat  of  tranquillity, 
as  the  sport  of  chance  and  the  slaves  of  misery. 

Thus  they  rose  in  the  morning  and  lay  down  at 
night,  pleased  with  each  other  and  with  them- 
selves, all  but  Rasselas,  who,  in  the  twenty-sixth 
year  of  his  age,  began  to  withdraw  himself  from 
the  pastimes  and  assemblies,  and  to  deught  in 
solitary  walks  and  silent  meditation.  He  often 
sat  before  tables  covered  with  luxury,  and  forgot 
to  taste  the  dainties  that  were  placed  before  him  : 
he  rose  abruptly  in  the  midst  of  the  sons,  and 
hastily  retired  beyond  the  sound  of  music.  His 
attendants  observed  the  change,  and  endeavoured 
to  renew  his  love  of  pleasure  :  he  neglected  their 
officiousness,  repulsed  their  invitations,  and  spent 
day  after  day  on  the  banks  of  rivulets  sheltered 
with  trees,  where  he  sometimes  listened  to  the 
birds  in  the  branches,  sometimes  observed  the 
fish  playing  in  the  stream,  and  anon  cast  his  eyes 
upon  the  pastures  and  mountains  filled  with  ani- 
mals, of  which  some  were  biting  the  herbage,  and 
some  sleeping  among  the  bushes.  The  singu- 
larity of  his  humour  made  him  much  observed. 
One  of  the  sages,  in  whose  conversation  he  had 
formerly  delighted,  followed  him  secretly,  in  hope 
of  discovering  the  cause  of  his  disquiet.  Rasselas, 
who  knew  not  that  any  one  was  near  him,  having 
for  some  lime  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  goats  that 
were  browsing  among  the  rocks,  began  to  com- 
pare their  condition  with  his  own. 

"What,"  said  he,  "makes  the  difference  be- 

tw  een  man  and  all  the  rest  of  the  animal  creation  ? 

Every  beast  that  strays  beside  me  has  the  same 

corporal  necessities  with  myself:   he  is  hungry, 

3H 


and  crops  the  grass ;  he  is  thirsty,  and  drinks 
the  stream  ;  his  thirst  and  hunger  are  appeased ; 
he  is  satisfied,  and  sleeps  ;  he  rises  agai  j  and  is 
hungry  ;  he  is  again  fed,  and  is  at  rest  I  am  Hun- 
gry and  thirsty,  like  him,  but  when  thirst  and  hun- 
ger cease,  I  am  not  at  rest ;  I  am,  like  him,  pained 
with  want,  but  am  not,  like  him,  satisfied  with 
fulness.  The  intermediate  hours  are  tedious  and 
gloomy :  I  long  again  to  be  hunerv,  that  I  may 
again  quicken  the  attention.  The"birds  peck  the 
berries  of  the  corn,  and  fly  away  to  the  groves, 
where  they  sit  in  seeming  happiness  on  the 
branches,  and  waste  their  lives  in  tuning  one  un- 
varied series  of  sounds.  I  likewise  can  call  the 
lutanist  and  the  singer ;  but  the  sounds  that  pleas- 
ed me  yesterday  weary  me  to-day,  and  will  grow 
yet  more  wearisome  to-morrow.  I  can  discover 
in  me  no  power  of  perception  which  is  not  glutted 
with  its  proper  pleasure,  yet  I  do  not  feel  myself 
delighted.  Man  surely  has  some  latent  sense, 
for  which  this  place  affords  no  gratification  ;  or 
he  has  some  desires  distinct  from  sense,  which 
must  be  satisfied  before  he  can  be  happy." 

After  this  he  lifted  up  his  head,  ana  seeing  the 
moon  rising,  walked  towards  the  palace.  As  he 
passed  through  the  fields,  and  saw  the  animals 
around  him,  "  Ye,"  said  he,  "  are  happy,  and 
need  not  envy  me,  that  walk  thus  among  you, 
burdened  with  myself ;  nor  do  I,  ye  gentle  beings, 
envy  your  felicity ;  for  it  is  not  the  felicity  of  man. 
I  have  many  distresses  from  which  ye  are  free  ; 
I  fear  pain  when  I  do  not  feel  it ;  I  sometimes 
shrink  at  evils  recollected,  and  sometimes  start 
at  evils  anticipated :  surely  the  equity  of  Provi- 
dence has  balanced  peculiar  sufferings  with  pecu- 
liar enjoyments." 

With  observations  like  these  the  prince  amused 
himself  as  he  returned,  uttering  them  with  a  plain- 
tive voice,  yet  with  a  look  that  discovered  him  to 
feel  some  complacence  in  his  own  perspicacity,  and 
to  receive  some  solace  of  the  miseries  of  life,  from 
consciousness  of  the  delicacy  with  which  he  felt, 
and  the  eloquence  with  which  he  bewailed  them. 
He  mingled  cheerfully  in  the  diversions  of  the 
evening,  and  all  rejoiced  to  find  that  his  heart  was 
lightened. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   WANTS    OF   HIM    THAT    WANTS   NOTHING. 

ON  the  next  day,  his  old  instructor,  imagining 
that  he  had  now  made  himself  acquainted  with 
his  disease  of  mind,  was  in  hope  of  curing  it  by 
counsel,  and  officiously  sought  an  opportunity  of 
conference,  which  the  prince,  having  long  con- 
sidered him  as  one  whose  intellects  were  exhaust- 
ed, was  not  very  willing  to  afford.  "  Why,"  said 
he,  "  does  this  man  thus  intrude  upon  me  ?  shall 
I  never  be  suffered  to  forget  these  lectures,  which 
pleased  only  while  they  were  new,  and  to  become 
new  again,  must  be  forgotten  ?"  He  then  walked 
into  the  wood,  and  composed  himself  to  his  usual 
meditations ;  when,  before  his  thoughts  had  taken 
any  settled  form,  he  perceived  his  pursuer  at  his 
side,  and  was  at  first  prompted  by  his  impatience 
to  go  hastily  away  ;  but  being  unwilling  to  offend 
a  man  whom  he  had  once  reverenced,  and  still 
loved,  he  invited  him  to  sit  down  with  him  on  the 
bank. 

The  old  man,  thus  encouraged,  began  to  lament 
the  change  which  had  been  lately  observed  in  the 
prince,  and  to  inquire  why  he  so  often  retired 


458 


RASSELAS. 


from  the  pleasures  of  the  palace,  to  loneliness  and 
silence.  ''I  fly  from  pleasure,"  said  the  prince, 
"because  pleasure  has  ceased  to  please;  I  am 
lonely  because  I  am  miserable,  and  am  unwilling 
to  cloud  with  my  presence  the  happiness  of 
others." — "  You,  sir,"  said  the  sage,  "  are  the 
first  who  has  complained  of  misery  in  the  happy 
valley.  I  hope  to  convince  you  tnat  your  com- 
plaints have  no  real  cause.  You -are  here  in  full 
possession  of  all  the  emperor  of  Abissinia  can 
bestow ;  here  is  neither  labour  to  be  endured  nor 
danger  to  be  dreaded,  yet  here  is  all  that  labour 
or  danger  can  procure  or  purchase.  Look  round 
and  tell  me  which  of  your  wants  is  without  sup- 
ply :  if  you  want  nothing,  how  are  you  unhappy '/" 
"  That  I  want  nothing,"  said  the  prince,  "  or 
that  1  know  not  what  I  want,  is  the  cause  of  my 
complaint :  if  1  had  any  known  want,  I  should  have 
a  certain  wish ;  that  wish  would  excite  endeavour, 
and  I  should  not  then  repine  to  see  the  sun  move 
so  slowly  towards  the  western  mountains,  or  to 
lament  when  the  day  breaks,  and  sleep  will  no 
longer  hide  me  from  myself.  When  I  see  the 
kids  and  the  lambs  chasing  one  another,  I  fancy 
that  I  should  be  happy  if  I  had  something  to  pur- 
sue. But,  possessing  all  that  I  can  want,  I  find 
one  day  and  one  hour  exactly  like  another,  except 
that  the  latter  is  still  more  tedious  than  the  former. 
Let  your  experience  inform  me  how  the  day  may 
now  seem  as  short  as  in  my  childhood,  while  na- 
ture was  yet  fresh,  and  every  moment  showed  me 
what  I  never  had  observed  before.  I  have  already 
enjoyed  too  much  :  give  me  something  to  desire." 
The  old  man  was  surprised  at  this  new  species  of 
affliction,  and  knew  not  what  to  reply,  yet  was 
unwilling  to  be  silent.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  "  if  you 
had  seen  the  miseries  of  the  world  you  would 
know  how  to  value  your  present  state."  "Now," 
said  the  prince,  "  you  have  given  me  something 
to  desire  :  I  shall  long  to  see  the  miseries  of  the 
world,  since  the  sight  of  them  is  necessary  to  hap- 
piness." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    PRINCE    CONTINUES    TO   GRIEVE    AND  MUSE. 

AT  this  time  the  sound  of  music  proclaimed  the 
hour  of  repast,  and  the  conversation  was  con- 
cluded. The  old  man  went  away  sufficiently  dis- 
contented to  find  that  his  reasonings  had  produced 
the  only  conclusion  which  they  were  intended  to 
prevent.  But  in  the  decline  of  life,  shame  and 
grief  are  of  short  duration  :  whether  it  be  that  we 
bear  easily  what  we  have  borne  long ;  or  that, 
finding  ourselves  in  age  less  regarded,  we  less  re- 
gard others ;  or  that  we  look  with  slight  regard 
upon  afflictions,  to  which  we  know  that  the  hand 
of  death  is  about  to  put  an  end. 

The  prince,  whose  views  were  extended  to  a 
wider  space,  could  not  speedily  quiet  his  emo- 
tions. He  had  been  before  terrified  at  the  length 
of  life  which  nature  promised  him,  because  he 
considered  that  in  a  long  time  much  must  be  en- 
dured :  he  now  rejoiced  in  his  youth,  because  in 
many  years  much  might  be  'done.  This  first 
beam  of  hope  that  had  been  ever  darted  into  his 
mind,  rekindled  youth  in  his  cheeks,  and  doubled 
the  lustre  of  his  eyes.  He  was  fired  with  the 
desire  of  doing  something,  though  he  knew  not 
yet,  with  distinctness,  either  end  or  means.  He 
was  now  no  longer  gloomy  and  unsocial ;  but, 


considering  himself  as  master  of  a  secret  stock  of 
happiness,  which  lie  could  only  enjoy  by  conceal- 
ing it,  he  afiecied  to  be  busy  in  all  the  schemes  of 
diversion,  and  endeavoured  to  make  others  pleased 
with  the  state  of  which  he  himself  was  weary. 
But  pleasures  can  never  be  so  multiplied  or  con- 
tinued as  not  to  leave  much  of  life  unemployed ; 
there  were  many  hours,  both  of  tne  night  and  day, 
which  he  could  spend  without  suspicion  in  solitary 
thought  The  load  of  life  was  much  lightened  ; 
he  went  eagerly  into  the  assemblies,  because  he 
supposed  the  frequency  of  his  presence  necessary 
to  the  success  of  his  purposes ;  he  retired  gladly 
to  privacy,  because  he  had  now  a  subject  01 
thought.  His  chief  amusement  was  to  picture 
to  himself  that  world  which  he  had  never  seen,  to 
place  himself  in  various  conditions,  to  be  entan- 
gled in  imaginary  difficulties,  and  to  be  engaged  in 
wild  adventures  ;  but  his  benevolence  always  ter- 
minated his  projects  in  the  relief  of  distress,  the 
detection  of  fraud,  the  defeat  of  oppression,  and 
the  diffusion  of  happiness. 

Thus  passed  twenty  months  of  the  life  p, 
Rasselas.  He  busied  himself  so  intensely  in 
visionary  bustle  that  he  forgot  his  real  solitude ; 
and,  amidst  hourly  preparations  for  the  various 
incidents  of  human  affairs,  neglected  to  consider 
by  what  means  he  should  mingle  with  mankind. 

One  day,  as  he  was  sitting  on  a  bank,  he  feign- 
ed to  himself  an  orphan  virgin  robbed  of  her  little 
Gjrtion  by  a  treacherous  lover,  and  crying  after 
m  for  restitution.  So  strongly  was  the  image 
impressed  upon  his  mind,  that  he  started  up  in  the 
maid's  defence,  and  ran  forward  to  seize  the  plun- 
derer with  all  the  eagerness  of  real  pursuit.  Fear 
naturally  quickens  the  flight  of  guilt  Rasselas 
could  not  catch  the  fugitive  with  his  utmost  ef- 
forts: but,  resolving  to  weary  by  perseverance 
him  whom  he  could  not  surpass  in  speed,  he 
pressed  on  till  the  foot  of  the  mountain  stopped  hia 
course. 

Here  he  recollected  himself,  and  smiled  at  his 
own  useless  impetuosity.  Then  raising  his  eyes 
to  the  mountain,  "  This,"  said  he,  "  is  the  fata! 
obstacle  that  hinders  at  once  the  enjoyment  oi 
pleasure  and  the  exercise  of  virtue.  How  long  is 
it  that  my  hopes  and  wishes  have  flown  beyond 
this  boundary  of  my  life,  which  yet  I  never  have 
attempted  to  surmount !"  Struck  with  this  re- 
flection, he  sat  down  to  muse,  and  remembered, 
that  since  he  first  resolved  to  escape  from  his  con- 
finement, the  sun  had  passed  twice  over  him  in 
his  annual  course.  He  now  felt  a  degree  of  re- 
gret with  which  he  had  never  been  before  ac- 
quainted. He  considered  how  much  might  have 
t>een  done  in  the  time  which  had  passed,  and  left 
nothing  real  behind  it.  He  compared  twenty 
months  with  the  life  of  man.  "  In  life,"  said  he, 
"  is  not  to  be  counted  the  ignorance  of  infancy  or 
mbecility  of  age.  We  are  long  before  we  are 
able  to  think,  and  we  soon  cease  from  the  power 
of  acting.  The  true  period  of  human  existence 
may  be  reasonably  estimated  at  forty  years,  of 
which  I  have  mused  away  the  four-and-twentieth 
part  What  I  have  lost  was  certain,  for  I  have 
certainly  possessed  it ;  but  of  twenty  months  to 
come  who  can  assure  me  ?" 

The  consciousness  of  his  own  folly  pierced 
him  deeply,  and  he  was  long  before  he  could  be 
reconciled  to  himself.  "  The  rest  of  my  time,^ 
said  he,  "  has  been  lost  by  the  crime  or  folly  of 
my  ancestors,  and  the  absurd  institutions  of  my 
count  rv  ;  I  remember  it  with  disgust,  yet  without 


RASSELAS. 


459 


remorse ;  but  the  months  that  have  passed  since 
new  light  darted  into  my  soul,  since  I  formed  a 
scheme  of  reasonable  felicity,  have  been  squan- 
dered by  my  own  fault  I  have  lost  that  which 
can  never  be  restored ;  I  have  seen  the  sun  rise 
and  set  for  twenty  months,  an  idle  gazer  on  the 
light  of  heaven :  in  this  time  the  birds  have  left 
the  nest  of  their  mother,  and  committed  them- 
selves to  the  woods  and  to  the  skies ;  the  kid  has 
forsaken  the  teat,  and  learned  by  degrees  to  climb 
the  rocks  in  quest  of  independent  sustenance.  I 
only  have  made  no  advances,  but  am  still  help- 
less and  ignorant  The  moon,  by  more  than 
twenty  changes,  admonished  me  of  the  flux  of 
life ;  the  stream  that  rolled  before  my  feet  upbraid- 
ed my  inactivity.  I  sat  feasting  on  intellectual 
luxury,  regardless  alike  of  the  examples  of  the 
earth  and  the  instructions  of  the  planets.  Twenty 
months  are  passed,  who  shall  restore  them  ?" 

These  sorrowful  meditations  fastened  upon 
his  mind :  he  passed  four  months  in  resolving  to 
lose  no  more  time  in  idle  resolves,  and  was  awak- 
ened to  more  vigorous  exertion,  by  hearing  a 
maid  who  had  broken  a  porcelain  cup,  remark, 
that  what  cannot  be  repaired  is  not  to  be  re- 
gretted. 

This  was  obvious ;  and  Rasselas  reproached 
himself  that  he  had  not  discovered  it ;  having  not 
known,  or  not  considered,  how  many  useful  hints 
are  obtained  by  chance,  and  how  often  the  mind, 
hurried  by  her  own  ardour  to  distant  views,  ne- 
glects the  truths  that  lie  opened  before  her.  He, 
for  a  few  hours,  regretted  his  regret,  and  from 
that  time  bent  his  whole  mind  upon  the  means  of 
escaping  from  the  valley  of  happiness. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    PRINCE   MEDITATES    HIS    ESCAPE. 

HE  now  found  that  it  would  be  very  difficult  to 
effect  that  which  it  was  very  easy  to  suppose 
effected.  When  he  looked  round  about  him,  he 
saw  himself  confined  by  the  bars  of  nature,  which 
had  never  yet  been  broken,  and  by  the  gate, 
through  which  none  that  once  had  passed  it  were 
ever  able  to  return.  He  was  now  impatient  as  an 
eagle  in  a  grate.  He  passed  week  after  week 
in  "clambering  the  mountains,  to  see  if  there  was 
any  aperture  which  the  bushes  might  conceal, 
but  found  all  the  summits  inaccessible  by  their 
prominence.  The  iron  gate  he  despaired  to  open ; 
for  it  was  not  only  secured  with  all  the  power  of 
art,  but  was  always  watched  by  successive  sen- 
tinels, and  was  by  its  position  exposed  to  the  per- 
petual observation  of  all  the  inhabitants. 

He  then  examined  the  cavern  through  which 
the  waters  of  the  lake  were  discharged ;  and, 
looking  down  at  a  time  when  the  sun  shone 
strongly  upon  its  mouth,  he  discovered  it  to  be 
full  of  broken  rocks,  which,  though  they  permitted 
the  stream  to  flow  through  many  narrow  pas- 
sages, would  stop  any  body  of  solid  bulk.  He  re- 
turned discouraged  and  dejected;  but,  having 
now  known  theljlessing  of  hope,  resolved  never 
to  despair. 

In  these  fruitless  researches  he  spent  ten 
months.  The  time,  however,  passed  cheerfully 
away  ;  in  the  morning  he  rose  with  new  hope,  in 
the  evening  applauded  his  own  diligence,  and  in 
the  night  slept  sound  after  his  fatigue.  He  met  a 
thousand  amusements,  which  beguiled  his  labour 


and  diversified  his  thoughts.  He  discerned  the 
various  instincts  of  animals,  and  properties  of 
plants,  and  found  the  place  replete  with  wonders, 
of  which  he  proposed  to  solace  himself  with  the 
contemplation,  if  he  should  never  be  able  to  ac- 
complish his  flight ;  rejoicing  that  his  endeavours, 
though  yet  unsuccessful,  had  supplied  him  with  a 
source  of  inexhaustible  inquiry. 

But  his  original  curiosity  was  not  yet  abated  : 
he  resolved  to  obtain  some  knowledge  of  the 
ways  of  men.  His  wish  still  continued,  but  his 
hope  grew  less.  He  ceased  to  survey  any  longer 
the  walls  of  his  prison,  and  spared  to  search  by 
new  toils  for  interstices  which  he  knew  could 
not  be  found,  yet  determined  to  keep  his  design 
always  in  view,  and  lay  hold  on  any  expedient 
that  time  should  offer. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A   DISSERTATION   ON    THE   ART    OP   FLYING. 

AMONG  the  artists  that  had  been  allured  into  the 
happy  valley,  to  labour  for  the  accommodation 
and  pleasure  of  its  inhabitants,  was  a  man  emi- 
nent for  his  knowledge  of  the  mechanic  powers, 
who  had  contrived  many  engines  both  of  use  and 
recreation.  By  a  wheel  which  the  stream  turned, 
he  forced  the  water  into  a  tower,  whence  it  was 
distributed  to  all  the  apartments  of  the  palace. 
He  erected  a  pavilion  in  the  garden,  around  which 
he  kept  the  air  always  cool  by  artificial  showers. 
One  of  the  groves,  appropriated  to  the  ladies,  was 
ventilated  by  fans,  to  which  the  rivulets  that  ran 
through  it  gave  a  constant  motion ;  and  instru- 
ments of  soft  music  were  played  at  proper  dis- 
tances, of  which  some  played  by  the  impulse  of 
the  wind,  and  some  by  the  power  of  the  stream. 

This  artist  was  sometimes  visited  by  Rasselas, 
who  was  pleased  with  every  kind  of  knowledge, 
imagining  that  the  time  would  come  when  all  his 
acquisitions  should  be  of  use  to  him  in  the  open 
world.  He  came  one  day  to  amuse  himself  in 
his  usual  manner,  and  found  the  master  busy  in 
building  a  sailing  chariot:  he  saw  that  the  design 
was  practicable  upon  a  level  surface,  and  with  ex 
pressions  of  great  esteem  solicited  its  completion. 
The  workman  was  pleased  to  find  himself  so 
much  regarded  by  the  prince,  and  resolved  to  gain 
yet  higher  honours.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  "  you  have 
seen  but  a  small  part  of  what  the  mechanic  sci- 
ence can  perform.  I  have  been  long  of  opinion, 
that  instead  of  the  tardy  conveyance  of  ships  and 
chariots,  man  might  use  the  swifter  migration  of 
wings ;  that  the  fields  of  air  are  open  to  know- 
ledge, and  that  only  ignorance  and  idleness  need 
crawl  upon  the  ground." 

This  hint  rekindled  the  prince's  desire  of  pass- 
ing the  mountains.  Having  seen  what  the  me- 
chanist had  already  performed,  he  was  willing  to 
fancy  that  he  could  do  more ;  yet  resolved  to  in- 
quire farther  before  he  suffered  hope  to  afflict  him 
by  disappointment  "  I  am  afraid,"  said  he  to 
the  artist,  "  that  your  imagination  prevails  over 
your  skill,  and  that  you  now  tell  me  rather  what 
you  wish  than  what  you  know.  Every  animal 
has  his  element  assigned  him ;  the  birds  have  the 
air  and  man  and  beast  the  earth."  "  So,"  replied 
the  mechanist,  "  fishes  have  the  water,  m  which 
vet  beasts  can  swim  by  nature,  and  man  by  art. 
He  that  can  swim  needs  not  despair  to  fly :  to 
swim  is  to  fly  in  a  grosser  fluid,  and  to  fly  «  to 


460 


RASSELAS. 


swim  in  a  subtler.  We  are  only  to  proportion 
our  power  of  resistance  to  the  different  density  of 
matter  through  which  we  are  to  pass.  You  will 
be  necessarily  upborne  by  the  air,  if  you  can  re- 
new any  impulse  upon  it  faster  than  the  air  can 
recede  from  the  pressure." 

"But  the  exercise  of  swimming,"  said  the 
prince,  "  is  very  laborious  ;  the  strongest  limbs 
are  soon  wearied :  I  am  afraid  the  act  of  flying 
will  be  yet  more  violent ;  and  wings  will  be  of 
no  great  use,  unless  we  can  fly  further  than  we 
can  swim." 

"  The  labour  of  rising  from  the  ground,"  said 
the  artist,  "will  be  great,  as  we  see  it  in  the 
heavier  domestic  fowls ;  but,  as  we  mount  higher, 
the  earth's  attraction,  and  the  body's  gravity,  will 
be  gradually  diminished,  till  we  shall  arrive  at  a 
region  where  the  man  shall  float  in  the  air  with- 
out any  tendency  to  fall ;  no  care  will  then  be  ne- 
cessary but  to  move  forward,  which  the  gentlest 
impulse  will  effect  You,  sir,  whose  curiosity  is 
so  extensive,  will  easily  conceive  with  what  plea- 
sure a  philosopher,  furnished  with  wings,  and 
hovering  in  the  sky,  would  see  the  earth,  and  all 
its  inhabitants,  rolling  beneath  him,  and  present- 
ing to  him  successively,  by  its  diurnal  motion,  all 
the  countries  within  the  same  parallel.  How  must 
it  amuse  the  pendent  spectator  to  see  the  moving 
scene  of  land  and  ocean,  cities  and  deserts !  to 
survey  with  equal  security  the  marts  of  trade,  and 
the  fields  of  battle;  mountains  infested  by  barba- 
rians, and  fruitful  regions  gladdened  by  plenty 
and  lulled  by  peace !  How  easily  shall  we  then 
trace  the  Nile  through  all  his  passages,  pass  over 
to  distant  regions,  and  examine  the  face  of  nature 
from  one  extremity  of  the  earth  to  the  other." 

"  All  this,"  said  the  prince,  "  is  much  to  be  de- 
sired, but  I  am  afraid  that  no  man  will  be  able  to 
breathe  in  these  regions  of  speculation  and  tran- 
quillity. I  have  been  told  that  respiration  is 
difficult  upon  lofty  mountains;  yet  from  these 
precipices,  though  so  high  as  to  produce  great 
tenuity  of  air,  it  is  very  easy  to  fall ;  therefore  I 
suspect,  that  from  any  height,  where  life  can  be 
supported,  there  may  be  danger  of  too  quick 
descent" 

"  Nothing,"  replied  the  artist,  "  will  ever  be 
attempted,  if  all  possible  objections  must  be  first 
overcome.  If  you  will  favour  my  project,  I  will 
try  the  first  flight  at  my  own  hazard.  1  have  con- 
sidered the  structure  of  all  volant  animals,  and 
find  th-3  folding  continuity  of  the  bats'  wings  most 
easily  accommodated  to  the  human  form.  Upon 
this  model  I  shall  begin  my  task  to-morrow;  and, 
in  a  year,  expect  to  tower  into  the  air  beyond  the 
malice  and  pursuit  of  man.  But  I  will  work  only 
on  this  condition,  that  the  art  shall  not  be  divulg- 
ed, and  that  you  shall  not  require  me  to  make 
wings  for  any  but  ourselves." 

"  Why,"  said  Rasselas,  "  should  you  envy 
others  so  great  an  advantage  ?  All  skill  ought  to 
be  exerted  for  universal  good;  every  man  has 
owed  much  to  others,  and  ought  to  repay  the 
kindness  that  he  has  received." 

"  If  men  were  all  virtuous,"  returned  the  ar- 
tist, "  I  should  with  great  alacrity  teach  them  to 
fly.  But  what  would  be  the  security  of  the  good 
if  the  bad  could  at  pleasure  invade  them  from  the 
sky  ?  Against  an  army  sailing  through  the  clouds, 
neither  walls,  mountains,  nor  seas,  could  afford 
security.  A  flight  of  northern  savages  might 
hover  in  the  wind,  and  light  with  irresistible  vio- 
lence upon  the  capital  of  a  fruitful  region.  Even 


this  valley,  the  retreat  of  princes,  the  abode  ot 
happiness,  might  be  violated  by  the  sudden  de- 
scent of  some  of  the  naked  nations  that  swarm  on 
the  coast  of  the  southern  sea  !" 

The  prince  promised  secrecy,  and  waited  for 
the  performance,  not  wholly  hopeless  of  success. 
He  visited  the  work  from  time  to  time,  observed 
its  progress,  and  remarked  many  ingenious  con- 
trivances to  facilitate  motion,  and  unite  levity 
with  strength.  The  artist  was  every  day  more 
certain  that  he  should  leave  vultures  and  eagles 
behind  him,  and  the  contagion  of  his  confidence 
seized  upon  the  prince.  In  a  year  the  wings  were 
finished ;  and,  on  a  morning  appointed,  the  maker 
appeared  furnished  for  flight  on  a  little  promon 
tory:  he  waved  his  pinions  a  while  to  gather  air, 
then  leaped  from  his  stand,  and  in  an  instant 
dropped  into  the  lake.  His  wings,  which  were 
of  no  use  in  the  air,  sustained  him  in  the  water ; 
and  the  prince  drew  him  to  land  half  dead  with 
terror  and  vexation. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    PRINCE    FINDS   A   MAN    OP   LEARNING. 

THE  prince  was  not  much  afflicted  by  this  dis 
aster,  having  suffered  himself  to  hope  for  a  hap- 
pier event  only  because  he  had  no  other  means 
of  escape  in  view.  He  still  persisted  in  his  de- 
sign to  leave  the  happy  valley  by  the  first  oppor- 
tunity. 

His  imagination  was  now  at  a  stand  ;  he  had 
no  prospect  of  entering  into  the  world ;  and,  not- 
withstanding all  his  endeavours  to  support  him- 
self, discontent,  by  degrees,  preyed  upon  him; 
and  he  began  again  to  lose  his  thoughts  in  sad- 
ness, when  the  rainy  season,  which  in  these  coun- 
tries is  periodical,  made  it  inconvenient  to  wander 
in  the  woods. 

The  rain  continued  longer  and  with  more  vio- 
lence than  had  ever  been  known:  the  clouds 
broke  on  the  surrounding  mountains,  and  the  tor- 
rents streamed  into  the  plain  on  every  side,  till  the 
cavern  was  too  narrow  to  discharge  the  water. 
The  lake  overflowed  its  banks,  and  all  the  level 
of  the  valley  was  covered  with  the  inundation. 
The  eminence  on  which  the  palace  was  built,  and 
some  other  spots  of  rising  around,  were  all  that 
the  eye  could  now  discover.  The  herds  and  flocks 
left  the  pasture,  and  both  the  wild  beasts  and 
the  tame  retreated  to  the  mountains. 

This  inundation  confined  all  the  princes  to  do- 
mestic amusements;  and  the  attention  of  Rasselas 
was  particularly  seized  by  a  poem,  which  Imlac 
rehearsed,  upon  the  various  conditions  of  hu- 
manity. He  commanded  the  poet  to  attend  him 
in  his  apartment,  and  recite  his  verses  a  second 
time;  then,  entering  into  familiar  talk,  he  thought 
himself  happy  in  having  found  a  man  who  knew 
the  world  so  well,  and  could  so  skilfully  paint  the 
scenes  of  life.  He  asked  a  thousand  questions 
about  things,  to  which,  though  common  to  all 
other  mortals,  his  confinement  from  childhood 
had  kept  him  a  stranger.  The  poet  pitied  his 
ignorance,  and  loved  his  curiosity,  and  entertained 
him  from  day  to  day  with  novelty  and  instruction, 
so  that  the  prince  regretted  the  necessity  of  sleep, 
and  longed  till  the  morning  should  renew  his 
pleasure. 

As  they  were  sitting  together,  the  prince  com- 
manded Imlac  to  relate  his  history,  and  to  tell  by 


RASSELAS. 


461 


what  accident  he  was  forced,  or  by  what  motive 
induced,  to  close  his  life  in  the  happy  valley.  As 
he  was  going  to  begin  his  narrative,  Rasselas  was 
called  to  a  concert,  and  obliged  to  restrain  his 
curiosity  till  the  evening. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    HISTORY    OF    IMLAC. 

THE  close  of  the  day  is,  in  the  regions  of  the 
torrid  zone,  the  only  season  of  diversion  and  en- 
tertainment, and  it  was  therefore  midnight  before 
the  music  ceased  and  the  princesses  retired.  Ras- 
selas then  called  for  his  companion,  and  required 
him  to  begin  the  story  of  his  life, 

"Sir,"  said  Imlac,  "my  history  will  not  be 
long:  the  life  that  is  devoted  to  knowledge  passes 
silently  away,  and  is  very  little  diversified  by 
events.  To  talk  in  public,  to  think  in  solitude,  to 
read  and  to  hear,  to  inquire  and  answer  inquiries, 
is  the  business  of  a  scnolar.  He  wanders  about 
the  world  without  pomp  or  terror,  and  is  neither 
known  nor  valued  but  by  men  like  himself. 

"  I  was  born  in  the  kingdom  of  Goiama,  at  no 
great  distance  from  the  fountain  of  the  Nile.  My 
father  was  a  wealthy  merchant,  who  traded  be- 
tween the  inland  countries  of  Africa  and  the  ports 
of  the  Red  Sea.  He  was  honest,  frugal,  and  dili- 
gent, but  of  mean  sentiments  and  narrow  com- 
prehension ;  he  desired  only  to  be  rich,  and  to 
conceal  his  riches,  lest  he  should  be  spoiled  by  the 
governors  of  the  province." 

"  Surely,"  said  the  prince,  "  my  father  must  be 
negligent  of  his  charge,  if  any  man  in  his  domi- 
nions dares  take  that  which  belongs  to  another. 
Does  he  not  know  that  kings  are  accountable  for 
injustice  permitted  as  well  as  done?  If  I  were 
emperor,  not  the  meanest  of  my  subjects  should 
be  oppressed  with  impunity.  My  blood  boils  when 
I  am  told  that  a  merchant  durst  not  enjoy  his 
honest  gains  for  fear  of  losing  them  by  the  rapa- 
city of  power.  Name  the  governor  who  robbed 
the  people,  that  I  may  declare  his  crimes  to  the 
emperor !" 

"  Sir,"  said  Imlac,  "your  ardour  is  the  natural 
effect  of  virtue  animated  by  youth  :  the  time  will 
come  when  you  will  acquit  your  father,  and  per- 
haps hear  with  less  impatience  of  the  governor. 
Oppression  is,  in  the  Abissinian  dominions,  nei- 
ther frequent  nor  tolerated  ;  but  no  form  of  go- 
vernment has  been  yet  discovered,  by  which 
cruelty  can  be  wholly  prevented.  Subordination 
supposes  power  on  one  part  and  subjection  on  the 
other  ;  and  if  power  be  in  the  hands  of  men,  it 
will  sometimes  be  abused.  The  vigilance  of  the 
supreme  magistrate  may  do  much,  but  much  will 
still  remain  undone.  He  can  never  know  all  the 
crimes  that  are  committed,  and  can  seldom  punish 
all  that  he  knows." 

"  This,"  eaid  the  prince,  "  I  do  not  understand ; 
but  1  had  rather  hear  thee  than  dispute.  Continue 
thy  narration." 

"  My  father,"  proceeded  Imlac,  "  originally  in- 
tended that  I  should  have  no  other  education 
than  such  as  might  qualify  me  for  commerce ;  and 
discovering  in  me  great  strength  of  memory  and 
quickness  of  apprehension,  often  declared  his 
hope  that  I  should  be  some  time  the  richest  man 
in  Abissinia." 


"Why,"  said  the  prince,  "  did  thy  father  desire 
the  increase  of  his  wealth,  when  it  was  already 
greater  than  he  durst  discover  or  enjoy  ?  I  am 
unwilling  to  doubt  thy  veracity,  yet  inconsisten- 
cies cannot  both  be  true." 

"Inconsistencies,"  answered  Imlac,  "cannot 
both  be  right ;  but,  imputed  to  man,  they  may  both 
be  true.  Yet  diversity  is  not  inconsistency.  My 
father  might  expect  a  time  of  greater  security. 
However,  some  desire  is  necessary  to  keep  life  in 
motion  ;  and  he,  whose  real  wants  are  supplied, 
must  admit  those  of  fancy." 

"  This,"  said  the  prince,  "  I  can  in  some  mea- 
sure conceive.  I  repent  that  I  interrupted  thee." 

"With  this  hope,"  proceeded  Imlac,  "he  sent 
me  to  school :  but  when  I  had  once  found  the  de- 
light of  knowledge,  and  felt  the  pleasure  of  intel- 
ligence and  the  pride  of  invention,  1  began  silently 
to  despise  riches,  and  determined  to  disappoint 
the  purposes  of  my  father,  whose  grossness  of 
conception  raised  my  pity.  I  was  twenty  years 
old  before  his  tenderness  would  expose  me  to  the 
fatigue  of  travel ;  in  which  time  1  had  been  in- 
structed, by  successive  masters,  in  all  the  litera- 
ture of  my  native  country.  As  every  hour  taught 
me  something  new,  I  lived  in  a  continual  course 
of  gratifications;  but,  as  I  advanced  towards  man- 
hood, I  lost  much  of  the  reverence  with  which  1 
had  been  used  to  look  on  my  instructors ;  because  , 
when  the  lessons  were  ended,  I  did  not  find  them 
wiser  or  better  than  common  men. 

"  At  length  my  father  resolved  to  initiate  me 
in  commerce ;  and,  opening  one  of  his  subterra- 
nean treasuries,  counted  out  ten  thousand  pieces 
of  gold.  This,  young  man,  said  he,  is  the  stock 
with  which1  you  must  negotiate.  I  began  with  less 
than  a  fifth  part,  and  you  see  how  diligence  and 
parsimony  have  increased  it.  This  is  your  own,  to 
waste  or  to  improve.  If  you  squander  it  by  negli- 
gence or  caprice,  you  must  wait  for  my  death  be- 
fore you  will  be  rich  ;  if  in  four  years  you  double 
your  stock,  we  will  thenceforward  let  subordina- 
tion cease,  and  live  together  as  friends  and  part- 
ners: for  he  shall  be  always  equal  with  me,  who 
is  equally  skilled  in  the  art  of  growing  rich. 

"We  laid  our  money  upon  camels,  concealed 
in  bales  of  cheap  goods,  and  travelled  to  the  shore 
of  the  Red  Sea.  When  I  cast  my  eye  on  the  ex- 
panse of  waters,  my  heart  bounded  like  that  of 
a  prisoner  escaped.  I  felt  an  unextinguislmble 
curiosity  kindle  in  my  mind,  and  resolved  to 
snatch  this  opportunity  of  seeing  the  manners  of 
other  nations,  and  of  learning  sciences  unknown 
in  Abissinia. 

"  I  remembered  that  my  father  had  obliged  me 
to  the  improvement  of  my  stock,  not  by  a  promise, 
which!  ought  not  to  violate,  but  by  a  penalty,  which 
I  was  at  liberty  to  incur ;  and  therefore  determined 
to  gratify  my  predominant  desire,  and,  by  drink- 
ing at  the  fountain  of  knowledge,  to  quench  the 
thirst  of  curiosity. 

"As  I  was  supposed  to  trade  without  connex- 
ion with  my  father,  it  was  easy  for  me  to  become 
acquainted  wkh  the  master  of  a  ship,  and  procure 
a  passage  to  some  other  country.  I  had  no  mo- 
tives of  choice  to  regulate  my  voyage.  It  was 
sufficient  for  me,  that,  wherever  I  wandered,  I 
should  see  a  country  which  I  had  not  seen  before. 
I  therefore  entered  a  ship  bound  for  Surat,  hav- 
ing left  a  letter  for  my  father  declaring  my  in 
tention." 


462 


RASSELAS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    HISTORY    OF    IMLAC    CONTINUED. 

"WHEN  1  first  entered  upon  the  world  of  wa- 
ters, and  lost  sight  ofland,  I  looked  round  about 
me  in  pleasing  terror,  and  thinking  my  soul  en- 
larged by  the  boundless  prospect,  imagined  that  I 
could  gaze  around  for  ever  without  satiety  ;  but, 
in  a  short  time,  I  grew  weary  of  looking  on  barren 
uniformity,  where  I  could  only  see  again  what  I 
had  already  seen.  I  then  descended  into  the  ship, 
and  doubted  for  a  while  whether  all  my  future 
pleasures  would  not  end,  like  this,  in  disgust  and 
disappointment.  Yet  surely,  said  I,  the  ocean 
and  the  land  are  very  different ;  the  only  variety 
of  water  is  rest  and  motion,  but  the  earth  has 
mountains  and  valleys,  deserts  and  cities:  it  is 
inhabited  by  men  of  different  customs,  and  con- 
trary opinions ;  and  I  may  hope  to  find  variety  in 
life,  though  I  should  miss  it  in  nature. 

"  With  this  thought  I  quieted  my  mind ;  and 
amused  myself  during  the  voyage,  sometimes  by 
learning  from  the  sailors  the  art  of  navigation, 
which  I  have  never  practised,  and  sometimes  by 
forming  schemes  for  my  conduct  in  different  situa- 
tions, in  not  one  of  which  I  have  been  ever  placed. 

"I  was  almost  weary  of  my  naval  amusements, 
when  we  safely  landed  at  Surat  I  secured  my 
money,  and,  purchasing  some  commodities  for 
show,  joined  myself  to  a  caravan  that  was  passing 
into  the  inland  country.  My  companions,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  conjecturing  that  I  was  rich,  and, 
by  my  inquiries  and  admiration,  finding  that  I  was 
ignorant,  considered  me  as  a  novice  whom  they 
had  a  right  to  cheat,  and  who  was  to  learn,  at  the 
usual  expense,  the  art  of  fraud.  They  exposed 
me  to  the  theft  of  servants  and  the  exaction  of 
officers,  and  saw  me  plundered  upon  false  pre- 
tences, without  any  advantage  to  themselves,  but 
that  of  rejoicing  in  the  superiority  of  their  own 
knowledge." 

"  Stop  a  moment,"  said  the  prince :  "  is  there 
such  depravity  in  man,  as  that  he  should  injure 
another  without  benefit  to  himself?  I  can  easily 
conceive  that  all  are  pleased  with  superiority  ; 
but  your  ignorance  was  merely  accidental,  which, 
being  neither  your  crime  nor  your  folly,  could 
afford  them  no  reason  to  applaud  themselves; 
and  the  knowledge  which  they  had,  and  which 
you  wanted,  they  might  as  effectually  have  shown 
by  warning,  as  betraying  you." 

"  Pride,"  said  Imlac,  "  is  seldom  delicate  ;  it 
will  please  itself  with  very  mean  advantages ; 
and  envy  feels  not  its  own  happiness  but  when 
it  may  be  compared  with  the  misery  of  others. 
They  v/ere  my  enemies  because  they  grieved  to 
think  me  rich,  and  my  oppressors  because  they 
delighted  to  find  me  weak." 

"  Proceed,"  said  the  prince :  "  I  doubt  not  of 
Ihe  facts  which  you  relate,  but  imagine  that  you 
anpute  them  to  mistaken  motives.'.' 

':  In  this  company,"  said  Imlac,  "  I  arrived  at 
Agra,  the  capital  of  Indostan,  the  city  in  which 
Ihe  Great  Mosul  commonly  resides.  I  applied 
myself  to  the  language  of  the  countrv,  and  in  a 
few  months  was  able  to  converse  with  the  learned 
mon  ;  some  of  whom  I  found  morose  and  re- 
ssrv.-.'d  :  and  others  easy  and  communicative ; 
some  were  unwilling  to  teach  another  what  they 
iidd  with  difficulty  learned  themselves ;  and  some 
showed  that  the  end  of  their  studies  was  to  gain 
trn  dignity  of  instructing. 

"To  the  tutor  of  the  young  princes  I  recom- 


mended myself  BO  much,  that  I  was  presented  to 
the  emperor  as  a  man  of  uncommon  knowledge. 
The  emperor  asked  me  many  questions  concern- 
ing my  country  and  my  travels ;  and  though  I 
cannot  now  recollect  any  thing  that  he  uttered 
above  the  power  of  a  common  man,  he  dismissed 
me  astonished  at  his  wisdom,  and  enamoured  of 
his  goodness. 

"  My  credit  was  now  so  high,  that  the  mer- 
chants with  whom  I  had  travelled  applied  to  me 
for  recommendations  to  the  ladies  ol  the  court.  I 
was  surprised  at  their  confidence  of  solicitation, 
and  gently  reproached  them  with  their  practices 
on  the  road.  They  heard  me  with  cold  indiffer- 
ence, and  showed  no  tokens  of  shame  or  sorrow. 

"  They  then  urged  their  request  with  the  offer 
of  a  bribe ;  but  what  I  would  not  do  for  kindness 
I  would  not  do  for  money,  and  refused  them ; 
not  because  they  had  injured  me ;  but  because  I 
would  not  enable  them  to  injure  others;  for  I 
knew  they  would  have  made  use  of  my  credit  to 
cheat  those  who  should  buy  their  wares. 

"  Having  resided  at  Agra  till  there  was  no 
more  to  be  learned,  I  travelled  into  Persia,  where 
I  saw  many  remains  of  ancient  magnificence,  and 
observed  many  new  accommodations  of  life.  The 
Persians  are  a  nation  eminently  social,  and  their 
assemblies  afforded  me  daily  opportunities  of  re- 
marking characters  and  manners,  and  of  tracing 
human  nature  through  all  its  variations. 

"  From  Persia  I  passed  into  Arabia,  where  I 
saw  a  nation  pastoral  and  warlike;  who  lived 
without  any  settled  habitation,  whose  wealth  is 
their  flocks  and  herds,  and  who  have  carried  on, 
through  ages,  an  hereditary  war  with  mankind, 
though  they  neither  covet  nor  envy  their  posses- 
sions." 


CHAPTER  X. 

IMLAC'S    HISTORY    CONTINUED.       A    DISSERTATION 
UPON    POETRY. 

"  WHEREVER  I  went,  I  found  that  poetry  was 
considered  as  the  highest  learning,  and  regarded 
with  a  veneration  somewhat  approaching  to  that 
which  man  would  pay  to  angelic  nature.  And 
yet  it  fills  me  with  wonder,  that,  in  almost  all 
countries,  the  most  ancient  poets  are  considered 
as  the  best:  whether  it  be  that  every  other  kind 
of  knowledge  is  an  acquisition  gradually  attained, 
and  poetry  is  a  gift  conferred  at  once ;  or  that  the 
first  poetry  of  every  nation  surprised  them  as  a 
novelty,  and  retained  the  credit  by  consent  which 
it  received  by  accident  at  first ;  or  whether,  as  the 
province  of  poetry  is  to  describe  nature  and  pas- 
sion, which  are  always  the  same,  the  first  writers 
took  possession  of  the  most  striking  objects  for 
description  and  the  most  probable  occurrences 
for  fiction,  and  left  nothing  to  those  that  followed 
them  but  transcription  of  the  same  events,  and 
new  combinations  of  the  same  images.  What- 
ever be  the  reason,  it  is  commonly  observed  that 
the  early  writers  are  in  possession  of  nature,  and 
their  followers  of  art;  that  the  first  excel  in 
strength  and  invention,  and  the  latter  in  elegance 
and  refinement. 

"  I  was  desirous  to  add  my  name  to  this  illus- 
trious fraternity.  I  read  all  the  poets  of  Persia 
and  Arabia,  and  was  able  to  repeat  by  memory 
the  volumes  that  are  suspended  in  the  mosque 
of  Mecca.  But  I  soon  found  that  no  man  waa 


KASSELAS. 


463 


ever  great  by  imitation.  My  desire  of  excellence 
impelled  me  to  transfer  my  attention  to  nature 
and  to  life.  Nature  was  to  be  my  subject,  and 
men  to  be  my  auditors.  I  could  never  describe 
what  I  had  not  seen  ;  I  could  not  hope  to  move 
those  with  delight  or  terror,  whose  interests  and 
opinions  I  did  not  understand. 

"  Being  now  resolved  to  be  a  poet,  I  saw  every 
thing  with  a  new  purpose ;  my  sphere  of  atten- 
tion was  suddenly  magnih'ed ;  no  kind  of  know- 
ledge was  to  be  overlooked.  I  ranged  mountains 
and  deserts  for  images  and  resemblances,  and 
pictured  upon  my  mind  every  tree  of  the  forest 
and  flower  of  the  valley.  I  observed  with  equal 
care  the  crags  of  the  rock  and  the  pinnacles  of  the 
palace. — Sometimes  I  wandered  along  the  mazes 
of  the  rivulet,  and  sometimes  watched  the  changes 
of  the  summer  clouds. — To  a  poet  nothing  can 
be  useless.  Whatever  is  beautiful,  and  whatever 
is  dreadful,  must  be  familiar  to  his  imagination ; 
he  must  be  conversant  with  all  that  is  awfully 
vast  or  elegantly  little.  The  clants  of  the  gar- 
den, the  animals  of  the  wood,  the  minerals  of  the 
earth,  and  meteors  of  the  sky,  must  all  concur  to 
store  his  mind  with  inexhaustible  variety ;  for 
every  idea  is  useful  for  the  enforcement  or  deco- 
ration of  moral  or  religious  truth  ;  and  he  who 
knows  most  will  have  most  power  of  diversifying 
his  scenes,  and  of  gratifying  his  reader  with  re- 
mote allusions  and  unexpected  instruction. 

"  All  the  appearances  of  nature  I  was  there- 
fore careful  to  study  ;  and  every  country  which 
I  have  surveyed  has  contributed  something  to  my 
poetical  powers." 

"  In  so  wide  a  survey,"  said  the  prince,  "  you 
must  surely  have  left  much  unobserved.  I  have 
lived  till  now  within  the  circuit  of  the  mountains, 
and  yet  cannot  walk  abroad  without  the  sight  of 
something  which  I  had  never  beheld  before,  or 
never  heeded." 

"  The  business  of  a  poet,"  said  Imlac,  "  is  to 
examine,  not  the  individual,  but  the  species  ;  to 
remark  general  properties  and  large  appearances ; 
he  does  not  number  the  streaks  of  the  tulip,  or 
describe  the  different  shades  of  the  verdure  of 
the  forest.  He  is  to  exhibit  in  his  portraits  of  na- 
ture such  prominent  and  striking  features  as  recall 
the  original  to  every  mind  ;  and  must  neglect  the 
minuter  discriminations,  which  one  may  have  re- 
marked, and  another  have  neglected,  for  those 
characteristics  which  are  alike  obvious  to  vigi- 
lance and  carelessness. 

"  But  the  knowledge  of  nature  is  only  half  the 
task  of  a  poet ;  he  must  be  acquainted  likewise 
with  all  the  modes  of  life.  His  character  requires 
that  he  estimate  the  happiness  and  misery  of 
every  condition ;  observe  the  power  of  all  the 
passions  in  all  their  combinations ;  and  trace  the 
changes  of  the  human  rnind,  as  they  are  modi- 
fied by  various  institutions  and  accidental  influ- 
ences of  climate  or  custom,  from  the  sprightliness 
of  infancy  to  the  despondence  of  decrepitude.  He 
must  divest  himself  of  the  prejudices  of  his  age 
and  country  ;  he  must  consider  right  and  wrong 
in  their  abstracted  and  invariable  state  ;  he  must 
disregard  present  laws  and  opinions,  and  rise  to 
general  and  transcendental  truths,  which  will 
always  be  the  same :  he  must,  therefore,  content 
himself  with  the  slow  progress  of  his  name, 
contemn  the  piaise  of  his  own  time,  and  com- 
mit his  claims  to  the  justice  of  posterity.  He 
must  write  as  the  interpreter  of  nature,  and  the 
legislator  of  mankind,  and  consider  himself  as 


presiding  over  the  thoughts  and  manners  of  fu- 
ture generations,  as  a  being  superior  to  time  and 
place. 

"  His  labour  is  not  yet  at  an  end ;  he  must 
know  many  languages  and  many  sciences ;  and, 
that  his  style  may  be  worthy  of  his  thoughts, 
must,  by  incessant  practice,  familiarize  to  him- 
self every  delicacy  of  speech  and  grace  of  har 
mony." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

IMLAC'S    NARRATIVE    CONTINUED.      A   HINT    ON 
PILGRIMAGE. 

IMLAC  now  felt  the  enthusiastic  fit,  and  was 
proceeding  to  aggrandize  his  own  profession, 
when  the  prince  cried  out,  "  Enough !  thou  hast 
convinced  me  that  no  human  being  can  ever  be 
a  poet  Proceed  with  thy  narration." 

"  To  be  a  poet,"  said  Imlac,  "  is  indeed  very 
difficult."  "  So  difficult,"  returned  the  prince 
"  that  I  will  at  present  hear  no  more  of  his  la- 
bours. Tell  me  whither  you  went  when  you  had 
seen  Persia." 

"  From  Persia,"  said  the  poet,  "  I  travelled 
through  Syria,  and  for  three  years  resided  in 
Palestine,  where  I  conversed  with  great  numbers 
of  the  northern  and  western  nations  of  Europe ; 
the  nations  which  are  now  in  possession  of  all 
power  and  all  knowledge;  whose  aimies  arc  ir- 
resistible, and  whose  fleets  command  the  remotes" 
parts  of  the  globe.  When  I  compared  these  me?, 
with  the  natives  of  our  own  kingdom  and  those 
that  surround  us,  they  appeared  almost  another 
order  of  beings.  In  their  countries  it  is  difficult 
to  wish  for  any  thing  that  may  not  be  obtained : 
a  thousand  arts,  of  which  we  never  heard,  are 
continually  labouring  for  their  convenience  and 
pleasure ;  and  whatever  their  own  climate  has 
denied  them  is  supplied  by  their  commerce." 

"  By  what  means,"  said  the  prince,  "  are  the 
Europeans  thus  powerful?  or  why,  since  they 
can  so  easily  visit  Asia  and  Africa  for  trade  or  con- 
quest, cannot  the  Asiatics  and  Africans  invade 
tneir  coasts,  plant  colonies  in  their  ports,  and 
give  laws  to  their  natural  princes  ?  The  same 
wind  that  carries  them  back  would  bring  us  thi- 
ther." 

"  They  are  more  powerful,  sir,  than  we,"  an- 
swered Imlac,  "  because  they  are  wiser ;  know- 
ledge will  always  predominate  over  ignorance  a.^i 
man  governs  the  other  animals.  But  why  tneir 
knowledge  is  more  than  ours,  I  know  not  what 
reason  can  be  given  but  the  unsearchable  will  of 
the  Supreme  Being." 

"  When,"  said  the  prince  with  a  sigh,  "  shall 
I  be  able  to  visit  Palestine,  and  mingle  with  this 
mighty  confluence  of  nations?  Till  that  happy 
moment  shall  arrive,  let  me  fill  up  the  time  with 
such  representations  as  thou  canst  give  me.  I 
am  not  ignorant  of  the  motive  that  assembles  such 
numbers  in  that  place,  and  cannot  but  consider 
it  as  the  centre  of  wisdom  and  piety,  to  which  the 
best  and  wisest  men  of  every  land  must  be  con- 
tinually resorting." 

"  There  are  some  nations,"  said  Imlac,  that 
send  few  visitants  to  Palestine ;  for  many  nume- 
rous and  learned  sects  in  Europe  concur  to  cen- 
sure pilgrimage  as  superstitious,  or  deride  ;t  as 
ridiculous." 

"  You  know,"  said  the  prince,  "  how  httle  my 


464 


BASSEI,AS. 


life  has  made  me  acquainted  with  diversity  of 
opinions :  it  will  he  too  long  to  hear  the  argu- 
ments on 'both  sides  ;  you,  that  have  con'sidered 
them,  tell  me  the  result." 

"  Pilgrimage,"  said  Imlac,  "  like  many  other 
acts  of  piety,  may  be  reasonable  or  superstitious, 
according  to  the  principles  upon  which  it  is  per- 
formed. Long  journeys  in  search  of  truth  are 
not  commanded.  Truth,  such  as  is  necessary  to 
the  regulation  of  life,  is  always  found  where  it 
is  honestly  sought.  Change  of  place  is  no  natu- 
ral cause  of  the  increase  of  piety,  for  it  inevitably 
produces  dissipation  of  mind.  Yet,  since  men 

fo  every  day  to  view  the  fields  where  great  actions 
ave  been  performed,  and  return  with  stronger 
impressions  of  the  event,  curiosity  of  the  same 
kind  may  naturally  dispose  us  to  view  that  coun- 
try whence  our  religion  had  its  beginning ;  and  I 
believe  no  man  surveys  those  awful  scenes  with- 
out some  confirmation  of  holy  resolutions.  That 
the  Supreme  Being  may  be  more  easily  propitiated 
in  one  place  than  in  another,  is  the  dream  of  idle 
superstition  ;  but  that  some  places  may  operate 
upon  our  own  minds  in  an  uncommon  manner,  is 
an  opinion  which  hourly  experience  will  justify. 
He  who  supposes  that  his  vices  may  be  more 
successfully  combated  in  Palestine  will,  perhaps, 
find  himself  mistaken  ;  yet  he  may  go  thither 
without  folly :  he  who  thinks  they  will  be  more 
freely  pardoned,  dishonours  at  once  his  reason 
and  religion." 

"  These,"  said  the  prince,  "  are  European  dis- 
tinctions. I  will  consider  them  another  time. 
What  have  you  found  to  be  the  effect  of  know- 
ledge ?  Are  those  nations  happier  than  we  ?" 

"  There  is  so  much  infelicity,"  said  the  poet, 
"in  the  world,  that  scarce  any  man  has  leisure 
from  his  own  distresses  to  estimate  the  compara- 
tive happiness  of  others.  Knowledge  is  certainly 
one  of  the  means  of  pleasure,  as  is  confessed 
by  the  natural  desire  which  every  mind  feels  of 
increasing  its  ideas.  Ignorance  is  mere  priva- 
tion, by  which  nothing  can  be  produced ;  it  is  a 
vacuity  in  which  the  soul  sits  motionless  and  tor- 
pid for  want  of  attraction  ;  and,  without  knowing 
why,  we  always  rejoice  when  we  learn,  and  grieve 
when  we  forget.  I  am  therefore  inclined  to  con- 
clude, that  if  nothing  counteracts  the  natural  con- 
sequence of  learning,  we  grow  more  happy  as 
our  minds  take  a  wider  range. 

"In  enumerating  the  particular  comforts  of  life, 
we  shall  find  many  advantages  on  the  side  of  the 
Europeans.  They  cure  wounds  and  diseases  with 
which  we  languish  and  perish.  We  suffer  incle- 
mencies of  weather  which  they  can  obviate.  They 
have  engines  for  the  despatch  of  many  laborious 
works,  which  we  must  perform  by  manual  indus- 
try. There  is  such  communication  between  dis- 
tant places,  that  one  friend  can  hardly  be  said  to 
be  abssnt  from  another.  Their  policy  removes 
all  public  inconveniencies :  they  have  roads  cut 
through  the  mountains ;  and  bridges  laid  upon 
their  rivers.  And,  if  we  descend  to  the  privacies 
of  life,  their  habitations  are  more  commodious, 
and  their  possessions  are  more  secure." 

"They  are  surely  happy,"  said  the  prince, 
"who  have  all  these  conveniences,  of  which  1 
envy  none  so  much  as  the  facility  with  which 
separated  friends  interchange  their  thoughts." 

"  The  Europeans,"  answered  Imlac,  "  are  less 
unhappy  than  we,  but  they  are  not  happy.  Hu- 
man life  is  every  where  a  state  in  which  much  is 
to  be  endured,  and  little  to  be  enjoyed." 


CHAPTER  Xtl. 

THE  STOHY  OF  JMLAC  CONTINUED. 

"  I  AM  not  willing,"  said  the  prince, "  to  suppose 
that  happiness  is  so  parsimoniously  distributed  to 
mortals  ;  nor  can  I  believe  but  that,  if  I  had  the 
choice  of  life,  I  should  be  able  to  fill  every  day 
with  pleasure.  I  would  injure  no  man,  and  should 
provoke  no  resentments :  I  would  relieve  every 
distress,  and  should  enjoy  the  benedictions  of 
gratitude.  I  would  choose  my  friends  among  the 
wise,  and  my  wife  among  the  virtuous ;  and 
therefore  should  be  in  no  danger  from  treachery 
or  unkindness.  My  children  should,  by  my  care, 
be  learned  and  pious,  and  would  repay  to  my  age 
what  their  childhood  had  received.  What  would 
dare  to  molest  him  who  might  call  on  every  side 
to  thousands  enriched  by  his  bounty,  or  assisted 
by  his  power?  And  why  should  not  life  glide 
away  in  the  soft  reciprocation  of  protection  and 
reverence  ?  All  this  may  be  done  without  the  help 
of  European  refinements,  which  appear  by  their 
effects  to  be  rather  specious  than  useful.  Let  us 
leave  them,  and  pursue  our  journey." 

"From  Palestine,"  said  Imlac,  "I  passed  through 
many  regions  of  Asia ;  in  the  more  civilized  king- 
doms as  a  trader,  and  among  the  barbarians  of 
the  mountains  as  a  pilgrim.  At  last  I  began  to 
long  for  my  native  country,  that  I  might  repose 
after  my  travels  and  fatigues,  in  the  places  where 
I  had  spent  my  earliest  years,  and  gladden  my  old 
companions  with  the  recital  of  my  adventures. 
Often  did  I  figure  to  myself  those  with  whom  I 
had  sported  away  the  gay  hours  of  dawning  life, 
sitting  round  me  in  its  evening,  wondering  at  my 
tales,  and  listening  to  my  counsels. 

"  When  this  thought  had  taken  possession  of 
my  mind,  I  considered  every  moment  as  wasted 
which  did  not  bring  me  nearer  to  Abissinia.  I 
hastened  into  Egypt,  and,  notwithstanding  my 
impatience,  was  detained  ten  months  in  the  con- 
templation of  its  ancient  magnificence,  and  in  in- 
quiries after  the  remains  of  its  ancient  learning.  I 
found  in  Cairo  a  mixture  of  all  nations  ;  some 
brought  thither  by  the  love  of  knowledge,  some 
by  the  hope  of  gain,  many  by  the  desire  of  living 
after  their  own  manner  without  observation,  and 
of  lying  hid  in  the  obscurity  of  multitudes  :  for  in  a 
city  populous  as  Cairo,  it  is  possible  to  obtain  at 
the  same  time  the  gratifications  of  society,  and  the 
secrecy  of  solitude. 

"From  Cairo  I  travelled  to  Suez,  and  em- 
barked on  the  Red  Sea,  passing  along  the  coast, 
till  I  arrived  at  the  port  from  which  I  had  departed 
twenty  years  before.  Here  I  joined  myself  to  a 
caravan,  and  re-entered  my  native  country. 

"1  now  expected  the  caresses  of  my  kinsmen, 
and  the  congratulations  of  my  friends  ;  and  was 
not  without  hope  that  my  father,  whatever  value 
he  had  set  upon  riches,  would  own  with  gladness 
and  pride  a  son  who  was  able  to  add  to  the  feli- 
city and  honour  of  the  nation.  But  I  was  soon 
convinced  that  my  thoughts  were  vain.  My  father 
had  been  dead  fourteen  years,  having  divided  his 
wealth  among  my  brothers,  who  were  removed 
to  some  other  provinces.  Of  my  companions, 
the  greater  part  were  in  the  grave  ;  of  the  rest, 
some  could  with  difficulty  remember  me,  and 
some  considered  me  as  one  corrupted  by  foreign 
manners. 

"A  man  used  to  vicissitudes  is  not  easily  de- 
jected. I  forgot,  after  a  time,  my  disappointment, 
and  endeavoured  to  recommend  myself  to  the 


RASSELAS. 


465 


nobles  of  the  kingdom :  they  admitted  me  to 
their  tables,  heard  my  story,  and  dismissed  me. 
I  opened  a  school,  and  was  prohibited  to  teach.  I 
then  resolved  to  sit  down  in  the  quiet  of  domestic 
life,  and  addressed  a  lady  that  was  fond  of  my 
conversation,  but  rejected  my  suit  because  my 
father  was  a  merchant 

"  Wearied  at  last  with  solicitation  and  repulses, 
I  resolved  to  hide  myself  for  ever  from  the  world, 
and  depend  no  longer  on  the  opinion  or  caprice 
of  others.  I  waited  Tor  the  time  when  the  gate  of 
the  happy  valley  should  open,  that  I  might  bid 
farewell  to  hope  and  fear :  the  day  came ;  my 
performance  was  distinguished  with  favour,  and 
I  resigned  myself  with  joy  to  perpetual  confine- 
ment." 

"Hast  thou  here  found  happiness  at  last?" 
said  Rasselas.  "Tell  me  without  reserve;  art 
thou  content  with  thy  condition?  or  dost  thou 
wish  to  be  again  wandering  and  inquiring?  All 
the  inhabitants  of  this  valley  celebrate  their  lot, 
and,  at  the  annual  visit  of  the  emperor,  invite 
others  to  partake  of  their  felicity." 

"Great  prince,"  said  Imlac,  "I  shall  speak 
the  truth :  I  know  not  one  of  all  your  attendants 
who  docs  not  lament  the  hour  when  he  entered 
this  retreat.  I  asa  less  unhappy  than  the  rest,  be- 
cause I  have  a  mind  replete  with  images,  which  I 
can  vary  and  combine  at  pleasure.  1  can  amuse 
my  solitude  by  the  renovation  of  the  knowledge 
which  begins  to  fade  from  my  memory,  and  by 
recollection  of  the  accidents  of  my  past  life.  Yet 
all  this  ends  in  the  sorrowful  consideration  that 
my  acquirements  are  now  useless,  and  that  none 
of  my  pleasures  can  be  again  enjoyed.  The  rest, 
whose  minds  have  no  impression  but  of  the  pre-. 
sent  moment,  are  either  corroded  by  malignant 
passions,  or  sit  stupid  in  the  gloom  of  perpetual 
vacancy." 

"  What  passions  can  infest  those,"  said  the 
prince,  "  who  have  no  rivals  ?  We  are  in  a 
place  where  impotence  precludes  malice,  and 
where  all  envy  is  repressed  by  community  of  en- 
joyments." 

"  There  may  be  community,"  said  Imlac,  "  of 
material  possessions,  but  there  can  never  be  com- 
munity of  love  or  of  esteem.  It  must  happen  that 
one  will  please  more  than  another :  he  that  knows 
himself  despised  will  always  be  envious  :  and  still 
more  envious  and  malevolent  if  he  is  condemned 
to  live  in  the  presence  of  those  who  despise  him. 
The  invitations  by  which  they  allure  others  to  a 
state  which  they  feel  to  be  wretched,  proceed  from 
the  natural  malignity  of  hopeless  misery.  They 
are  weary  of  themselves,  and  of  each  other,  and 
expect  to  find  relief  in  new  companions.  They 
envy  the  liberty  which  their  folly  has  forfeited, 
and  would  gladly  see  all  mankind  imprisoned  like 
themselves. 

"From  this  crime,  however,  I  am  wholly  free. 
'No  man  can  say  that  he  is  wretched  by  my  per- 
suasion. I  look  with  pity  on  the  crowds  who  are 
annually  soliciting  admission  to  captivity,  and 
wish  that  it  were  lawful  for  me  to  warn  them  of 
their  danger." 

"My  dear  Imlac,"  said  the  prince,  "1  will  open 
to  thee  my  whole  heart.  I  have  long  meditated  an 
escape  from  the  happy  valley.  I  have  examined 
the  mountain  on  every  side,  but  find  myself  insu- 
perably barred  :  teach  me  the  way  to  break  my 
prison  ;  thou  shalt  be  the  companion  of  my  flight, 
the  guide  of  my  rambles,  the  partner  of  my  for- 
tune, and  my  sole  director  in  the  choice  of  life,.'''' 

v   1 


"  Sir,"  answered  the  poet,  "  your  escape  will  be 
difficult,  and,  perhaps,  you  may  soon  repent  your 
curiosity.  The  world,  which  you  figure  to  your- 
self smooth  and  quiet  as  the  lake  in  the  valley, 
you  will  find  a  sea  foaming  with  tempests,  and 
boiling  with  whirlpools ;  you  will  be  sometimes 
overwhelmed  by  the  waves  of  violence,  and  some- 
times dashed  against  the  rocks  of  treachery. 
Amidst  wrongs  and  frauds,  competitions  and  anx- 
ieties, you  will  wish  a  thousand  times  for  these 
seats  of  quiet,  and  willingly  quit  hope  to  be  free 
from  fear." 

"  Do  not  seek  to  deter  me  from  my  purpose," 
said  the  prince  :  "  I  am  impatient  to  see  what 
thou  hast  seen ;  and  since  thou  art  thyself  weary 
of  the  valley,  it  is  evident,  that  thy  former  state 
was  better  than  this.  Whatever  be  the  conse- 
quence of  my  experiment,  I  am  resolved  to  judge 
with  mine  own  eyes  of  the  various  conditions  of 
men,  and  then  to  make  deliberately  my  choice  of 
life:' 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Imlac,  "  you  are  hindered 
by  stronger  restraints  than  my  persuasions  ;  yet, 
if  your  determination  is  fixed,  I  do  not  counsel 
you  to  despair.  Few  things  are  impossible  to 
diligence  and  skill." 


CHAPTER  XI11. 

HASSELAS    DISCOVERS    THE    MEANS    OF   ESCAPE. 

THE  prince  now  dismissed  his  favourite  to  rest, 
but  the  narrative  of  wonders  and  novelties  filled 
his  mind  with  perturbation.  He  revolved  all  that 
he  had  heard,  and  prepared  innumerable  ques- 
tions for  the  morning. 

Much  of  his  uneasiness  was  now  removed. 
He  had  a  friend  to  whom  he  could  impart  hia 
thoughts,  and  whose  experience  could  assist  him 
in  his  designs.  His  heart  was  no  longer  con- 
demned to  swell  with  silent  vexation.  He  thought 
that  even  the  happy  valley  might  be  endured  with 
such  a  companion,  and  that,  if  they  could  range 
the  world  together,  he  should  have  nothing  fur- 
ther to  desire. 

In  a  few  days  the  water  was  discharged,  and 
the  ground  dried.  The  prince  and  Imlac  then 
walked  out  together,  to  converse  without  the 
notice  of  the  rest.  The  prince,  whose  thoughts 
were  always  on  the  wing,  as  he  passed  by  the 
gate,  said,  with  a  countenance  of  sorrow,  "Why 
art  thou  so  strong,  and  why  is  man  so  weak  ?" 

"  Man  is  not  weak,"  answered  his  companion; 
"  knowledge  is  more  than  equivalent  to  force. 
The  master  of  mechanics  laughs  at  strength.  I 
can  burst  the  gate,  but  cannot  do  it  secretly. 
Some  other  expedient  must  be  tried." 

As  they  were  walking  on  the  side  of  the  moun- 
tain, they  observed  that  the  conies,  which  the 
rain  had  driven  from  their  burrows,  had  taken 
shelter  among  the  bushes,  and  formed  holes  be- 
hind them,  tending  upwards  in  an  oblique  line. 

"  It  has  been  the  opinion  of  antiquity,"  said 
Imlac,  "  that  human  reason  borrowed  many  arts 
from  the  instinct  of  animals ;  let  us,  therefore, 
not  think  ourselves  degraded  by  learning  from 
the  cony.  We  may  escape  by  piercing  the  moun- 
tain in  the  same  direction.  We  will  begin  where 
the  summit  hangs  over  the  middle  part,  and 
labour  upward  till  we  shall  issue  out  beyond  the 
piominence." 

The  eyes  of  the  prince,  when  he  heard  uii» 


466 


RASSELAS. 


proposal,  sparkled  with  joy.  The  execution  was 
easy,  and  the  success  certain. 

No  time  was  now  lost.  They  hastened  early 
in  the  morning  to  choose  a  place  proper  for  their 
mine.  They  clambered  with  great  fatigue  among 
crags  and  brambles,  and  returned  without  having 
discovered  any  part  that  favoured  their  design. 
The  second  and  the  third  day  were  spent  in  the 
same  manner,  and  with  the  same  frustration. 
But  on  the  fourth  they  found  a  small  cavern,  con- 
cealed by  a  thicket,  where  they  resolved  to  make 
their  experiment 

Imlac  procured  instruments  proper  to  hew 
stone  and  remove  earth,  and  they  fell  to  their 
work  on  the  next  day  with  more  eagerness  than 
vigour.  They  were  presently  exhausted  by  their 
efforts,  and  sat  down  to  pant  upon  the  grass. 
The  prince,  for  a  moment,  appeared  to  be  dis- 
couraged. "  Sir,"  said  his  companion,  "  prac- 
tice will  enable  us  to  continue  our  labour  for  a 
longer  time :  mark,  however,  how  far  we  have 
advanced,  and  ye  will  find  that  our  toil  will  some 
lime  have  an  end.  Great  works  are  performed 
not  by  strength,  but  perseverance :  yonder  palace 
was  raised  by  single  stones,  yet  you  see  its 
height  and  spaciousness.  He  that  shall  walk 
with  vigour  three  hours  a  day,  will  pass  in  seven 
years  a  space  equal  to  the  circumference  of  the 
globe." 

They  returned  to  their  work  day  after  day, 
and,  in  a  short  time,  found  a  fissure  in  the  rock, 
which  enabled  them  to  pass  far  with  very  little 
obstruction.  This  Rasselas  considered  as  a 
good  omen.  "  Do  not  disturb  your  mind,  "  said 
Imlac,  "  with  other  hopes  or  fears  than  reason 
may  suggest:  if  you  are  pleased  with  prognos- 
tics of  good,  you  will  be  terrified  likewise  with 
tokens  of  evil,  and  your  whole  life  will  be  a  prey 
to  superstition.  Whatever  facilitates  our  work 
is  more  than  an  omen ;  it  is  a  cause  of  success. 
This  is  one  of  those  pleasing  surprises  which 
often  happen  to  active  resolution.  Many  things 
difficult  to  design  prove  easy  to  performance." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

RASSELAS   AND    IMLAC    RECEIVE    AN   UNEXPECTED 
VISIT. 

THEY  had  now  wrought  their  way  to  the  mid- 
dle, and  solaced  their  toil  with  the  approach  of 
liberty,  when  the  prince,  coming  down  to  refresh 
himself  with  air,  found  his  sister  Nekayah  stand- 
ing at  the  mouth  of  the  cavity.  He  started,  and 
stood  confused,  afraid  to  tell  his  design,  and  yet 
hopeless  to  conceal  it.  A  few  moments  deter- 
mined him  to  repose  on  her  fidelity,  and  secure 
her  secrecy  by  a  declaration  without  reserve. 

"  Do  not  imagine,"  said  the  princess,  "  that  I 
came  hither  as  a  spy :  I  had  long  observed  from 
my  window  that  you  and  Imlac  directed  your 
walk  every  day  towards  the  same  point,  but  I  did 
not  suppose  you  had  any  better  reason  for  the 
preference  than  a  cooler  shade,  or  more  fragrant 
bank;  nor  followed  you  with  any  other  design 
than  to  partake  of  your  conversation.  Since, 
then,  not  suspicion  but  fondness  has  detected 
you,  let  me  not  lose  the  advantage  of  my  disco- 
very. I  am  equally  weary  of  confinement  with 
yourself,  and  not  less  desirous  of  knowing  what 
is  done  or  suffered  in  the  world.  Permit  me  to 
fly  with  you  from  this  tasteless  tranquillity,  which 


will  yet  grow  more  loathsome  when  you  have 
left  me.  You  may  deny  me  to  accompany  you, 
but  cannot  hinder  me  from  following." 

The  prince,  who  loved  Nekayah  above  his 
other  sisters,  had  no  inclination  to  refuse  her  re- 
quest, and  grieved  that  he  had  lost  an  opportu- 
nity of  showing  his  confidence  by  a  voluntary 
communication.  It  was  therefore  agreed,  that 
she  should  leave  the  valley  with  them ;  and  that, 
in  the  mean  time,  she  should  watch  lest  any 
other  straggler  should,  by  chance  or  curiosity, 
follow  them  to  the  mountain. 

At  length  their  labour  was  at  an  end:  they 
saw  light  beyond  the  prominence,  and,  issuing  to 
the  top  of  the  mountain,  beheld  the  Nile,  yet  a 
narrow  current,  wandering  beneath  them. 

The  prince  looked  round  with  rapture,  antici- 
pated all  the  pleasures  of  travel,  and  in  thought 
was  already  transported  beyond  his  father's  do- 
minions. Imlac,  though  very  joyful  at  his  es- 
cape, had  less  expectation  of  pleasure  in  the 
world,  which  he  had  before  tried,  and  of  which 
he  had  been  weary. 

Rasselas  was  so  much  delighted  with  a  wider 
horizon,  that  he  could  not  soon  be  persuaded  to 
return  into  the  valley.  He  informed  his  sister 
that  the  way  was  now  open,  and  t!;;it  nothing 
now  remained  but  to  prepare  for  their  departure. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   PRINCE    AND    PRINCESS   LEAVE   THE   VALLEY, 
AND   SEE    MANY    WONDERS. 

THE  prince  and  princess  had  jewels  sufficient 
to  make  them  rich  whenever  they  came  into  a 
place  of  commerce,  which,  by  Imlac's  direction, 
they  hid  in  their  clothes,  and,  on  the  night  of 
the  next  full  moon,  all  left  the  valley.  The 
princess  was  followed  only  by  a  single  favourite, 
who  did  not  know  whither  she  was  going. 

They  clambered  through  the  cavity,  and  be- 
gan to  go  down  on  the  other  side.  The  princess 
and  her  maid  turned  their  eyes  toward  every 
part,  and  seeing  nothing  to  bound  their  pros- 
pect, considered  themselves  in  danger  of  b(j;;i<» 
lost  in  a  dreary  vacuity.  They  stopped  an3 
trembled.  "  I  am  almost  afraid,"  said  the  pri.-i- 
cess,  "  to  begin  a  journey,  of  which  I  cannct 
perceive  an  end,  and  to  venture  into  this  im- 
mense plain,  where  I  may  be  approached  on 
every  side  by  men  whom  I  never  saw."  The 
prince  felt  nearly  the  same  emotions,  though  he 
thought  it  more  manly  to  conceal  them. 

Imlac  smiled  at  their  terrors,  and  encouraged 
them  to  proceed;  but  the  princess  continued  irre- 
solute till  she  had  been  imperceptibly  drawn  for- 
ward too  far  to  return. 

In  the  morning  they  found  some  shepherds  in 
the  field,  who  set  some  milk  and  fruit  before- 
before  them.  The  princess  wondered  that  she 
did  not  see  a  palace  ready  for  her  reception,  and 
a  table  spread  with  delicacies;  but  being  faint 
and  hungry,  she  drank  the  milk  and  ate  the 
fruits,  and  thought  them  of  a  higher  flavour  than 
the  products  of  the  valley. 

They  travelled  forward  by  easy  journeys,  being 
all  unaccustomed  to  toil  and  difficulty,  and  know- 
ing that,  though  they  might  be  missed,  they 
could  not  be  pursued.  In  a  few  days  they  came 
into  a  more  populous  region,  where  Imlac  was 
diverted  with  the  admiration  which  his  compa- 


RASSELAS. 


457 


mons  expressed  at  the  diversity  of  manners,  sta- 
tions, and  employments.  Their  dress  was  such 
as  might  not  bring  upon  them  the  suspicion  of 
having  any  thing  to  conceal;  yet  the  prince, 
wherever  he  came,  expected  to  be  obeyed,  and 
the  princess  was  frighted,  because  those  who  came 
into  her  presence  did  not  prostrate  themselves. 
Imlac  was  forced  to  observe  them  with  great  vigi- 
lance, lest  they  should  betray  their  rank  by  their 
unusual  behaviour,  and  detained  them  several 
weeks  in  the  first  village,  to  accustom  them  to  the 
sight  of  common  mortals. 

By  degrees  the  royal  wanderers  were  taught  to 
understand  that  they  had  for  a  time  laid  aside 
their  dignity,  and  were  to  expect  only  such  regard 
as  liberality  and  courtesy  could  procure.  And 
Imlac,  having,  by  many  admonitions,  prepared 
them  to  endure  the  tumults  of  a  port,  and  the 
ruggedness  of  the  commercial  race,  brought  them 
down  to  the  seacoast. 

The  prince  and  his  sister,  to  whom  every  thing 
was  new,  were  gratified  equally  at  all  places,  and 
therefore  remained  for  some  months  at  the  port 
without  any  inclination  to  pass  further.  Imlac 
was  content  with  their  stay,  because  he  did  not 
think  it  safe  to  expose  them,  unpractised  in  the 
world,  to  the  hazards  of  a  foreign  country. 

At  last  he  began  to  fear  lest  they  should  be 
discovered,  and  proposed  to  fix  a  day  for  their 
departure.  They  had  no  pretensions  to  judge 
for  themselves,  a'nd  referred  the  whole  scheme  to 
his  direction.  He  therefore  took  passage  in  a 
ship  to  Suez,  and  when  the  time  came,  with  great 
difficulty  prevailed  on  the  princess  to  enter  the 
vessel.  They  had  a  quick  and  prosperous  voyage  ; 
and  from  Suez  travelled  by  land  to  Cairo. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

THEY    ENTER   CAIRO,   AND    FIND    EVERT    MAN 
HAPPY. 

As  they  approached  the  city,  which  filled  the 
strangers  with  astonishment,  "  This,"  said  Imlac 
to  the  prince,  "  is  the  place  where  travellers  and 
merchants  assemble  from  all  corners  of  the  earth. 
You  will  here  find  men  of  every  character,  and 
every  occupation.  Commerce  is  here  honourable : 
I  will  act  as  a  merchant,  and  you  shall  live  as 
strangers,  who  have  no  other  end  of  travel  than 
curiosity;  it  will  soon  be  observed  that  we  are 
rich :  our  reputation  will  procure  us  access  to  all 
whom  we  shall  desire  to  know  ;  you  shall  see  all 
the  conditions  of  humanity,  and  enable  your- 
selves at  leisure  to  make  your  choice  of  life. 

They  now  entered  the  town,  stunned  by  the 
noise,  and  offended  by  the  crowds.  Instruction 
had  not  yet  so  prevailed  over  habit,  but  that 
they  wondered  to  see  themselves  pass  undis- 
tinguished along  the  streets,  and  met  by  the 
lowest  of  the  people  without  reverence  or  notice. 
The  princess  could  not  at  first  bear  the  thought 
of  being  levelled  with  the  vulgar,  and  for  some 
time  continued  in  her  chamber,  where  she  was 
served  by  her  favourite,  Pekuah,  as  in  the  pa- 
lace of  the  valley. 

Imlac,  who  understood  traffic,  sold  part  of  the 
jewels  the  next  day,  and  hired  a  house,  which  he 
adorned  with  such  magnificence,  that  he  was 
immediately  considered  as  a  merchant  of  great 
wealth.  His  politeness  attracted  many  acquaint- 
ance, and  his  generosity  made  him  courted  by 


many  dependants.  His  companions,  not  being 
able  to  mix  in  the  conversation,  could  make  no 
discovery  of  their  ignorance  or  surprise,  and  were 
gradually  initiated  in  the  world,  as  they  gained 
knowledge  of  the  language. 

The  prince  had,  by  frequent  lectures,  been 
taught  the  use  and  nature  of  money  ;  but  the 
ladies  could  not,  for  a  long  time,  comprehend 
what  the  merchants  did  with  small  pieces  of  gold 
and  silver,  or  why  things  of  so  little  use  should  be 
received  as  an  equivalent  to  the  necessaries  of 
life. 

They  studied  the  language  two  years,  while 
Imlac  was  preparing  to  set  before  them  the  vari- 
ous ranks  and  conditions  of  mankind.  He  grew 
acquainted  with  all  who  had  any  thing  uncommon 
in  their  fortune  or  conduct.  He  frequented  the 
voluptuous  and  the  frugal,  the  idle  and  the  busy, 
the  merchants  and  the  men  of  learning. 

The  prince  now  being  able  to  converse  with 
fluency,  and  having  learned  the  caution  necessary 
to  be  observed  in  his  intercourse  with  strangers, 
began  to  accompany  Imlac  to  places  of  resort, 
and  to  enter  into  all  assemblies,  that  he  might 
make  his  choice  of  life. 

For  some  time  he  thought  choice  needless,  be- 
cause all  appeared  to  him  really  happy.  Wher- 
ever he  went  he  met  gayety  and  kindness,  and 
heard  the  song  of  joy  or  the  laugh  of  carelessness. 
He  began  to  believe  that  the  world  overflowed 
with  universal  plenty,  and  that  nothing  was  with- 
held either  from  want  or  merit ;  that  every  hand 
showered  liberality,  and  every  heart  melted  with 
benevolence :  "  and  who  then,"  says  he,  "  will  be 
suffered  to  be  wretched  ?" 

Imlac  permitted  the  pleasing  delusion,  and  was 
unwilling  to  crush  the  hope  of  inexperience :  till 
one  day,  having  sat  a  while  silent,  "1  know  not," 
said  the  prince,  "  what  can  be  the  reason  that  I 
am  more  unhappy  than  any  of  our  friends,  I  see 
them  perpetually  and  unalterably  cheerful,  but 
feel  my  own  mind  restless  and  uneasy.  I  am 
unsatisfied  with  those  pleasures  which  I  seem 
most  to  court.  I  live  in  the  crowds  of  jollity,  not 
so  much  to  enjoy  company  as  to  shun  myself, 
and  am  only  loud  and  merry  to  conceal  my  sad- 
ness." 

"  Every  man,"  said  Imlac,  "  may,  by  examin- 
ing his  own  mind,  guess  what  passes  in  the 
minds  of  others :  when  you  feel  that  your  own 
gayety  is  counterfeit,  it  may  justly  lead  you  to 
suspect  that  of  your  companions  not  to  be  sin- 
cere. Envy  is  commonly  reciprocal.  We  are  long 
before  we  are  convinced  that  happiness,  is  never 
to  be  found,  and  each  believes  it  possessed  by 
others,  to  keep  alive  the  hope  of  obtaining  it  for 
himself.  In  the  assembly,  where  you  passed  the 
last  night,  there  appeared  such  sprightliness  of 
air,  and  volatility  of  fancy,  as  might  have  suited 
beings  of  a  higher  order,  formed  to  inhabit  serener 
regions,  inaccessible  to  care  or  sorrow :  yet,  be- 
lieve me,  prince,  there  was  not  one  who  did  not 
dread  the  moment  when  solitude  should  deliver 
him  to  the  tyranny  of  reflection." 

"  This,"  said  the  prince, "  may  be  true  of  others 
since  it  is  true  of  me ;  yet,  whatever  be  the  general 
infelicity  of  man,  one  condition  is  more  happy 
than  another,  and  wisdom  surely  directs  us  to 
take  the  least  evil  in  the  choice  of  life." 

"  The  causes  of  good  and  evil,"  answered  Im- 
lac "are  so  various  and  uncertain,  so  often  en- 
tangled with  each  other,  so  diversified  by  various 
relations,  and  so  much  subject  to  accidents  which 


RASSELAS. 


cannot  be  foreseen,  that  he  who  would  fix  his 
condition  upon  incontestable  reasons  of  prefer- 
ence, must  live  and  die  inquiring  and  deliberating." 

"  But  surely,"  said  Rasselas,  "  the  wise  men, 
to  whom  we  fisten  with  reverence  and  wonder, 
chose  that  mode  of  life  for  themselves  which  they 
thought  most  likely  to  make  them  happy." 

"  Very  few,"  said  the  poet,  "  live  by  choice. 
Every  man  is  placed  in  the  present  condition  by 
causes  which  acted  without  his  foresight,  and  with 
which  he  did  not  always  willingly  co-operate ; 
and  therefore  you  will  rarely  meet  one  who  does 
not  think  the  lot  of  his  neighbour  better  than  his 
own." 

"  I  am  pleased  to  think,"  said  the  prince,  "  that 
my  birth  has  given  me  at  least  one  advantage 
over  others,  by  enabling  me  to  determine  for  my- 
self. I  have  here  the  world  before  me;  I  will  re- 
view it  at  leisure :  surely  happiness  is  somewhere 
to  be  found." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    PRINCE    ASSOCIATES    WITH   YOUNG    MEN    OF 
SPIRIT    AND    GATETT. 

RASSELAS  rose  next  day,  and  resolved  to  begin 
his  experiments  upon  life.  "  Youth,"  cried  he,  "  is 
the  time  of  gladness  :  I  will  join  myself  to  the 
young  men,  whose  only  business  is  to  gratify 
their  desires,  and  whose  time  is  all  spent  in  a  suc- 
cession of  enjoyments." 

To  such  societies  he  was  readily  admitted ; 
but  a  few  days  brought  him  back  weary  and  dis- 
gusted. Their  mirth  was  without  images,  their 
laughter  without  motive ;  their  pleasures  were 
gross  and  sensual,  in  which  the  mind  had  no  part ; 
their  conduct  was  at  once  wild  and  mean ;  they 
laughed  at  order  and  at  law,  but  the  frown  of 
power  dejected,  and  the  eye  of  wisdom  abashed 
them. 

The  prince  soon  concluded  that  he  should 
never  be  happy  in  a  course  of  life  of  which  he  was 
ashamed.  He  thought  it  unsuitable  to  a  reason- 
ble  being  to  act  without  a  plan,  and  to  be  sad  or 
cheerful  only  by  chance.  "  Happiness,"  said  he, 
"  must  be  something  solid  and  permanent,  with- 
out fear  and  without  uncertainty." 


warning  a 

monstrance.  "My  friends,"  said  he,  "  I  have 
seriously  considered  our  manners  and  our  pros- 
pects, and  find  that  we  have  mistaken  our  own 
interest;  the  first  years  of  man  must  make  provi- 
sion for  the  last.  He  that  never  thinks,  never  can 
be  wise.  Perpetual  levity  must  end  in  ignorance  ; 
and  intemperance,  though  it  may  fire  the  spirits 
for  an  hour,  will  make  life  short  or  miserable. 
Let  us  consider  that  youth  is  of  no  long  duration, 
and  that,  in  mature  age,  when  the  enchantments 
of  fancy  shall  cease,  and  phantoms  of  delight 
dance  no  more  about  us,  we  shall  have  no  com- 
forts but  the  esteem  of  wise  men,  and  the  means 
of  doing  good.  Let  us,  therefore,  stop,  while  to 
stop  is  in  our  power :  let  us  live  as  men  who  are 
some  time  to  grow  old,  and  to  whom  it  will  be 
the  most  dreadful  of  all  evils  to  count  their  past 
years  by  follies,  and  to  be  reminded  of  their  for- 
mer luxuriance  of  health  only  by  the  maladies 
which  riot  has  produced." 

They  stared  awhile  in  silence  one  upon  ano- 


ther, and,  at  last,  drove  him  away  by  a  general 
chorus  of  continued  laughter. 

The  consciousness  that  liis  sentiments  were 
just,  and  his  intention  kind,  was  scarcely  suffi- 
cient to  support  him  against  the  horror  of  derision. 
But  he  recovered  his  tranquillity,  and  pursued  his 
search. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    PRINCE    FINDS    A    WISE    AND    HAPPY    MAN. 

As  he  was  one  day  walking  in  the  street,  he 
saw  a  spacious  building,  which  all  were,  by  the 
open  doors,  invited  to  enter  ;  he  followed  the 
stream  of  people,  and  found  it  a  hall  or  school  of 
declamation,  in  which  professors  read  lectures  to 
their  auditory.  He  fixed  his  eye  upon  a  sage 
raised  above  the  rest,  who  discoursed  with  great 
energy  on  the  government  of  the  passions.  His 
look  was  venerable,  his  action  graceful,  his  pro- 
nunciation clear,  and  his  diction  elegant.  He 
showed,  with  great  strength  of  sentiment,  and 
variety  of  illustration,  that  human  nature  is  do- 
graded  and  debased,  when  the  lower  farultirs 
predominate  over  the  higher  ;  that  when  fancy, 
the  parent  of  passion,  usurps  the  dominion  of  the 
mind,  nothing  ensues  but  the  natural  effect  of 
unlawful  government,  perturbation,  and  confu- 
sion ;  that  she»  betrays  the  fortresses  of  the  intel- 
lect to  rebels,  and  excites  her  children  to  sedition 
against  their  lawful  sovereign.  He  compared  rea- 
son to  the  sun,  of  which  the  light  is  constant,  urii 
form,  and  lasting;  and  fancy  to  a  meteor,  of 
bright,  but  transitory  lustre,  irregular  in  its  mo- 
tion and  delusive  in  its  direction. 

He  then  communicated  the  various  precepts 
given  from  time  to  time  for  the  conquest  of  pas- 
sion, and  displayed  the  happiness  of  those  who 
had  obtained  the  important  victory,  after  which 
man  is  no  longer  the  slave  of  fear,  nor  the  fool  of 
hope ;  is  no  more  emaciated  by  envy,  inflamed 
by  anger,  emasculated  by  tenderness,  or  depressed 
by  grief ;  but  walks  on  calmly  through  the  tumults 
or  privacies  of  life,  as  the  sun  pursues  alike  his 
course  through  the  calm  or  the  stormy  sky. 

He  enumerated  many  examples  of  heroes  im- 
moveable  by  pain  or  pleasure,  who  looked  witli 
indifference  on  those  modes  or  accidents  to  which 
the  vulgar  give  the  names  of  cood  and  evil.  He 
exhorted  his  hearers  to  lay  aside  their  prejudices, 
and  arm  themselves  against  the  shafts  of  malice 
or  misfortune,  by  invulnerable  patience :  con- 
cluding, that  this  state  only  was  happiness,  and 
that  this  happiness  was  in  every  one's  power." 

Rasselas  listened  to  him  with  the  veneration, 
due  to  the  instructions  of  a  superior  being,  and, 
waiting  for  him  at  the  door,  humbly  implored  the 
liberty  of  visiting  so  great  a  master  of  true  wisdom. 
The  lecturer  hesitated  a  moment,  when  Rasselas 
put  a  purse  of  gold  into  liis  hand,  which  he  re- 
ceived with  a  mixture  of  joy  and  wonder. 

"  I  have  found,"  said  the  prince,  at  his  return 
to  Imlac,  "a  man  who  can  teach  all  that  is  ne- 
cessary to  be  known  ;  who,  from  the  unshaken 
throne  of  rational  fortitude,  looks  down  on  the 
scenes  of  life  changing  beneath  him.  He  speaks, 
and  attention  watches  his  lips.  He  reasons,  and 
conviction  closes  his  periods.  This  man  shall  be 
my  future  guide  :  I  will  learn  his  doctrines,  and 
imitate  his  life." 
"Be  not  too  hasty,"  said  Imlac,  "  to  trust,  or  to 


RASSELAS. 


469 


admire,  the  teachers  of  morality :  they  discourse 
like  angels,  but  they  live  like  men." 

Rasselas,  who  could  not  conceive  how  any  man 
could  reason  so  forcibly  without  feeling  the  co- 
gency of  his  own  arguments,  paid  his  visit  in  a 
few  days,  and  was  denied  admission.  He  had 
now  learned  the  power  of  money,  and  made  his 
way  by  a  piece  of  gold  to  the  inner  apartment, 
where  he  found  the  philosopher  in  a  room  half 
darkened,  with  his  eyes  misty,  and  his  face  pale. 
"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  you  are  come  at  a  time  when 
all  human  friendship  is  useless:  what  I  suffer 
cannot  be  remedied,  what  I  have  lost  cannot  be 
supplied.  My  daughter,  my  only  daughter,  from 
whose  tenderness  I  expected  all  the  comforts  of 
my  age,  died  last  night  of  a  fever.  My  views,  my 
purposes,  my  hopes  are  at  an  end :  I  am  now  a 
lonely  being,  disunited  from  society." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  prince,  "  mortality  is  an  event 
by  which  a  wise  man  can  never  be  surprised :  we 
know  that  death  is  always  near,  and  it  should 
therefore  always  be  expected." — "  Young  man," 
answered  the  philosopher,  "  you  speak  like  one 
that  has  never  felt  the  pangs  of  separation." 
"  Have  you  then  forgot  the  precepts,"  said  Rasse- 
las, "  which  you  so  powerfully  enforced  ?  Has 
wisdom  no  strength  to  arm  the  heart  against  cala- 
mity? Consider  that  external  things  are  natu- 
rally variable,  but  truth  and  reason  are  always 
the  same."  "  What  comfort,"  said  the  mourner, 
"  can  truth  and  reason  afford  me? — of  what  effect 
are  they  now,  but  to  te'.l  me,  that  my  daughter 
will  not  be  restored  ?" 

The  prince,  whose  humanity  would  not  suffer 
him  to  insult  misery  with  reproof,  went  away, 
convinced  of  the  emptiness  01  rhetorical  sounds, 
and  the  inefficacy  of  polished  periods  and  studied 
sentences. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A    GLIMPSE    OF    PASTORAL   LIFE. 

HE  was  still  eager  upon  the  same  inquiry ;  and 
having  heard  of  a  hermit,  that  lived  near  the 
lowest  cataract  of  the  Nile,  and  filled  the  whole 
country  with  the  fame  of  his  sanctity,  resolved 
to  visit  his  retreat,  and  inquire  whether  that  fe- 
lirity,  which  public  life  could  not  afford,  was  to 
be  found  in  solitude ;  and  whether  a  man,  whose 
age  and  virtue  made  him  venerable,  could  teach 
any  peculiar  art  of  shunning  evils,  or  enduring 
them. 

Imlac  and  the  princess  agreed  to  accompany 
him ;  and,  after  the  necessary  preparations,  they 
began  their  journey.  Their  way  lay  through 
the  fields,  where  shepherds  tended  th'eir  flocks, 
and  the  lambs  were  playing  upon  the  pasture. 
"  This,"  said  the  poet,  "  is  the  life  which  has 
been  often  celebrated  for  its  innocence  and  quiet  ; 
let  us  pass  the  heat  of  the  day  among  the  shep- 
herds' tents,  and  know  whether  all  our  searches 
are  not  to  terminate  in  pastoral  simplicity." 

The  proposal  pleased  them,  and,  they  induced 
the  shepherds,  by  small  presents  and  familiar 
questions,  to  tell  the  opinion  of  their  own  state : 
they  were  so  rude  and  ignorant,  so  little  able  to 
compare  the  good  with  the  evil  of  the  occupa- 
tion, and  so  indistinct  in  their  narratives  and 
descriptions,  that  very  little  could  be  learned 
from  them.  But  it  was  evident  that  their  hearts 
were  cankered  with  discontent;  that  they  con- 


sidered themselves  as  condemned  to  labour  for 
the  luxury  of  the  rich,  and  looked  up  with  stupid 
malevolence  towards  those  that  were  placed 
above  them. 

The  princess  pronounced  with  vehemence,  that 
she  would  never  suffer  these  envious  savages  to 
be  her  companions,  and  that  she  should  not  soon 
be  desirous  of  seeing  any  more  specimens  of  rus- 
tic happiness ;  but  could  not  believe  that  all  the 
accounts  of  primeval  pleasures  were  fabulous, 
and  was  in  doubt  whether  life  had  any  thing 
that  could  be  justly  preferred  to  the  placid  gra- 
tifications of  fields  and  woods.  She  hoped  that 
the  time  would  come,  when,  with  a  few  virtu- 
ous and  elegant  companions,  she  should  gather 
flowers  planted  by  her  own  hands,  fondle  the 
lambs  of  her  own  ewe,  and  listen  without  care, 
among  brooks  and  breezes,  to  one  of  her  maidens 
reading  in  the  shade. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    DANGER   OF   PROSPERITY. 

ON  the  next  day  they  continued  their  journey, 
till  the  heat  compelled  them  to  look  round  for 
shelter.  At  a  small  distance  they  saw  a  thick 
wood,  which  they  no  sooner  entered  than  they 
perceived  that  they  were  approaching  the  habi- 
tations of  men.  The  shrubs  were  diligently  cut 
away  to  open  walks  where  the  shades  were 
darkest;  the  boughs  of  opposite  trees  were  arti- 
ficially interwoven,  seats  of  flowery  turf  were 
raised  in  vacant  spaces,  and  a  rivulet,  that  wan- 
toned along  the  side  of  a  winding  path,  had  it? 
banks  sometimes  opened  into  small  basins,  and 
its  streams  sometimes  obstructed  by  little  mound? 
of  stone  heaped  together  to  increase  its  mur 
murs. 

They  passed  slowly  through  the  wood,  de 
lighted  with  such  unexpected  accommodations, 
and  entertained  each  other  with  conjecturing 
what,  or  who,  he  could  be,  that  in  those  rude 
and  unfrequented  regions  had  leisure  and  art  foi 
such  harmless  luxury. 

As  they  advanced  they  heard  the  sound  ol 
music,  and  saw  youths  and  virgins  dancing  in 
the  grove;  and,  going  still  farther,  beheld  a 
stately  palace  built  upon  a  hill,  surrounded  with 
woods.  The  laws  of  eastern  hospitality  allowed 
them  to  enter,  and  the  master  welcomed  them 
like  a  man  liberal  and  wealthy. 

He  was  skilful  enough  in  appearances  soon  to 
discern  that  they  were  no  common  guests,  and 
spread  his  table  with  magnificence.  The  elo- 
quence of  Imlac  caught  his  attention,  and  the 
lofty  courtesy  of  the  princess  excited  his  respect 
When  they  offered  to  depart,  he  entreated  their 
stay,  and  was  the  next  day  more  unwilling  to 
dismiss  them  than  before.  They  were  easily 
persuaded  to  stop,  and  civility  grew  up  in  time 
to  freedom  and  confidence. 

The  prince  now  saw  all  the  domestics  cheer- 
ful, and  all  the  face  of  nature  smiling  round  the 
place,  and  could  not  forbear  to  hope  that  he 
should  find  here  what  he  was  seeking:  but 
when  he  was  congratulating  the  master  upon 
his  possessions,  he  answered  with  a  sigh,  "My 
condition  has  indeed  the  appearance  of  happi- 
ness, but  appearances  are  delusive.  My  pros- 
perity puts  my  life  in  danger;  the  Bassa  of 
Egypt  is  my  enemy,  incensed  only  by  my 


470 


RASSELAS. 


wealth  and  popularity.  I  have  been  liitherto 
protected  against  him  by  the  princess  of  the 
country:  but,  as  the  favour  of  the  great  is  un- 
certain, I  know  not  how  soon  my  defenders 
may  be  persuaded  to  share  the  plunder  with  the 
Bassa.  I  have  sent  my  treasures  into  a  distant 
country,  and,  upon  the  first  alarm,  am  prepared 
to  follow  them.  Then  will  my  enemies  not  in 
my  mansion,  and  enjoy  the  gardens  which  I 
have  planted." 

They  all  joined  in  lamenting  his  danger,  and 
deprecating  his  exile ;  and  the  princess  was  so 
much  disturbed  with  the  tumult  of  grief  and 
indignation,  that  she  retired  to  her  apartment. 
They  continued  with  their  kind  inviter  a  few 
days  longer,  and  then  went  to  find  the  hermit 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE    HAPPINESS    OF   SOLITUDE.     THE    HERMIT'S 
HISTORY. 

THEY  came,  on  the  third  day,  by  the  direction 
ol  the  peasants,  to  the  hermit's  cell :  it  was  a 
cavern  m  the  side  of  a  mountain,  overshadowed 
with  palm  trees;  at  such  a  distance  from  the 
cataract,  that  nothing  more  was  heard  than  a 
gentle  uniform  murmur,  such  'as  composed  the 
mind  to  pensive  meditation,  especially  when  it 
was  assisted  by  the  wind  wliistling  among  the 
branches.  The  first  rude  essay  of  nature  had 
been  so  much  improved  by  human  labour,  that  the 
cave  contained  several  apartments  appropriated 
to  different  uses,  and  often  afforded  lodging  to 
travellers,  whom  darkness  or  tempests  happened 
to  overtake. 

The  hermit  sat  on  a  bench  at  the  door,  to  en- 
joy the  coolness  of  the  evening.  On  one  side 
lay  a  book  with  pens  and  paper,  on  the  other 
mechanical  instruments  of  various  kinds.  As 
they  approached  him  unregarded,  the  princess 
observed  that  he  had  not  the  countenance  of  a 
man  that  had  found  or  could  teach  the  way  to 
happiness. 

They  saluted  him  with  great  respect,  which 
he  repaid  like  a  man  not  unaccustomed  to  the 
forms  of  courts.  "  My  children,"  said  he,  "  if 
you  have  lost  your  way,  you  shall  be  willingly 
supplied  with  such  conveniences  for  the  night 
as  this  cavern  will  afford.  I  have  all  that  na- 
ture requires,  and  you  will  not  expect  delicacies 
in  a  hermit's  cell." 

They  thanked  him ;  and,  entering,  were 
pleased  with  the  neatness  and  regularity  of  the 
place.  The  hermit  set  flesh  and  wine  before 
them,  though  he  fed  only  upon  fruits  and  wa- 
ter. His  discourse  was  cheerful  without  levity, 
and  pious  without  enthusiasm.  He  soon  gained 
the  esteem  of  his  guests,  and  the  princess  re- 
pented her  hasty  censure. 

At  last  Imlac  began  thus:  "I  do  not  now 
wonder  that  your  reputation  is  so  far  extended : 
we  have  heard  at  Cairo  of  your  wisdom,  and 
came  hither  to  implore  your  direction  for  this 
young  man  and  maiden  in  the  choice  of  life." 

"  To  him  'that  lives  well,"  answered  the  her- 
mit, "  every  form  of  life  is  good ;  nor  can  I 
<-ive  any  other  rule  for  choice,  than  to  remove 
from  all  apparent  evil." 

"  He  will  most  certainly  remove  from  evil," 
!«aid  the  prince,  "  who  shall  devote  himself  to 
I  hat  solitude  which  you  have  recommended  by 
)our  example." 


"  I  have  indeed  lived  fifteen  years  in  soli- 
tude," said  the  hermit,  "  but  have  no  desire  that 
my  example  should  gain  any  imitators.  In  my 
youth  I  professed  arms,  and  was  raised  by  de- 
grees to  the  highest  military  rank.  I  have  tra- 
versed wide  countries  at  the  head  of  my  troops, 
and  seen  many  battles  and  sieges.  At  last, 
being  disgusted  by  the  preferments  of  a  younger 
officer,  and  feeling  that  my  vigour  was  begin- 
ning to  decay,  I  resolved  to  close  my  life  in 
peace,  having  found  the  world  full  of  snares,  dis- 
cord, and  misery.  I  had  once  escaped  from  the 
pursuit  of  the  enemy  by  the  shelter  of  this  ca- 
vern, and  therefore  chose  it  for  my  final  residence. 
I  employed  artificers  to  form  it  into  chambers, 
and  stored  it  with  all  that  I  was  likely  to  want. 

"  For  some  time  after  my  retreat,  I  rejoiced 
like  a  tempest-beaten  sailor  at  his  entrance  into 
the  harbour,  being  delighted  with  the  sudden 
change  of  the  noise  and  hurry  of  war  to  stillness 
and  repose.  When  the  pleasure  of  novelty 
went  away,  I  employed  my  hours  in  examining 
the  plants  which  grow  in  the  valley,  and  the 
minerals  which  I  collected  from  the  rocks.  But 
that  inquiry  is  now  grown  tasteless  and  irksome. 
I  have  been  for  some  time  unsettled  and  dis- 
tracted: my  mind  is  disturbed  with  a  thousand 
perplexities  of  doubt,  and  vanities  of  imagina- 
tion, which  hourly  prevail  upon  me,  because  I 
have  no  opportunities  of  relaxation  or  diversion. 
I  am  sometimes  ashamed  to  think  that  I  could 
not  secure  myself  from  vice  but  by  retiring  from 
the  exercise  of  virtue,  and  begin  to  suspect  that 
I  was  rather  impelled  by  resentment  than  led  by 
devotion  into  solitude.  My  fancy  riots  in  scenes 
of  folly ;  and  I  lament  that  I  have  lost  so  much, 
and  have  gained  so  little.  In  solitude,  if  I  es- 
cape the  example  of  bad  men,  I  want  likewise 
the  counsel  and  conversation  of  the  good.  I 
have  been  long  comparing  the  evils  with  the  ad- 
vantages of  society,  and  resolve  to  return  into 
the  world  to-morrow.  The  life  of  a  solitary  man 
will  be  certainly  miserable,  but  not  certainly  de- 
vout." 

They  heard  his  resolution  with  surprise,  but, 
after  a  short  pause,  offered  to  conduct  him  to 
Cairo.  He  dug  up  a  considerable  treasure  which 
he  had  hid  among  the  rocks,  and  accompanied 
them  to  the  city,  on  which,  as  he  approached  it, 
he  gazed  with  rapture. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE    HAPPINESS    OF   A    LIFE    LED    ACCORDING     TO 

NATURE. 

RASSELAS  went  often  to  an  assembly  of  learned 
men,  who  met  at  stated  times  to  unbend  their 
minds  and  compare  their  opinions.  Their  man- 
ners were  somewhat  coarse,  but  their  conversa- 
tion was  instructive,  and  their  disputations  acute, 
though  sometimes  too  violent,  and  often  con- 
tinued till  neither  controvertist  remembered  upon 
what  question  they  began.  Some  faults  were 
almost  general  among  them:  every  one  was 
desirous  to  dictate  to  the  rest,  and  every  one  was 
pleased  to  hear  the  genius  or  knowledge  of  ano- 
ther depreciated. 

In  this  assembly  Rasselas  was  relating  his  in 
tcrview  with  the  hermit,  and  the  wonder  with 
which  he  heard  him  censure  a  course  of  life  which 
he  had  so  deliberately  chosen,  and  so  laudably 


RASSELAS. 


471 


followed.  The  sentiments  of  the  hearers  were 
various.  Some  were  of  opinion,  that  the  folly  of 
his  choice  had  been  justly  punished  by  condem- 
nation to  perpetual  perseverance.  One  of  the 
youngest  among  them,  with  great  vehemence, 
pronounced  him  a  hypocrite.  Some  talked  of  the 
right  of  society  to  the  labour  of  individuals,  and 
considered  retirement  as  a  desertion  of  duty. 
Others  readily  allowed,  that  there  was  a  time 
wrhen  the  claims  of  the  public  were  satisfied,  and 
when  a  man  might  properly  sequester  himself  to 
review  his  life,  and  purify  his  heart 

One,  who  appeared  more  affected  with  the  nar- 
rative than  the  rest,  thought  it  likely,  that  the 
hermit  would,  in  a  few  years,  go  back  to  his  re- 
treat, and,  perhaps,  if  shame  did  not  restrain,  or 
death  intercept  him,  return  once  more  from  his 
retreat  into  the  world.  "  For  the  hope  of  happi- 
ness," said  he,  "  is  so  strongly  impressed,  that 
the  longest  experience  is  not  able  to  efface  it.  Of 
the  present  state,  whatever  it  be,  we  feel,  and  are 
forced  to  confess,  the  misery ;  yet,  when  the  same 
state  is  again  at  a  distance,  imagination  paints  it 
as  desirable.  But  the  time  will  surely  come,  when 
desire  will  no  longer  be  our  torment,  and  no  man 
shall  be  wretched  but  by  his  own  fault." 

"  This,"  said  a  philosopher,  who  had  heard  him 
with  tokens  of  great  impatience,  "  is  the  present 
condition  of  a  wise  man.  The  time  is  already 
come,  when  none  are  wretched  but  by  their  own 
fault.  Nothing  is  more  idle  than  to  inquire  after 
happiness,  which  nature  has  kindly  placed  within 
our  reach.  The  way  to  be  happy,  is  to  live  ac- 
cording to  nature,  in  obedience  to  that  universal 
and  unalterable  law  with  which  every  heart  is  ori- 
ghally  impressed  ;  which  is  not  written  on  it  by 
precept,  but  engraven  by  destiny ;  not  instilled  by 
education,  but  infused  at  our  nativity.  He  that 
lives  according  to  nature  will  suffer  nothing  from 
the  delusions  of  hope  or  importunities  of  desire ; 
he  will  receive  and  reject  with  equability  of  tem- 
per; and  act  or  suffer  as  the  reason  of  tilings  shall 
alternately  prescribe.  Other  men  may  amuse 
themselves  with  subtle  definitions,  or  intricate  ra- 
tiocination. Let  them  learn  to  be  wise  by  easier 
means :  let  them  observe  the  hind  of  the  forest, 
and  the  linnet  of  the  grove :  let  them  consider  the 
life  of  animals,  whose  motions  are  regulated  by 
instinct ;  they  obey  their  guide,  and  are  happy. 
Let  us,  therefore,  at  length,  cease  to  dispute,  and 
learn  to  live :  throw  away  the  incumbrance  of 
precepts,  which  they  who  utter  them  with  so 
much  pride  and  pomp,  do  not  understand, 'and 
carry  with  us  this,  simple  and  intelligible  maxim, 
That  deviation  from  nature,  is  deviation  from 
happiness." 

When  he  had  spoken,  he  looked  round  him 
with  a  placid  air,  and  enjoyed  the  consciousness 
)f  his  own  beneficence.  "  Sir,"  said  the  prince, 
with  great  modesty,  "  as  I,  like  all  the  rest  of 
mankind,  am  desirous  of  felicity,  my  closest  at- 
tention has  been  fixed  upon  your  discourse  :  I 
doubt  not  the  truth  of  a  position  which  a  man  so 
learned  has  so  confidently  advanced.  Let  me 
only  know  what  it  is  to  live  according  to  nature." 

"  When  I  find  young  men  so  humble  and  so 
docile,"  said  the  philosopher,  "  I  can  deny  them 
no  information  which  my  studies  have  enabled 
me  to  afford.  To  live  according  to  nature,  is  to 
act  always  witn  due  regard  to  the  fitness  arising 
from  the  relations  and  qualities  of  causes  and  ef- 
fects ;  to  concur  with  the  great  and  unchangeable 
scheme  of  universal  felicity;  to  co-operate  with 


the  general  disposition  and  tendency  of  the  pre- 
sent system  of  things." 

The  prince  soon  found  that  this  was  one  of  th« 
sages  whom  he  should  understand  less  as  ht> 
heard  him  longer.  He  therefore  bowed  and  was 
silent ;  and  the  philosopher,  supposing  him  satis- 
fied, and  the  rest  vanquished,  rose  up  and  de- 
parted with  the  ah-  of  a  man  that  had  co-operated 
with  the  present  system. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE     PRINCE    AND    HIS    SISTER     DIVIDE     BETWEEN 
THEM    THE    WORK    OF    OBSERVATION. 

RASSELAS  returned  home  full  of  reflections, 
doubting  how  to  direct  his  future  steps.  Of  the 
way  to  happiness  he  found  the  learned  and  sim- 
ple equally  ignorant ;  but,  as  he  was  yet  young, 
he  flattered  himself  that  he  had  time  remaining 
for  more  experiments,  and  farther  inquiries.  He 
communicated  to  Imlac  his  observations  and  his 
doubts,  but  was  answered  by  him  with  new 
doubts,  and  remarks  that  gave  him  no  comfort. 
He  therefore  discoursed  more  frequently  and 
freely  with  his  sister,  who  had  yet  the  same  hope 
with  himself,  and  always  assisted  him  to  give 
some  reason  why,  though  he  had  been  hitherto 
frustrated,  he  might  succeed  at  last 

"We  have  hitherto,"  said  she,  "known  but 
little  of  the  world  ;  we  have  never  yet  been  either 
great  or  mean.  In  our  own  country,  though  we 
had  royalty,  we  had  no  power ;  and  in  tliis  we 
have  not  yet  seen  the  private  recesses  of  domestic 
peace.  Imlac  favours  not  our  search,  lest  we 
should  in  time  find  him  mistaken.  We  will  di- 
vide the  task  between  us :  you  shall  try  what  is  to 
be  found  in  the  splendour  of  courts,  and  I  will 
range  the  shades  of  humbler  life.  Perhaps  com- 
mand and  authority  may  be  the  supreme  bless- 
ings, as  they  afford  the  most  opportunities  of 
doing  good :  or,  perhaps,  what  this  world  can  give 
may  be  found  in  the  modest  habitations  of  middle 
fortune  :  too  low  for  great  designs,  and  too  high 
for  penury  and  distress. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  PRINCE    EXAMINES    THE    HAPPINESS    Ol    HIGH 
STATIONS 

RASSELAS  applauded  the  design,  and  appeared 
next  day  with  a  splendid  retinue  at  the  court  of 
the  Bassa.  He  was  soon  distinguished  for  his 
magnificence,  and  admitted,  as  a  prince  whose 
curiosity  had  brought  him  from  distant  countries, 
to  an  intimacy  with  the  great  officers,  and  fre- 
quent conversation  with  the  Bassa  himself. 

He  was  at  first  inclined  to  believe,  that  the  man 
must  be  pleased  with  his  own  condition,  whom  aL 
approached  with  reverence,  and  heard  with  obe- 
dience, and  who  had  the  power  to  extend  his 
edicts  to  a  whole  kingdom.  "  There  can  be  no 
pleasure,"  said  he,  "equal  to  that  of  feeling  at 
once  the  joy  of  thousands  all  made  happy  by  wise 
administration.  Yet,  since,  by  the  law  of  subor 
dination,  this  sublime  delight  can  be  in  one  na 
tion  but  the  lot  of  one,  it  is  surely  reasonable  to 
think  that  there  is  some  satisfaction  more  popular 
and  accessible,  and  that  millions  can  hardly  be 
subjected  to  the  will  of  a  single  man.  unlv  to  nil 


472 


RASSELAS. 


his  particular  breast  with  incommunicable  con- 
tent" 

These  thoughts  were  often  in  his  mind,  and  he 
found  no  solution  of  the  difficulty.  But  as  pre- 
sents and  civilities  gained  him  more  familiarity,  he 
found  that  almost  every  man  who  stood  high  in 
employment  hated  all  the  rest,  and  was  hated  by 
them,  and  that  their  lives  were  a  continual  suc- 
cession of  plots  and  detections,  stratagems  and 
escapes,  faction  and  treachery.  Many  of  those 
who  surrounded  the  Bassa  were  sent  only  to 
watch  and  report  his  conduct :  every  tongue  was 
muttering  censure,  and  every  eye  was  searching 
for  a  fault 

At  last  the  letters  of  revocation  arrived,  the 
Bassa  was  carried  in  chains  to  Constantinople, 
and  his  name  was  mentioned  no  more. 

"  What  are  we  now  to  think  of  the  preroga- 
tives of  power  ?"  said  Rasselas  to  his  sister :  ' 
it  without  any  efficacy  to  good  ?  or,  is  the  subor- 
dinate degree  only  dangerous,  and  the  supreme 
safe  and  glorious?  Is  the  Sultan  the  only  nappy 
man  in  his  dominions?  or  is  the  Sultan  himself 
subject  to  the  torments  of  suspicion,  and  the  dread 
of  enemies  ?" 

In  a  short  time  the  second  Bassa  was  deposed. 
The  Sultan  that  had  advanced  him  was  murdered 
by  the  Janizaries,  and  his  successor  had  other 
views  and  different  favourites. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE   PRINCESS    PURSUES    HER  INQUIRY    WITH 
MORE    DILIGENCE    THAN    SUCCESS. 

THE  princess,  in  the  mean  time,  insinuated  her- 
self into  many  families  :  for  there  are  few  doors 
through  which  liberality,  joined  with  good  hu- 
mour, cannot  find  its  way.  The  daughters  of 
many  houses  were  airy  and  cheerful ;  but  Neka- 
yah  had  been  too  long  accustomed  to  the  conver- 
sation of  Imlac  and  her  brother,  to  be  much 
pleased  with  childish  levity  and  prattle  which  had 
no  meaning.  She  found  their  thoughts  narrow, 
their  wishes  low,  and  their  merriment  often  artifi- 
cial. Their  pleasures,  poor  as  they  were,  could 
not  be  preserved  pure,  but  were  imbittered  by 
petty  competitions  and  worthless  emulation.  They 
were  always  jealous  of  the  beauty  of  each  other; 
of  a  quality  to  which  solicitude  can  add  nothing, 
and  from  which  detraction  can  take  nothing  away. 
Many  were  in  love  with  triflers  like  themselves, 
and  many  fancied  that  they  were  in  love  when  in 
truth  they  were  only  idle.  Their  affection  was 
not  fixed  on  sense  or  virtue,  and  therefore  seldom 
ended  but  in  vexation.  Their  grief,  however,  like 
their  joy,  was  transient;  everything  floated  in 
their  mind  unconnected  with  the  past  or  future, 
so  that  one  desire  easily  gave  way  to  another,  as 
a  second  stone  cast  into  the  water  effaces  and 
confounds  the  circles  of  the  first. 

With  these  girls  she  played  as  with  inoffensive 
animals,  and  found  them  proud  of  her  counte- 
nance, and  weary  of  her  company. 

But  her  purpose  was  to  examine  more  deeply, 
and  her  affability  easily  persuaded  the  hearts 
that  were  swelling  with  sorrow  to  discharge  their 
secrets  in  her  ear;  and  those  whom  hope  flat- 
tered, or  prosperity  delighted,  often  courted  her 
to  partake  their  pleasures. 

The  princess  and  her  brother  commonly  met 
in  the  evening  in  a  private  summer-house  on  the 


banks  of  the  Nile,  and  related  to  each  other  the 
occurrences  of  the  day.  As  they  were  sitting 
together,  the  princess  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  river 
that  flowed  before  her.  "  Answer,"  said  she, 
"  great  father  of  waters,  thou  that  rollest  thy 
floods  through  eighty  nations,  to  the  invocations 
of  the  daughter  of  thy  native  king :  tell  me  if 
thou  waterest,  through  all  thy  course,  a  single 
habitation  from  which  thou  dost  not  hear  the 
murmurs  of  complaint?" 

"  You  are  then,"  said  Rasselas,  "  not  more 
successful  in  private  houses  than  I  have  been  in 
courts."  "  I  have,  since  the  last  partition  of 
our  provinces,"  said  the  princess,  "  enabled  my- 
self to  enter  familiarly  into  many  families,  where 
there  was  the  fairest  show  of  prosperity  and 
peace,  and  know  not  one  house  that  is  not  haunt- 
ed by  some  fury  that  destroys  their  quiet 

"  I  did  not  seek  ease  among  the  poor,  because 
I  concluded  that  there  it  could  not  be  found. 
But  I  saw  many  poor  whom  I  had  supposed  to 
live  in  affluence.  Poverty  has,  in  large  cities, 
very  different  appearances ;  it  is  often  concealed 
in  splendour,  and  often  in  extravagance.  It  is 
the  care  of  a  very  great  part  of  mankind  to  con- 
ceal their  indigence  from  the  rest :  they  support 
themselves  by  temporary  expedients,  and  every 
day  is  lost  in  contriving  for  the  morrow. 

"  This,  however,  was  an  evil,  which,  though 
frequent,  I  saw  with  less  pain,  because  I  could 
relieve  it.  Yet  some  have  refused  my  bounties  ; 
more  offended  with  my  quickness  to  detect  their 
wants,  than  pleased  with  my  readiness  to  suc- 
cour them:  and  others,  whose  exigences  com- 
pelled them  to  admit  my  kindness,  have  never 
been  able  to  forgive  their  benefactress.  Many, 
however,  have  been  sincerely  grateful  without 
the  ostentation  of  gratitude,  or  the  hope  of  other 
favours." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE    PRINCESS    CONTINUES     HER    REMARKS   tJPu.N 
PRIVATE    LIFE. 

NEKAYAH,  perceiving  her  brother's  attention 
fixed,  proceeded  in  her  narrative. 

"  In  families,  where  there  is  or  is  not  povertv, 
there  is  commonly  discord:  if  a  kingdom  be,  as 
Imlac  tells  us,  a  great  family,  a  family  likewise 
is  a  little  kingdom,  torn  with  factions  and  ex- 
posed to  revolutions.  An  unpractised  observer 
expects  the  love  of  parents  and  children  to  be 
constant  and  equal:  but  this  kindness  seldom 
continues  beyond  the  years  of  infancy :  in  a 
short  time  the  children  become  rivals  to  their 
parents.  Benefits  are  allayed  by  reproaches, 
and  gratitude  debased  by  envv. 

"  Parents  and  children  seldom  act  in  concert ; 
each  child  endeavours  to  appropriate  the  esteem 
or  fondness  of  the  parents;  and  the  parent?, 
with  yet  less  temptation,  betray  each  other  to 
their  children ;  thus  some  place  their  confidence 
in  the  father,  and  some  in  the  mother,  and  by 
degrees  the  house  is  filled  with  artifices  and 
feuds. 

"  The  opinions  of  children  and  parents,  of  the 
young  and  the  old,  are  naturally  opposite,  by 
the  contrary  effects  of  hope  and  despondence,  of 
expectation  and  experience,  without  crime  or 
folly  on  either  side.  The  colours  of  life  in  youth 
and  age  appear  different,  as  the  face  of  nature  in 


RASSELAS. 


473 


spring  and  winter.  And  how  can  children  credi 
the  assertions  of  parents,  which  their  own  eyes 
show  them  to  be  false  ? 

"  Few  parents  act  in  such  a  manner  as  much 
to  enforce  their  maxims  by  the  credit  of  their 
lives.  The  old  man  trusts  wholly  to  slow  con- 
trivance and  gradual  progression ;  the  youth  ex- 
pects to  force  his  way  by  genius,  vigour,  am 
precipitance.  The  old  man  pays  regard  to  riches 
and  the  youth  reverences  virtue.  The  old  man 
deifies  prudence :  the  youth  commits  himself  to 
magnanimity  and  chance.  The  young  man.  who 
intends  no  ill,  believes  that  none  is  intended,  ant 
therefore  acts  with  openness  and  candour:  bui 
his  father,  having  suffered  the  injuries  of  fraud 
is  impelled  to  suspect,  and  too  often  allured  to 
practise  it.  •  Age  looks  with  anger  on  the  teme- 
rity of  youth,  and  youth  with  contempt  on  the 
scrupulosity  of  age."  Thus  parents  and  children 
for  the  greatest  part,  live  on,  to  love  less  anc 
less :  and,  if  those  whom  nature  has  thus  closelj 
united  are  the  torments  of  each  other,  where 
shall  we  look  for  tenderness  and  consolation  ?" 

"  Surely,"  said  the  prince,  "  you  must  have 
been  unfortunate  in  vour  choice  of  acquaintance : 
I  am  unwilling  to  believe  that  the  most  tender  of 
all  relations  is  thus  impeded  in  its  effects  by 
natural  necessity." 

"  Domestic  discord,"  answered  she,  "  is  not 
inevitably  and  fatally  necessary;  but  yet  it  is 
not  easily  avoided.  We  seldom  see  that  a  whole 
family  is  virtuous :  the  good  and  the  evil  cannot 
well  agree ;  and  the  evil  can  yet  less  agree  with 
one  another:  even  the  virtuous  fall  sometimes  to 
variance,  when  their  virtues  are  of  different  kinds, 
and  tending  to  extremes.  In  general,  those 
parents  have  most  reverence  who  most  deserve 
it ;  for  he  that  lives  well  cannot  be  despised. 

"  Many  other  evils  infest  private  life.  Some 
are  the  slaves  of  servants  whom  they  have 
trusted  with  their  affairs.  Some  are  kept  in  con- 
tinual anxiety  by  the  caprice  of  rich  relations, 
whom  they  cannot  please,  and  dare  not  offend. 
Some  husbands  are  imperious,  and  some  wives 
perverse ;  and.  as  it  is  always  more  easy  to  do 
evil  than  good,  though  the  wisdom  or  virtue  of 
one  can  very  rarely  make  many  happy,  the  folly 
or  vice  of  one  may  often  make  many  miserable." 
"  If  such  be  the  general  effect  of  marriage," 
said  the  prince,  "  I  shall  for  the  future  think  it 
dangerous  to  connect  my  interest  with  that  of 
another,  lest  I  should  be  unhappy  by  my  part- 
ner's fault." 

"  I  have  met,"  said  the  princess,  "  with  many 
who  live  single  for  that  reason ;  but  I  never  found 
that  their  prudence  ought  to  raise  envy.  They 
dream  away  their  time  without  friendship,  with- 
out fondness,  and  are  driven  to  rid  themselves  of 
the  day,  for  which  they  hav£  no  use,  by  childish 
amusements  or  vicious  delights.  They  act  as 
beings  under  the  constant  sense  of  some  known 
inferiority,  that  fills  their  minds  with  rancour, 
and  their  tongues  with  censure.  They  are  peev- 
ish at  home,  and  malevolent  abroad ;  and,  as  the 
outlaws  of  human  nature,  make  it  their  business 
and  their  pleasure  to  disturb  that  society  which 
debars  them  from  its  privileges.  To  live  with- 
out feeling  or  exciting  sympathy,  to  be  fortunate 
without  adding  to  the  felicity  of  "others,  or  afflicted 
without  tasting  the  balm  of  pity,  i?  a  state  more 
gloomy  than  solitude :  it  is  not  retreat,  but  ex- 
clusion from  mankind.  Marriage  has  many 
pains,  but  celibacy  has  no  pleasures." 
3  K 


"What  then  is  to  be  done?"  said  Rasselas; 
"  the  more  we  inquire  the  less  we  can  resolve. 
Surely  he  is  most  likely  to  please  himself  that 
has  no  other  inclination  to  regard." 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 

DISQUISITION    UPON    GREATNESS. 

THE  conversation  had  a  short  pause.  Th« 
prince,  having  considered  his  sister's  observations, 
told  her,  that  she  had  surveyed  life  with  prejudice, 
and  supposed  misery  where  she  did  not  find 
it  "  Your  narrative,"  sa}-s  he,  "  throws  yet  a 
darker  gloom  upon  the  prospects  of  futurity :  the 
predictions  of  Imlac  were  but  faint  sketches  of 
the  evils  painted  by  Nekayah.  I  have  been  lately 
convinced  that  quiet  is  not  the  daughter  of  gran- 
deur, or  of  power :  that  her  presence  is  not  to  be 
bought  by  wealth,  or  enforced  by  conquest.  It 
is  evident,  that  as  any  man  acts  in  a  wider  coin- 
pass,  he  must  be  more  exposed  to  opposition 
from  enmity,  or  miscarriage  from  chance :  who- 
ever has  many  to  please  or  to  govern  must  use 
the  ministry  of  many  agents,  some  of  whom  will 
be  wicked,  and  some  ignorant ;  by  some  he  will 
be  misled,  and  by  others  betrayed.  If  he  grati- 
fies one,  he  will  offend  another;  those  that  are 
not  favoured  will  think  themselves  injured ;  and, 
since  favours  can  be  conferred  but  upon  few,  the 
greater  number  will  be  always  discontented." 

"  The  discontent,"  said  the  princess,  "  which 
is  thus  unreasonable,  I  hope  that  I  shall  always 
have  spirit  to  despise,  and  you  power  to  repress." 

"  Discontent,"  answered  Rasselas,  "  will  not 
always  be  without  reason  under  the  most  just  and 
vigilant  administration  of  public  affairs.  None, 
however  attentive,  can  always  discover  that  merit 
which  indigence  or  faction  may  happen  to  ob- 
scure ;  and  none,  however  powerful,  can  always 
reward  it  Vet,  he  that  sees  inferior  desert  ad- 
vanced above  him  will  naturally  impute  that  pre- 
ference to  partiality  or  caprice;  and,  indeed,  it 
can  scarcely  be  hoped  that  any  man,  bowevet 
magnanimous  by  nature,  or  exalted  by  condition, 
will  be  able  to  persist  for  ever  in  fixed  and  inex- 
orable justice  of  distribution :  he  will  sometimes 
indulge  his  own  affections,  and  sometimes  those 
of  his  favourites :  he  will  permit  some  to  please 
tim  who  can  never  serve  him :  he  will  discover 
n  those  whom  he  loves  qualities  which  in  reality 
hey  do  not  possess ;  and  to  those  from  whom  he 
receives  pleasure,  he  will  in  his  turn  endeavour  to 
*ive  it.  Thus  will  recommendations  sometimes 
jrevail  which  were  purchased  by  money,  or  by 
he  more  destructive  bribery  of  flattery  and  ser- 
vility. 

"  He  that  hath  much  to  do  will  do  something 
wrong,  and  of  that  wrong  must  suffer  the  con- 
sequences ;  and  if  it  were  possible  that  he  should 
always  act  rightly,  yet  when  such  numbers  are 
to  judge  of  his  conduct,  the  bad  will  censure  and 
obstruct  him  by  malevolence,  and  the  good,  some- 
imes,  by  mistake. 

"The"  highest  stations  cannot  therefore  hope 
to  be  the  abodes  of  happiness,  which  I  would 
willingly  believe  to  have  fled  from  thrones  and 
palaces^  to  seats  of  humble  privacy  and  placid 
obscurity.  For  what  can  binder  the  satisfaction, 
or  intercept  the  expectations,  of  him  whose  abfli- 
ies  are  adequate  to  his  employments,  who  sees 
with  his  own  eyes  the  whole  cucwit  of  his  inflw- 


474 


RASSELAS. 


ence,  who  chooses  by  his  own  knowledge  all 
whom  he  trusts,  and  whom  none  are  tempted  to 
deceive  by  hope  or  fear  ?  Surely  he  has  nothing 
to  do  but  to  love  and  to  be  loved,  to  be  virtuous 
and  to  be  happy." 

"  Whether  perfect  happiness  would  be  pro- 
cured by  perfect  goodness,"  said  Nekayah,  "  this 
world  will  never  afford  an  opportunity  of  deciding. 
But  this,  at  least,  may  be  maintained,  that  we  do 
not  always  find  visible  happiness  in  proportion  to 
visible  virtue.  All  natural,  and  almost  all  political 
evils,  are  incident  alike  to  the  bad  and  good: 
they  are  confounded  in  the  misery  of  a  famine, 
and  not  much  distinguished  in  the  fury  of  a  fac- 
tion ;  they  sink  together  in  a  tempest,  and  are 
driven  together  from  their  country  by  invaders. 
All  that  virtue  can  afford  is  quietness  of  con- 
science, and  a  steady  prospect  of  a  happier  state : 
this  may  enable  us  to  endure  calamity  with  pa- 
tience ;  but  remember  that  patience  must  suppose 
pain." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

RASSELAS    AND   NEKAYAH   CONTINUE    THEIR 
CONVERSATION. 

"  DEAR  princess,"  said  Rasselas,  "you  fall  into 
the  common  errors  of  exaggeratory  declamation, 
by  producing  in  a  familiar  disquisition,  examples 
of  national  calamities,  and  scenes  of  extensive 
misery,  which  are  found  in  books  rather  than  in 
the  world,  and  which,  as  they  are  horrid,  are  or- 
dained to  be  rare.  Let  us  not  imagine  evils  which 
we  do  not  feel,  nor  injure  life  by  misrepresenta- 
tions. I  cannot  bear  that  querulous  eloquence 
which  threatens  every  city  with  a  siege  like  that 
of  Jerusalem,  that  makes  famine  attend  on  every 
flight  of  locusts,  and  suspends  pestilence  on  the 
whig  of  every  blast  that  issues  from  the  south. 

"  On  necessary  and  inevitable  evils  which  over- 
whelm kingdoms  at  once,  all  disputation  is  vain  : 
when  they  happen,  they  must  be  endured.  But  it 
is  evident,  that  these  bursts  of  universal  distress 
are  more  dreaded  than  felt ;  thousands  and  ten 
thousands  flourish  in  youth,  and  wither  in  age, 
without  the  knowledge  of  any  other  than  domes- 
tic evils,  and  share  the  same  pleasures  and  vexa- 
tions, whether  their  Rings  are  mild  or  cruel, 
whether  the  armies  of  their  country  pursue  their 
enemies,  or  retreat  before  them.  While  courts  are 
disturbed  with  intestine  competitions,  and  ambas- 
sadors are  negotiating  in  foreign  countries,  the 
smith  still  plies  his  anvil,  and  Ihe  husbandman 
drives  his  plough  forward;  the  necessaries  of  life 
are  required  and  obtained,  and  the  successive 
business  of  the  seasons  continues  to  make  its 
wonted  revolutions. 

"  Let  us  cease  to  consider  what,  perhaps,  may 
never  happen,  and  what,  when  it  shall  happen, 
will  laugn  at  human  speculation.  We  will  not 
endeavour  to  modify  the  motions  of  the  elements, 
or  to  fix  the  destiny  of  kingdoms.  It  is  our  busi- 
ness to  consider  what  beings  like  us  may  perform ; 
each  labouring  for  his  own  happiness,  by  pro- 
moting within  his  circle,  however  narrow,  the 
happiness  of  others. 

"  Marriage  is  evidently  the  dictate  of  nature  ; 
men  and  women  were  made  to  be  the  companions 
of  each  other ;  and,  therefore,  I  cannot  be  per- 
suaded but  that  marriage  is  one  of  the  means  oi 
happiness." 


"I  know  not,"  said  the  princess,  "whether 
marriage  be  more  than  one  of  the  innumerable 
modes  of  human  misery.  When  I  see  and  reckon 
the  various  forms  of  connubial  infelicity,  the  unex- 
pected causes  of  lasting  discord,  the  diversities  of 
temper,  the  oppositions  of  opinion,  the  rude  colli- 
sions of  contrary  desire  where  both  are  urged  by 
violent  impulses,  the  obstinate  contest  of  disagree- 
ing virtues  where  both  are  supported  by  con- 
sciousness of  good  intention,  I  am  sometimes  dis- 
posed to  think,  with  the  severer  casuists  of  most 
nations,  that  marriage  is  rather  permitted  than 
approved,  and  that  none,  but  by  the  instigation  of 
a  passion  too  much  indulged,  entangle  themselves 
with  indissoluble  compacts." 

"You  seem  to  forget,"  replied  Rasselas,  "that 
you  have,  even  now,  represented  celibacy  as  less 
happy  than  marriage.  Both  conditions  may  be 
bad,  but  they  cannot  both  be  worst.  Thus  it  hap- 
pens when  wrong  opinions  arc  entertained,  lhat 
they  mutually  destroy  each  other,  and  leave  the 
mind  open  to  truth." 

"  I  did  not  expect,"  answered  the  princess, 
"  to  hear  that  imputed  to  falsehood,  which  is  the 
consequence  only  of  frailty.  To  the  mind,  as  to 
the  eye,  it  is  dillicult  to  compare  with  exactness 
objects  vast  in  their  extent,  and  various  in  their 
parts.  Where  we  see  or  conceive  the  whole  at 
once,  we  readily  note  the  discriminations,  and  de- 
cide the  preference  :  but  of  two  systems,  of  which 
neither  can  be  surveyed  by  any  human  being  in 
its  full  compass  and  magnitude,  and  multiplicity  of 
complication,  where  is  the  wonder,  that,  judging 
of  the  whole  by  parts,  I  am  alternately  affected  by 
one  and  the  other,  as  either  presses  on  my  me- 
mory or  fancy?  We  differ  from  ourselves  just 
as  we  differ  from  each  other,  when  we  see 
only  part  of  the  question,  as  in  the  multifarious 
relations  of  politics  and  morality  ;  but  when  we 
perceive  the  whole  at  once,  as  in  numerical  com- 
putations, all  agree  in  one  judgment,  and  none 
ever  varies  in  his  opinion." 

"Let  us  not  add,"  said  the  prince,  "to  the 
other  evils  of  life  the  bitterness  of  controversy, 
nor  endeavour  to  vie  with  each  other  in  subtleties 
of  argument  We  are  employed  in  a  search  of 
which  both  are  equally  to  enjoy  the  success,  or 
suffer  by  the  miscarriage.  It  is  therefore  fit  that 
we  assist  each  other.  You  surely  conclude  too 
hastily  from  the  infelicity  of  marriage  against  its 
institution ;  will  not  the  misery  of  life  prove 
equally  that  life  cannot  be  the  gift  of  heaven  ? 
The  world  must  be  peopled  by  marriage,  or  peo- 
pled without  it." 

"  How  the  world  is  to  be  peopled,"  returned 
Nekayah,  "is  not  my  care,  and  needs  not  be 
yours.  I  see  no  danger  that  the  present  genera- 
tion should  omit  to  leave  successors  behind  them  : 
we  are  not  now  inquiring  for  the  world,  but  for 
ourselves." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   DEBATE   ON    MARRIAGE    CONTINUED. 

"  THE  good  of  the  whole,"  said  Rasselas,  "  is 
the  same  with  the  good  of  all  its  parts.  If  mar- 
riage be  best  for  mankind,  it  must  be  evidently 
best  for  individuals  ;  or  a  permanent  and  neces- 
sary duty  must  be  the  cause  of  evil,  and  some 
must  be  inevitably  sacrificed  to  the  convenience 
of  others.  In  the  estimate  which  you  have  made 


RASSELAS. 


475 


of  the  two  states,  it  appears  that  the  incommodt 
ties  of  a  single  life  are,  in  a  great  measure,  neces- 
sary and  certain,  but  those  of  the  conjugal  state 
accidental  and  avoidable.  I  cannot  forbear  to 
flatter  myself  that  prudence  and  benevolence  wil 
make  marriage  happy.  The  general  folly  of  man- 
kind is  the  cause  of  general  complaint.  Whal 
can  be  expected  but  disappointment  and  repent- 
ance from  a  choice  made  in  the  immaturity  ol 
youth,  in  the  ardour  of  desire,  without  judgment, 
without  foresight,  without  inquiry  after  conformity 
of  opinions,  similarity  of  manners,  rectitude  ol 
judgment,  or  purity  of  sentiment  ? 

"  Such  is  the  common  process  of  marriage.  A 
youth  and  maiden  meeting  by  chance,  or  brought 
together  by  artifice,  exchange  glances,  reciprocate 
civilities,  go  home  and  dream  of  one  another. 
Having  little  to  divert  attention,  or  diversify 
thought,  they  find  themselves  uneasy  when  they 
are  apart,  and  therefore  conclude  that  they  shall 
be  happy  together.  They  marry,  and  discover 
what  nothing  but  voluntary  blindness  before  had 
concealed  ;  they  wear  out  life  in  altercations,  and 
charge  nature  with  cruelty. 

"  From  those  early  marriages  proceeds  like- 
wise the  rivalry  of  parents  and  children :  the  son 
is  eager  to  enjoy  the  world  before  the  father  is 
willing  to  forsake  it,  and  there  is  hardly  room  at 
once  for  two  generations.  The  daughter  begins 
to  bloom  before  the  mother  can  be  content  to 
fade,  and  neither  can  forbear  to  wish  for  the  ab- 
sence of  the  other. 

"Surely,  all  these  evils  may  be  avoided  by  that 
deliberation  and  delay  which  prudence  prescribes 
to  irrevocable  choice.  In  the  variety  and  jollity  of 
youthful  pleasures,  life  may  be  well  enough  sup- 
ported without  the  help  of  a  partner.  Longer  time 
will  increase  experience,  and  wider  views  will  allow 
better  opportunities  of  inquiry  and  selection :  one 
advantage  at  least  will  be  certain ;  the  parents 
will  be  visibly  older  than  their  children." 

"  What  reason  cannot  collect,"  said  Nekayah, 
"  and  what  experiment  has  not  yet  taught,  can  be 
known  only  from  the  report  of  others.  I  have  been 
told  that  late  marriages  are  not  eminently  happy. 
This  is  a  question  too  important  to  be  neglected ; 
and  I  have  often  proposed  it  to  those,  whose  ac- 
curacy of  remark  and  comprehensiveness  of  know- 
ledge made  their  suffrages  worthy  of  regard. 
They  have  generally  determined,  that  it  is  dan- 
gerous fora  man  and  woman  to  suspend  their  fate 
upon  each  other  at  a  time  when  opinions  are  fixed 
and  habits  are  established,  when  friendships  have 
been  contracted  on  both  sides,  when  life  has  been 
planned  into  method,  and  the  mind  has  long  en- 
joyed the  contemplation  of  its  own  prospects. 

"It  is  scarcely  possible,  that  two  travelling 
through  the  world  under  the  conduct  of  chance 
should  have  been  both  directed  to  the  same  path, 
and  it  will  not  often  happen  that  either  will  quit 
the  track  which  custom  has  made  pleasing.  When 
the  desultory  levity  of  youth  has  settled  in  to  regu- 
larity, it  is  soon  succeeded  by  pride  ashamed  to 
yield,  or  obstinacy  delighting  to  contend.  And 
even  though  mutual  esteem  produces  mutual  de- 
sire to  please,  time  itself,  as  it  modifies  unchange- 
ably the  external  mien,  determines  likewise  the 
direction  of  the  passions,  and  gives  an  inflexible 
rigidity  to  the  manners.  Long  customs  are  not 
easily  broken;  he  that  attempts  to  change  the 
course  of  his  own  life  very  often  labours  in  vain, 
and  how  shall  we  do  that  for  others  which  we  are 
seldorr  able  to  do  for  ourselves  ?" 


"  But  surely,"  interposed  the  prince,  "you  sup- 
pose the  chief  motive  of  choice  forgotten  or  ne- 
glected. Whenever  I  shall  seek  a  wife,  it  shall  be 
my  first  question,  whether  she  be  willing  to  be  led 
by  reason  ?" 

"Thus  it  is," said  Nekayah,  "that philosophers 
are  deceived.  There  are  a  thousand  familiar  dis- 
putes which  reason  can  never  decide ;  questions 
that  elude  investigation,  and  make  logic  ridicu- 
lous ;  cases  where  something  must  be  done,  and 
where  little  can  be  said.  Consider  the  state  of 
mankind,  and  inquire  how  few  can  be  supposed 
to  act  upon  any  occasions,  whether  small  or  great, 
with  all  the  reasons  of  action  present  to  their 
minds.  Wretched  would  be  the  pair,  above  all 
names  of  wretchedness,  who  should  be  doomed 
to  adjust  by  reason,  every  morning,  all  the  minute 
details  of  a  domestic  day. 

"  Thope  who  marry  at  an  advanced  age  will 
probably  escape  the  encroachments  of  their  chil- 
dren ;  but  in  the  diminution  of  this  advantage, 
they  will  be  likely  to  leave  them,  ignorant  and 
helpless,  to  a  guardian's  mercy :  or  if  that  should 
not  happen,  they  must  at  least  go  out  of  the 
world  before  they  see  those  whom  they  love  best 
either  wise  or  great 

"  From  their  children,  if  they  have  less  to  fear, 
they  have  less  also  to  hope;  and  they  lose,  with- 
out an  equivalent,  the  joys  of  early  love,  and  the 
convenience  of  uniting  with  manners  pliant,  and 
minds  susceptible  of  new  impressions,  which 
might  wear  away  their  dissimilitudes  by  long  co- 
habitation, as  soft  bodies,  by  continual  attrition, 
conform  their  surfaces  to  each  other. 

•'  I  believe  it  will  be  found  that  those  who 
marry  late  are  best  pleased  with  their  childre^i, 
and  those  who  marry  early  with  their  partners." 

"  The  union  of  these  two  affections,"  said  Ras- 
sclas,  "  would  produce  all  that  could  be  wished. 
Perhaps  there  is  a  time  when  marriage  might 
unite  them ;  a  time  neither  too  early  for  the  fa- 
ther nor  too  late  for  the  husband." 

"  Every  hour,"  answered  the  princess,  "  con- 
firms my  prejudice  in  favour  of  the  position  so  of- 
ten uttered  by  the  mouth  of  Imlac, '  That  Nature 
sets  her  gifts  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left' 
Those  conditions  which  flatter  hope  and  attract  de- 
sire are  so  constituted,  that  as  we  approach  one  we 
recede  from  another.  There  are  goods  so  opposed 
that  we  cannot  seize  both,  but,  by  too  much  pru- 
dence, may  pass  between  them  at  too  great  a 
distance  to  reach  cither.  This  is  often  the  fate  of 
ong  consideration :  he  does  nothing  who  endea- 
vours to  do  more  than  is  allowed  to  humanity. 
Flatter  not  yourself  with  contrarieties  of  plea- 
sure. Of  the  blessings  set  before'you  make  your 
choice,  and  be  content.  No  man  can  taste  the 
ruits  of  autumn,  while  he  is  delighting  his  scent, 
with  the  flowers  of  the  spring :  no  man  can  at 
;he  same  time  till  liis  cup  from  the  source  and 
torn  the  mouth  of  the  Nile." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

IMLAC     ENTERS,    AND     CHANGES     THE 
CONVERSATION. 

HERE  Imlac  entered,  and  interrupted  them. 
:'  Imlac,"  said  Rasselas,  "  I  have  been  taking  from 
.he  princess  the  dismal  history  of  private  life, 
and  am  almost  discouraged  from  further  sear*k." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Imlac,  "  that  wliilf  *-ty 


476 


RASSELAS. 


are  making  the  choice  of  life,  you  neglect  to  live. 
You  wander  about  a  single  city,  which,  however 
large  and  diversified,  can  now  afford  few  novel- 
ties, and  forget  that  you  are  in  a  country  famous 
among  the  earliest  monarchies  for  the  power  and 
wisdom  of  its  inhabitants ;  a  country  where  the 
sciences  first  dawned  that  illuminate  the  world, 
and  beyond  which  the  arts  cannot  be  traced  of 
civil  society  or  domestic  life. 

"  The  old  Egyptians  have  left  behind  them 
monuments  of  industry  and  power  before  which 
all  European  magnificence  is  confessed  to  fade 
away.  The  ruins  of  their  architecture  are  the 
schools  of  modern  builders,  and  from  the  won- 
ders which  time  has  spared,  we  may  conjecture, 
though  uncertainly,  what  it  has  destroyed." 

"  My  curiosity,"  said  Rasselas,  "  does  not  very 
strongly  lead  me  to  survey  piles  of  stone,  or 
mounds  of  earth;  my  business  is  with  man.  I  came 
hither  not  to  measure  fragments  of  temples,  or 
trace  choked  aqueducts,  but  to  look  upon  the 
various  scenes  of  the  present  world." 

"  The  things  that  are  now  before  us,"  said  the 
princess,  "  require  attention,  and  deserve  it  What 
have  I  to  do  with  the  heroes  or  the  monuments  of 
ancient  times — with  times  which  never  can  re- 
turn, and  heroes,  whose  form  of  life  was  different 
from  all  that  the  present  condition  of  mankind 
requires  or  allows  ?" 

"  To  know  any  thing,"  returned  the  poet,  "  we 
must  know  its  effects;  to  see  men,  we  must  see 
their  works,  that  we  may  learn  what  reason  has 
dictated,  or  passion  has  incited,  and  find  what  are 
the  most  powerful  motives  of  action.  To  judge 
rightly  of  the  present,  we  must  oppose  it  to  the 
psfet ;  for  all  judgment  is  comparative,  and  of  the 
future  nothing  can  be  known.  The  truth  is,  that 
no  mind  is  much  employed  upon  the  present:  re- 
collection and  anticipation  fill  up  almost  all  our 
moments.  Our  passions  are  joy  and  grief,  love 
and  hatred,  hope  and  fear.  Of  joy  and  grief,  the 
past  is  the  object ;  and  the  future,  of  hope  and 
fear :  even  love  and  hatred  respect  the  past,  for 
the  cause  must  have  been  before  the  effect. 

"  The  present  state  of  things  is  the  conse- 
quence of  the  former;  and  it  is  natural  to  inquire 
what  were  the  sources  of  the  good  that  we  en- 
joy, or  the  evils  that  we  suffer.  If  we  act  only 
for  ourselves,  to  neglect  the  study  of  history  is 
not  prudent:  if  we  are  intrusted  with  the  care  of 
others,  it  is  not  just.  Ignorance,  when  it  is  vo- 
luntary, is  criminal :  and  he  may  properly  be 
charged  with  evil  who  refused  to  learn  how  he 
might  prevent  it. 

"  There  is  no  part  of  history  so  generally  use- 
ful as  that  which  relates  to  the  progress  of  the 
human  mind,  the  gradual  improvement  of  reason, 
the  successive  advances  of  science,  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  learning  and  ignorance,  which  are  the 
light  and  darkness  of  thinking  beings,  the  extinc- 
tion and  resuscitation  of  arts,  and  the  revolu- 
lutions  of  the  intellectual  world.  If  accounts  of 
battles  and  invasions  are  peculiarly  the  business 
of  princes,  the  useful  and  elegant  arts  are  not 
to  be  neglected ;  those  who  have  kingdoms  to 
govern,  have  understandings  to  cultivate. 

"  Example  is  always  more  efficacious  than  pre- 
cept. A  soldier  is  formed  in  war,  and  a  painter 
must  copy  pictures.  In  this,  contemplative  life 
has  the  advantage :  great  actions  are  seldom  seen, 
but  the  labours  of  art  are  always  at  hand  for 
those  who  desire  to  know  what  art  has  been 
a  We  to  nerform 


"  When  the  eye,  or  the  imagination,  is  struck 
with  any  uncommon  work,  the  next  transiticn  of 
an  active  mind  is  to  the  means  by  whijh  it  was 
performed.  Here  begins  the  true  use  of  such 
contemplation ;  we  enlarge  our  comprehension 
by  new  ideas,  and  perhaps  recover  some  art  lost 
to  mankind,  or  learn  what  is  less  perfectly  known 
in  our  own  country.  At  least  we  compare  our 
own  with  former  times,  and  either  rejoice  at  our 
improvements,  or,  what  is  the  first  motion  towards 
good,  discover  our  defects." 

"  I  am  willing,"  said  the  prince,  "  to  see  all 
that  can  deserve  my  search." — "  And  I,"  said 
the  princess,  "  shall  rejoice  to  learn  something  of 
the  manners  of  antiquity." 

"  The  most  pompous  monument  of  Egyptian 
greatness,  and  one  of  the  most  bulky  works  of 
manual  industry,"  said  Imlac,  "  are  the  pyra- 
mids: fabrics  raised  before  the  time  of  history, 
and  of  which  the  earliest  narratives  afford  us 
only  uncertain  traditions.  Of  these  the  greatest 
is  still  standing,  very  little  injured  by  time." 

"  Let  us  visit  them  to-morrow,"  said  Nekayah : 
"  I  have  often  heard  of  the  pyramids,  and  shall 
not  rest  till  I  have  seen  them,  within  and  without, 
with  my  own  eyes." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THEY   VISIT    THE    PYRAMIDS. 

THE  resolution  being  thus  taken,  they  set  out 
the  next  day.  They  laid  tents  upon  their  camels, 
being  resolved  to  stay  among  the  pyramids  till 
their  curiosity  was  fully  satisfied.  They  travel- 
led gently,  turned  aside  to  every  thing  remark- 
able, stopped  from  time  to  time  and  conversed 
with  the  inhabitants,  and  observed  the  various 
appearances  of  towns  ruined  and  inhabited,  of 
wild  and  cultivated  nature. 

When  they  came  to  the  great  pyramid,  they 
were  astonished  at  the  extent  of  the  base,  and 
the  height  of  the  top.  Imlac  explained  to  them 
the  principles  upon  which  the  pyramidal  form 
was  chosen  for  a  fabric  intended  to  co-extend  its 
duration  with  that  of  the  world :  he  showed  that 
its  gradual  diminution  gave  it  such  stability,  as 
defeated  all  the  common  attacks  of  the  elements, 
and  could  scarcely  be  overthrown  by  earthquakes 
themselves,  the  least  resistible  of  natural  violence. 
A  concussion  that  should  shatter  the  pyramid 
would  threaten  the  dissolution  of  the  continent. 

They  measured  all  its  dimensions,  and  pitched 
their  tents  at  its  foot.  Next  day  they  prepared 
to  enter  its  interior  apartments,  and  having  hired 
the  common  guides,  climbed  up  to  the  first  pas- 
sage ;  when  the  favourite  of  the  princess,  looking 
into  the  cavity,  stepped  back  and  trembled. "  Pekn- 
ah,"  said  the  princess,  "  of  what  art  thou  afraid  ?" 
"  Of  the  narrow  entrance,"  .answered  the  lady, 
"  and  of  the  dreadful  gloom.  I  dare  not  enter  a 
place  which  must  surely  be  inhabited  by  unquiet 
souls.  The  original  possessors  of  these  dreadful 
vaults  will  start  up  before  us,  and  perhaps  shut 
us  in  for  ever."  She  spoke,  and  threw  her  arms 
round  the  neck  of  her  mistress. 

"  If  all  your  fear  be  of  apparitions,"  said  the 
prince,  "I  will  promise  you  safetv:  there  is  no 
danger  from  the  dead ;  he  that  is  once  buried  will 
be  seen  no  more." 

"  That  the  dead  are  seen  no  more,"  said  I  in- 


RASSELAS. 


477 


lac,  "  I  will  not  undertake  to  maintain  against 
the  concurrent  and  unvaried  testimony  of  all  ages 
and  of  all  nations.  There  is  no  people,  rude  or 
learned,  among  whom  apparitions  of  the  dead 
are  not  related  and  believed.  This  opinion,  which, 
perhaps,  prevails  as  far  as  human  nature  is  dif- 
fused, could  become  universal  only  by  its  truth: 
those  that  never  heard  of  one  another  would  not 
have  agreed  in  a  tale  which  nothing  but  experience 
can  make  credible.  That  it  is  doubted  by  single 
cavillers  can  very  little  weaken  the  general  evi- 
dence ;  and  some  who  deny  it  with  their  tongues 
confess  it  by  their  fears. 

"  Yet  I  do  not  mean  to  add  new  terrors  to 
those  which  have  already  seized  upon  Pekuah. 
There  can  be  no  reason  why  spectres  should 
haunt  the  pyramid  more  than  other  places,  or 
why  they  should  have  power  or  will  to  hurt  inno- 
cence and  purity.  Our  entrance  is  no  violation 
of  their  privileges;  we  can  take  nothing  from 
them;  how  then  can  we  offend  them?" 

"  My  dear  Pekuah,"  said  the  princess,  "  I  will 
always  go  before  you,  and  Imlac  shall  follow  you. 
Remember  that  you  are  the  companion  of  the 
princess  of  Abissinia." 

"  If  the  princess  is  pleased  that  her  servant 
should  die,"  returned  the  lady,  "  let  her  command 
some  death  less  dreadful  than  inclosure  in  this 
horrid  cavern.  You  know  I  dare  not  disobey  you ; 
I  must  go  if  you  command  me ;  but,  if  I  once 
enter,  I  never  shall  come  back." 

The  princess  saw  that  her  fear  was  too  strong 
for  expostulation  or  reproof,  and,  embracing  her, 
told  her  that  she  should  stay  in  the  tent  till  their 
return.  Pekuah  was  not  yet  satisfied,  but  en- 
treated the  princess  not  to  pursue  so  dreadful  a 
purpose  as  that  of  entering  the  recesses  of  the 
pyramids.  "  Though  I  cannot  teach  courage," 
said  Nekayah,  "  I  must  not  learn  cowardice;  nor 
leave-  at  last  undone  what  I  came  hither  only  to 
do." 


CHAPTER  xxxii. 

THEY    ENTER    THE    PYRAMID. 

PEKUAH  descended  to  the  tents,  and  the  rest 
entered  the  pyramid;  they  passed  through  the 
galleries,  surveyed  the  vaults  of  marble,  and  exa- 
mined the  chest  in  which  the  body  of  the  founder 
is  supposed  to  have  been  reposited.  They  then 
sat  down  in  one  of  the  most  spacious  chambers  to 
rest  awhile,  before  they  attempted  to  return. 

"We  have  now,"  said  Imlac,  "gratified  our 
minds  with  an  exact  view  of  the  greatest  work  of 
man,  except  the  wall  of  China. 

"  Of  the  wall,  it  is  very  easy  to  assign  the  mo- 
tive. It  secured  a  wealthy  and  timorous  nation 
from  the,  incursions  of  barbarians,  whose  unskil- 
fulness  in  the  arts  made  it  easier  for  them  to  sup- 
ply their  wants  by  rapine  than  by  industry,  and 
who  from  time  to  time  poured  in  upon  the  inha- 
bitants of  peaceful  commerce,  as  vultures  descend 
upon  domestic  fowl.  Their  celerity  and  fierceness 
made  the  wall  necessary,  and  their  ignorance 
made  it  efficacious. 

"  But  for  the  pyramids,  no  reason  has  ever  been 
given,  adequate  to  the  cost  and  labour  of  the 
work.  The  narrowness  of  the  chambers  proves 
that  it  could  afford  no  retreat  from  enemies,  and 
Treasures  might  have  been  reposited  at  far  less 
expense  with  equal  security.  It  seems  to  have 


been  erected  only  in  compliance  with  that  hunger 
of  imagination  which  preys  incessantly  upon  life, 
and  must  be  always  appeased  by  some  employ- 
ment. Those  who  have  already  all  that  they  can 
enjoy,  must  enlarge  their  desires.  He  that  has 
built  for  use  till  use  is  supplied,  must  begin  to 
build  for  vanity,  and  extend  his  plan  to  the  utmost 
power  of  human  performance,  that  he  may  not  be 
soon  reduced  to  form  another  wish. 

"I  consider  this  mighty  structure  as  a  monu- 
ment of  the  insufficiency  of  human  enjoyments. 
A  king,  whose  power  is  unlimited,  and  whose 
treasures  surmount  all  real  and  imaginary  wants, 
is  compelled  to  solace,  by  the  erection  of  a  pyra- 
mid, the  satiety  of  dominion  and  tastelessness  of 
pleasures,  and  to  amuse  the  tediousness  of  declin- 
ing life,  by  seeing  thousands  labouring  without 
end,  and  one  stone,  for  no  purpose,  laid  upon 
another.  Whoever  thou  art,  that,  not  content 
with  a  moderate  condition,  imagines!  happiness 
in  royal  magnificence,  and  dreamest  that  command 
or  riches  can  feed  the  appetite  of  novelty  with 
perpetual  gratifications,  survey  the  pyramids,  and 
confess  thy  folly !" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE    PRINCESS    MEETS    WITH   AN    UNEXPECTED 
MISFORTUNE. 

THEY  rose  up,  and  returned  through  the  cavity 
at  which  they  had  entered ;  and  the  princess  pre- 
pared for  her  favourite  a  long  narrative  of  dark 
labyrinths  and  costly  rooms,  and  of  the  different 
impressions  which  the  varieties  of  the  way  had 
made  upon  her.  But  when  they  came  to  their 
train,  they  found  every  one  silent  and  dejected : 
the  men  discovered  shame  and  fear  in  their  coun- 
tenances, and  the  women  "were  weeping  in  their 
tents. 

What  had  happened  they  did  not  try  to  con- 
jecture, but  immediately  inquired.  "You  had 
scarcely  entered  into  the  pyramid,"  said  one  of 
the  attendants,  "  when  a  troop  of  Arabs  rushed 
upon  us  :  we  were  too  few  to  resist  them,  and  too 
slow  to  escape.  They  were  about  to  search  the 
tents,  set  us  on  our  camels,  and  drive  us  along 
before  them,  when  the  approach  of  some  Turkish 
horsemen  put  them  to  flight :  but  they  seized  the 
lady  Pekuah  with  her  two  maids,  and  carried  them 
away :  the  Turks  are  now  pursuing  them  by  our 
instigation,  but  I  fear  they  will  not  be  able  to 
overtake  them." 

The  princess  was  overpowered  with  surprise 
and  grief.     Rasselas,  in  the  first  heat  of  his  re- 
sentment, ordered  his  servants  to  follow  him,  and 
Erepared  to  pursue  the  robbers  with  his  sabre  in 
is  hand.  "  Sir,"  said  Imlac,  "what  can  you  hope 
from  violence  or  valour  ?  the  Arabs  are  mounted 
on  horses  trained  to  battle  and  retreat ;  we  have 
only  beasts  of  burden.     By  leaving  our  present 
station  we  may  lose  the  princess,  but  cannot  hope 
to  regain  Pekuah." 

In  a  short  time  the  Turks  returned,  having  not 
been  able  to  reach  the  enemy.  The  princess  burst 
out  into  new  lamentations,  and  Rasselas  could 
scarcely  forbear  to  reproach  them  with  coward  ice ; 
but  Imlac  was  of  opinion,  that  the  escape  of  the 
Arabs  was  no  addition  to  their  misfortune,  for, 
perhaps,  they  would  have  killed  their  captives  ra 
thor  than  have  resigned  them. 


478 


RASSELAS. 


CHAPTER.  XXXIV. 

THEI  RETURN  TO  CAIRO  WITHOUT  PEKUAH. 

THERE  was  nothing  to  be  hoped  from  longer 
stay.  They  returned  to  Cairo,  repenting  of  their 
curiosity,  censuring  th,e  negligence  of  the  govern- 
ment, lamenting  their  own  rashness,  which  had 
neglected  to  procure  a  guard,  imagining  many  ex- 
pedients by  which  the  loss  of  Pekuah  might  have 
been  prevented,  and  resolving  to  do  something 
for  her  recovery,  though  none  could  find  any  thing 
proper  to  be  done. 

NeKayah  retired  to  her  chamber,  where  her 
women  attempted  to  comfort  her,  by  telling  her 
that  all  had  their  troubles,  and  that  lady  Pekuah 
had  enjoyed  much  happiness  in  the  world  for  a 
long  time,  and  might  reasonably  expect  a  change 
of  fortune.  They  hoped  that  some  good  would 
befall  her  wheresoever  she  was,  and  that  their 
mistress  would  find  another  friend,  who  might 
supply  her  place. 

The  princess  made  them  no  answer ;  and  they 
continued  the  form  of  condolence,  not  much 
grieved  in  their  hearts  that  the  favourite  was  lost. 

Next  day  the  prince  presented  to  the  Bassa  a 
memorial  of  the  wrong  which  he  had  suffered,  and 
a  petition  for  redress.  The  Bassa  threatened  to 
punish  the  robbers,  but  did  not  attempt  to  catch 
them ;  nor  indeed  could  any  account  or  descrip- 
tion bt  given  by  which  he  might  direct  the  pursuit. 

It  soon  appeared  that  nothing  would  be  done 
by  authority.  Governors  being  accustomed  to 
hear  of  more  crimes  than  they  can  punish,  and 
more  wrongs  than  they  can  redress,  set  them- 
selves at  ease  by  indiscriminate  negligence,  and 
presently  forget  the  request  when  they  lose  sight 
of  the  petitioner. 

Imlac  then  endeavoured  to  gain  some  intelli- 
gence by  private  agents.  He  found  many  who 
pretended  to  an  exact  knowledge  of  all  the  haunts 
of  the  Arabs,  and  to  regular  correspondence  with 
their  chiefs,  and  who  readily  undertook  the  reco- 
very of  Pekuah.  Of  these,  some  were  furnished 
with  money  for  their  journey,  and  came  back  no 
more ;  some  were  liberally  paid  for  accounts 
which  a  few  days  discovered  to  be  false.  But  the 
princess  would  not  suffer  any  means,  however 
improbable,  to  be  left  untried.  While  she  was 
doing  something,  she  kept  her  hope  alive.  As  one 
expedient  failed,  another  was  suggested ;  when 
one  messenger  returned  unsuccessful,  another 
was  despatched  to  a  different  quarter. 

Two  months  had  now  passed,  and  of  Pekuah 
nothing  had  been  heard ;  the  hopes  which  they 
had  endeavoured  to  raise  in  each  other  grew  more 
languid ;  and  the  princess,  when  she  saw  nothing 
more  to  be  tried,  sunk  down  inconsolable  in  hope- 
less dejection.  A  thousand  times  she  reproached 
herself  with  the  easy  compliance  by  which  she 
permitted  her  favourite  to  stay  behind  her.  "  Had 
not  my  fondness,"  said  she,  "lessened  my  au- 
thority, Pekuali  had  not  dared  to  talk  of  her  ter- 
rors. She  ought  to  have  feared  me  more  than 
spectres.  A  severe  look  would  have  overpowered 
her ;  a  peremptory  command  would  have  com- 
pelled obedience.  Why  did  foolish  indulgence 
prevail  upon  me  ?  why  did  I  not  speak,  and  refuse 
to  hear  ?" 

"  Great  princess,"  said  Imlac,  "  do  not  re- 
proach yourself  for  your  virtue,  or  consider  that 
as  blameable  by  which  evil  has  accidentally  been 
caused.  Your  tenderness  for  the  timidity  of  Pc- 
knah  was  generous  and  kind.  When  we  act  ac- 


cording to  our  duty,  we  commit  the  event  to  Him 
by  whose  laws  our  actions  are  governed,  and  who 
will  suffer  none  to  be  finally  punished  for  obedi- 
ence. When,  in  prospect  of  some  good,  whether 
natural  or  moral,  we  break  the  rules  prescribed 
us,  we  withdraw  from  the  direction  of  superior 
wisdom,  and  take  all  consequences  upon  our- 
selves. Man  cannot  so  far  know  the  connexion 
of  causes  and  events,  as  that  he  may  venture  to 
do  wrong  in  order  to  do  right.  When  we  pursue 
our  end  by  lawful  means,  we  may  always  con- 
sole our  miscarriage  by  the  hope  of  future  recom- 
pense. When  we  consult  only  our  own  policy, 
and  attempt  to  find  a  nearer  way  to  good,  by 
overleaping  the  settled  boundaries  of  right  and 
wrong,  we  cannot  be  happy  even  by  success,  be- 
cause we  cannot  escape  the  consciousness  of  our 
fault ;  but  if  we  miscarry,  the  disappointment  is 
irremediably  imbittered.  How  comfortless  is  the 
sorrow  of  him  who  feels  at  once  the  pangs  of 
guilt,  and  the  vexation  of  calamity  which  guilt 
has  brought  upon  him  ! 

"Consider,  princess,  what  would  have  been 
your  condition,  if  the  lady  Pekuah  had  entreated 
to  accompany  you,  and,  being  compelled  to  stay 
in  the  tents,  had  been  carried  away ;  or  how 
would  you  have  borne  the  thought  if  you  had 
forced  her  into  the  pyramid,  and  she  had  died  be- 
fore you  in  agonies  of  terror." 

"  Had  either  happened,"  said  Nekayah,  "  I 
could  not  have  endured  life  till  now  ;  I  should 
have  been  tortured  to  madness  by  the  remem- 
brance of  such  cruelty,  or  must  have  pined  away 
in  abhorrence  of  myself." 

"  This,  at  least,"  said  Imlac,  "is  the  present 
reward  of  virtuous  conduct,  that  no  unlucky  con- 
sequence can  oblige  us  to  repent  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE    PRINCESS    LANGUISHES    FOR    WANT    OF 
PEKUAH. 

NEKAYAH,  being  thus  reconciled  to  herself, 
found  that  no  evil  is  insupportable  but  that  which 
is  accompanied  with  consciousness  of  wrong.  She 
was,  from  that  time,  delivered  from  the  violence 
of  tempestuous  sorrow,  and  sunk  into  silent  pen- 
siveness  and  gloomy  tranquillity.  She  sat  from 
morning  to  evening  recollecting  all  that  had  been 
done  or  said  by  her  Pekuah,  treasured  up  with 
care  every  trifle  on  which  Pekuah  had  sat  an  ac- 
cidental value,  and  which  might  recall  to  mind 
any  little  incident  or  careless  conversation.  The 
sentiments  of  her  whom  she  now  expected  to  see 
no  more,  were  treasured  in  her  memory  as  rules 
of  life,  and  she  deliberated  to  no  other  end  than 
to  conjecture  on  any  occasion  what  would  have 
been  the  opinion  and  counsel  of  Pekuah. 

The  women  by  whom  she  was  attended  knew 
nothing  of  her  real  condition,  and  therefore  she 
could  not  talk  to  them  but  with  caution  and  re- 
serve. She  began  to  remit  her  curiosity,  having 
no  great  desire  to  collect  notions  which  she  had 
no  convenience  of  uttering.  Rasselas  endea- 
voured first  to  comfort  and  afterwards  to  divert 
her  ;  he  hired  musicians,  to  whom  she  seemed  to 
listen,  but  did  not  hear  them  ;  and  procured  mas- 
ters to  instruct  her  in  various  arts,  whose  lectures, 
when  they  visited  her  again,  were  again  to  be 
repeated.  She  had  lost  her  taste  of  pleasure, 
and  her  ambition  of  excellence.  And  her  mind. 


RASSELAS. 


479 


though  forced  into  short  excursions,  always  re- 
curred to  the  image  of  her  friend. 

Imlac  was  every  morning  earnestly  enjoined  to 
renew  his  inquiries,  and  was  asked  every  night 
whether  he  had  yet  heard  of  Pekuah ;  till,  not 
being  able  to  return  the  princess  the  answer  that 
she  elesired,  he  was  less  and  less  willing  to  come 
into  her  presence.  She  observed  his  backward- 
ness, and  commanded  him  to  attend  her.  "You 
are  not,"  said  she,  "  to  confound  impatience  with 
resentment,  or  to  suppose  that  I  charge  you  with 
negligence,  because  I  repine  at  your  unsuccess- 
fulness.  I  do  not  much  wonder  at  your  absence. 
I  know  that  the  unhappy  are  never  pleasing,  and 
that  all  naturally  avoid  the  contagion  of  misery. 
To  hear  complaints  is  wearisome,  alike  to  the 
wretched  and  the  happy  ;  for  who  would  cloud, 
by  adventitious  grief,  the  short  gleams  of  gayety 
which  life  allows  us?  or  who,  that  is  struggling 
under  his  own  evils,  will  add  to  them  the  miseries 
of  another  ?  / 

"  The  time  is  at  hand,  when  none  shall  be  dis- 
turbed any  longer  by  the  sighs  of  Nekayah  :  my 
search  after  happiness  is  now  at  an  end.  I  am 
resolved  to  retire  from  the  world  with  all  its  flat- 
teries and  deceits,  and  will  hide  myself  in  solitude, 
without  any  other  care  than  to  compose  my 
thoughts,  and  regulate  my  hours  by  a  constant 
succession  of  innocent  occupations,  till,  with  a 
mind  purified  from  earthly  desires,  I  shall  enter 
into  that  state,  to  which  all  are  hastening,  and 
in  which  I  hope  acain  to  enjoy  the  friendship  of 
Pekuah." 

"Do  not  entangle  your  mind,"  said  Imlac,  "by 
irrevocable  determinations,  nor  increase  the  bur- 
den of  life  by  a  voluntary  accumulation  of  misery ; 
the  weariness  of  retirement  will  continue  or  in- 
crease when  the  loss  of  Pekuah  is  forgotten.  That 
you  have  been  deprived  of  one  pleasure  is  no 
very  good  reason  for  rejection  of  the  rest." 

"  Since  Pekuah  was  taken  from  me,"  said  the 
princess,  "  I  have  no  pleasure  to  reject  or  to  retain. 
She  that  has  no  one  to  love  or  trust,  has  little  to 
hope.  She  wants  the  radical  principle  of  happi- 
ness. We  may,  perhaps,  allow  that  what  satis- 
faction this  world  can  afford  must  arise  from  the 
conjunction  of  wealth,  knowledge,  and  goodness: 
wealth  is  nothing  but  as  it  is  bestowed,  and  know- 
ledge nothing  but  as  it  is  communicated :  they 
must  therefore  be  imparted  to  others,  and  to  whom 
could  I  now  delight  to  impart  them  ?  Goodness 
affords  the  only  comfort  which  can  be  enjoyed 
without  a  partner,  and  goodness  may  be  practised 
in  retirement." 

"  How  far  solitude  may  admit  goodness,  or 
advance  it,  I  shall  not,"  replied  Imlac,  "dispute 
at  present  Remember  the  confession  of  the  pious 
hermit.  You  will  wish  to  return  into  the  world 
when  the  image  of  your  companion  has  left  your 
thoughts."  "  That'  time,"  said  Nekayah,  "  will 
never  come.  The  generous  frankness,  the 
modest  obsequiousness,  and  the  faithful  secrecy 
of  my  dear  Pekuah,  will  always  be  more  missed, 
as  I  shall  live  longer  to  see  vice  and  folly." 

"  The  state  of  a  mind  oppressed  with  a  sudden 
calamity,"  said  Imlac,  ''  is  like  that  of  the  fabu- 
lous inhabitants  of  the  new-created  earth,  who, 
when  the  first  night  came  upon  them,  supposed 
that  day  would  never  return.  When  the  clouds 
of  sorrow  gather  over  us,  we  see  notliing  beyond 
them,  nor  can  imagine  how  they  will  be  dispelled : 
yet  a  r.ev/  day  succeeded  to  the  night,  and  sorrow 
18  never  long  without  a  dawn  of  ease.  But  they 


who  restrain  themselves  from  receiving  comfort 
do  as  the  savages  would  have  done,  had  they  put 
out  their  eyes  when  it  was  dark.  Our  minds, 
like  our  bodies,  are  in  continual  flux :  something 
is  hourly  lost,  and  something  acquired.  To  lose 
much  at  once  is  inconvenient  to  either,  but  while 
the  vital  powers  remain  uninjured,  nature  will  find 
the  means  of  reparation.  Distance  has  the  same 
effect  on  the  mind  as  on  the  eye  ;  and  wliile  we 
glide  along  the  stream  of  time,  whatever  we  leave 
behind  us  is  always  lessening,  and  that  which  we 
approach  increasing  in  magnitude.  Do  not  suffer 
life  to  stagnate  ;  it  will  grow  muddy  for  want  of 
motion ;  commit  yourseff  again  to  the  current  of 
the  world  ;  Pekuah  will  vanish  by  degrees  ;  you 
will  meet  in  your  way  some  other  favourite,  or 
learn  to  diffuse  yourself  in  general  conversation." 

"  At  least,"  said  the  prince,  "  do  not  despair 
before  all  remedies  have  been  tried  :  the  inquiry 
after  the  unfortunate  lady  is  still  continued,  and 
shall  be  carried  on  with  yet  greater  diligence,  on 
condition  that  you  will  promise  to  wait  a  year  for 
the  event,  without  any  unalterable  resolution." 

Nekayah  thought  this  a  reasonable  demand, 
and  made  the  promise  to  her  brother,  who  had 
been  advised  by  Imlac  to  require  it.  Imlac  had, 
indeed,  no  great  hope  of  regaining  Pekuah  ;  but 
he  supposed,  that  if  he  could  secure  the  interval 
of  a  year,  the  princess  would  be  then  in  no  dan- 
ger of  a  cloister. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

PEKUAH    IS   STILL    REMEMBERED.       THE   PROGRESS 
OF    SORROW. 

NEKAYAH,  seeing  that  nothing  was  omitted  for 
the  recovery  of  her  favourite,  and  having,  by  her 
promise,  set  her  intention  of  retirement  at  a  dis- 
tance, began  imperceptibly  to  return  to  common 
cares  and  common  pleasures.  She  rejoiced  with- 
out her  own  consent  at  the  suspension  of  her 
sorrows,  and  sometimes  caught  herself  with  in- 
dignation in  the  act  of  turning  away  her  mind 
from  the  remembrance  of  her  whom  yet  she 
resolved  never  to  forget. 

She  then  appointed  a  certain  hour  of  the  day 
for  meditation  on  the  merits  and  fondness  of 
Pekuah,  and  for  some  weeks  retired  constantly  at 
the  time  fixed,  and  returned  with  her  eyes  swollen 
and  her  countenance  clouded.  By  degrees  she 
grew  less  scrupulous,  and  suffered  any  important 
and  pressing  avocation  to  delay  the  tribute  of 
daily  tears.  She  then  yielded  to  less  occasions  ; 
sometimes  forgot  what  she  was  indeed  afraid 
to  remember  ;  and,  at  last,  wholly  released  her- 
self from  the  duty  of  periodical  affliction. 

Her  real  love  of  Pekuah  was  not  yet  diminish- 
ed. A  thousand  occurrences  brought  her  back 
to  memory,  and  a  thousand  wants,  which  nothing 
but  the  confidence  of  friendship  can  supply,  made 
her  frequently  regretted.  She,  therefore,  solicited 
Imlac  never  to  desist  from  inquiry,  and  to  leave 
no  art  of  intelligence  untried,  that  at  least  she 
might  have  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  she  did 
not  suffer  by  negligence  or  sluggishness.  "  Yet. 
what,"  said  she,  "  is  to  be  expected  from  our  pur- 
suit of  happiness,  when  we  find  the  state  of  life 
to  be  such  that  happiness  itself  is  the  cause  of 
misery?  Why  should  we  endeavour  to  attain 
that  of  which  the  possession  cannot  be  secured  ? 
I  shall  henceforward  fear  to  yield  my  heart  to  cv- 


480 


RASSELAS. 


cellence,  however  bright,  or  to  fondness,  however 
tender,  lest  I  should  lose  again  what  I  have  lost 
in  Pekuah." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THE    PRINCESS    HEARS    NEWS    OF    PEKUAH. 

IN  seven  months,  one  of  the  messengers,  who 
had  been  sent  away  upon  the  day  when  the  pro- 
mise was  drawn  from  the  princess,  returned,  after 
many  unsuccessful  rambles,  from  the  borders  of 
Nubia,  with  an  account  that  Pekuah  was  in  the 
hands  of  an  Arab  chief,  who  possessed  a  castle  or 
fortress  on  the  extremity  of  Egypt  The  Arab, 
whose  revenue  was  plunder,  was  willing  to  restore 
her,  with  her  two  attendants,  for  two  hundred 
ounces  of  gold. 

The  price  was  no  subject  of  debate.  The  prin- 
cess was  in  ecstasies  when  she  heard  that  her 
favourite  was  alive,  and  might  so  cheaply  be  ran- 
somed. She  could  not  think  of  delaying  for  a 
moment  Pekuah's  happiness  or  her  own,  but 
entreated  her  brother  to  send  back  the  messenger 
with  the  sum  required.  Imlac,  being  consulted, 
was  not  very  confident  of  the  veracity  of  the 
relater,  and  was  still  more  doubtful  of  the  Arab's 
faith,  who  might,  if  he  were  too  liberally  trusted, 
detain  at  once  the  money  and  the  captives.  He 
thought  it  dangerous  to  put  themselves  in  the 
power  of  the  Arab,  by  going  into  his  district ; 
and  could  not  expect  that  the  rover  would  so  much 
expose  himself  as  to  come  into  the  lower  coun- 
try, where  he  might  be  seized  by  the  forces  of  the 
Bassa. 

It  is  difficult  to  negotiate  where  neither  will 
trust.  But  Imlac,  after  some  deliberation,  directed 
the  messenger  to  propose  that  Pekuah  should  be 
conducted  by  ten  horsemen  to  the  monastery  of 
St.  Anthony,  which  is  situated  in  the  deserts  of 
Upper  Egypt,  where  she  should  be  met  by  the 
same  number,  and  her  ransom  should  be  paid. 

That  no  time  might  be  lost,  as  they  expected 
that  the  proposal  would  not  be  refused,  they  im- 
mediately began  their  journey  to  the  monastery; 
and  when  they  arrived,  Imlac  went  forward  with 
the  former  messenger  to  the  Arab's  fortress.  Ras- 
selas  was  desirous  to  go  with  them  ;  but  neither 
his  sister  nor  Imlac  would  consent.  The  Arab, 
according  to  the  custom  of  his  nation,  observed 
the  laws  of  hospitality  with  great  exactness  to 
those  who  put  themselves  into  his  power,  and,  in 
a  few  days,  brought  Pekuah  with  her  maids,  by 
easy  journeys,  to  the  place  appointed,  where,  re- 
ceiving the  stipulated  price,  he  restored  her,  with 
great  respect,  to  liberty  and  her  friends,  and  un- 
dertook to  conduct  them  back  towards  Cairo 
beyond  all  danger  of  robbery  or  violence. 

The  princess  and  her  favourite  embraced  each 
other  with  transport  too  violent  to  be  expressed, 
and  went  out  together  to  pour  the  tears  of  tender- 
ness in  secret,  and  exchange  professions  of  kind- 
ness and  gratitude.  After  a  few  hours  they  re- 
turned into  the  refectory  of  the  convent,  where, 
in  the  presence  of  the  prior  and  his  brethren, 
the  prince  required  of  Pekuah  the*  history  of  her 
adventures. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OP  THE  LADY  PEKUAH. 

"  AT  whattime,  and  in  what  manner  I  was  forced 


away,"  said  Pekuah,  "your  servants  have  told  you. 
The  suddenness  of  the  event  struck  me  with  sur- 
prise, and  1  was  at  first  rather  stupificd  than  agi- 
tated with  any  passion  of  cither  fear  or  sorrow. 
My  confusion  was  increased  by  the  speed  and  tu- 
mult of  our  flight,  while  we  were  followed  by  the 
Turks,  who,  as  it  seemed,  soon  despaired  to  over- 
take us,  or  were  afraid  of  those  whom  they  made 
a  show  of  menacing. 

"  When  the  Arabs  saw  themselves  out  of  dan- 
ger, they  slackened  their  course;  and  as  I  was 
less  harassed  by  external  violence.  I  began  to  feel 
more  uneasiness  in  my  mind.  After  some  time, 
we  stopped  near  a  spring  shaded  with  trees,  in  a 
pleasant  meadow,  where  we  sat  upon  the  ground, 
and  offered  such  refreshments  as  our  masters 
were  partaking.  I  was  suffered  to  sit  with  my 
maids  apart  from  the  rest,  and  none  attempted  to 
comfort  or  insult  us.  Here  I  first  began  to  feel  the 
full  weight  of  my  misery.  The  girls  sat  weeping 
in  silence,  and  from  time  -to  time  looked  on  me 
for  succour.  I  knew  not  to  what  condition  we 
were  doomed,  nor  could  conjecture  where  would 
be  the  place  of  our  captivity,  or  whence  to  draw 
any  hope  of  deliverance.  I  was  in  the  hands  of 
robbers  and  savages,  and  had  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  their  pity  was  more  than  their  justice, 
or  that  they  would  forbear  the  gratification  of  any 
ardour  of  desire,  or  caprice  of  cruelty.  I,  how- 
ever, kissed  my  maids,  and  endeavoured  to  pacifv 
them  by  remarking,  lhat  we  were  yet  treated  witn 
decency,  and  that  since  we  were  now  carried  be- 
yond pursuit,  there  was  no  danger  of  violence  to 
our  lives. 

"  When  we  were  to  be  set  again  on  horseback, 
my  maids  clung  round  me,  and  refused  to  be  part- 
ed ;  but  I  commanded  them  not  to  irritate  those 
who  had  us  in  their  power.  We  travelled  the  re- 
maining part  of  the  day  through  an  unfrequented 
and  pathless  country,  and  came  by  moonlight  to 
the  side  of  the  hill  where  the  rest  of  the  troop 
was  stationed.  Their  tents  were  pitched,  and 
their  fires  kindled,  and  our  chief  was  welcomed 
as  a  man  much  beloved  by  his  dependants. 

"  We  were  received  into  a  large  tent,  where  we 
found  women  who  had  attended  their  husbands  in 
the  expedition.  They  set  before  us  the  supper  which 
they  had  provided,  and  I  ate  it  rather  to  encourage 
my  maids  than  to  comply  with  any  appetite  of  my 
own.  When  the  meat  was  taken  away,  they 
spread  the  carpets  for  repose.  I  was  weary,  and 
hoped  to  find  in  sleep  that  remission  of  distress 
which  nature  seldom  denies.  Ordering  myself, 
therefore,  to  be  undressed,  I  observed  that  the 
women  looked  very  earnestly  upon  me,  not  ex- 
pecting, I  suppose,  to  see  me  so  submissively  at- 
tended. When  my  upper  vest  was  taken  off, 
they  were  apparently  struck  with  the  splendour 
of  my  clothes,  and  one  of  them  timorously  laid 
her  hand  upon  the  embroidery.  She  then  went 
out,  and,  in  a  short  time,  came  back  with  another 
woman,  who  seemed  to  be  of  higher  rank  and 
greater  authority.  She  did,  at  her  entrance,  the 
usual  act  of  reverence,  and,  taking  me  by  the 
hand,  placed  me  in  a  smaller  tent,  spread  with 
finer  carpets,  where  I  spent  the  night  quietly  with 
my  maids. 

"  In  the  morning,  as  I  was  sitting  on  the  grass, 
the  chief  of  the  troop  came  towards  me.  I  rose 
up  to  receive  him,  and  he  bowed  with  great  re- 
spect. '  Illustrious  lady,'  said  he,  '  my  fortune 
is  better  than  I  had  presumed  to  hope ;  I  am  told, 
by  my  women,  that  I  have  a  princess  in  my  camp.' 


KASSELAS. 


481 


Sir,  answered  I,  your  women  have  deceived  them- 
selves and  you ;  I  am  not  a  princess,  but  an  un- 
happy stranger,  who  intended  soon  to  have  left 
this  country,  in  which  I  am  now  to  be  imprisoned 
for  ever.  '  Whoever,  or  whencesoever,  you  are,' 
returned  the  Arab,  'your  dress,  and  that  of  your 
servants,  show  your  rank  to  be  high,  and  your 
wealth  to  be  great  Why  should  you,  who  can 
so  easily  procure  your  ransom,  think  yourself  in 
danger  of  perpetual  captivity  ?  The  purpose  of 
my  incursions  is  to  increase  my  riches,  or  more 
properly  to  gather  tribute.  The  sons  of  Ishmael 
are  the  natural  and  hereditary  lords  of  this  part 
of  the  continent,  which  is  usurped  by  late  invaders 
and  low-born  tyrants,  from  whom  we  are  compelled 
to  take  by  the  sword  what  is  denied  to  justice.  The 
violence  of  war  admits  no  distinction ;  the  lance 
that  is  lifted  at  guilt  and  power  will  sometimes 
fall  on  innocence  and  gentleness.' 

"How  little,  said  I,  did  I  expect  that  yesterday 
it  should  have  fallen  upon  me. 

" '  Misfortunes,'  answered  the  Arab,  '  should 
always  be  expected.  If  the  eye  of  hostility  could 
learn  reverence  or  pity,  excellence  like  yours  had 
been  exempt  from  injury.  But  the  angels  of  af- 
fliction spread  their  toils  alike  for  the  virtuous  and 
the  wicked,  for  the  mighty  and  the  mean.  Do 
not  be  disconsolate ;  I  am  not  one  of  the  lawless 
and  cruel  rovers  of  the  desert ;  I  know  the  rules 
of  civil  life ;  I  will  fix  your  ransom,  give  a  pass- 
port to  your  messenger,  and  perform  my  stipula- 
tion with  nice  punctuality.' 

"  You  will  easily  believe  that  I  was  pleased 
with  his  courtesy ;  and  finding  that  his  predomi- 
nant passion  was  desire  of  money,  I  began  now 
to  think  my  danger  less ;  for  I  knew  that  no  sum 
would  be  thought  too  great  for  the  release  of  Pe- 
kuah.  I  told  him  that  he  should  have  no  reason 
to  charge  me  with  ingratitude,  if  I  was  used  with 
kindness ;  and  that  any  ransom  which  could  be 
expected  for  a  maid  of  common  rank  would  be 
paid,  but  that  he  must  not  persist  to  rate  me  as  a 
princess.  He  said  he  would  consider  what  he 
should  demand,  and  then,  smiling,  bowed  and 
retired. 

"  Soon  after,  the  women  came  about  me,  each 
contending  to  be  more  officious  than  the  other, 
and  my  maids  themselves  were  served  with  reve- 
rence. We  travelled  onward  by  short  journeys. 
On  the  fourth  day,  the  chief  told  me  that  my  ran- 
som must  be  two  hundred  ounces  of  gold ;  which 
I  not  only  promised  him,  but  told  him  that  I  would 
add  fifty  more,  if  I  and  my  maids  were  honour- 
ably treated. 

"  I  never  knew  the  power  of  gold  before.  From 
that  time  I  was  the  leader  of  the  troop.  The 
march  of  every  day  was  longer  or  shorter  as  I 
commanded,  and  the  tents  were  pitched  where  I 
chose  to  rest.  We  now  had  camels  and  other 
conveniencies  for  travel :  my  own  women  were 
always  at  my  side,  and  I  amused  myself  with  ob- 
serving the  manners  of  the  vagrant  nations,  and 
with  viewing  remains  of  ancient  edifices  with 
which  these  deserted  countries  appear  to  have 
been,  in  some  distant  age,  lavishly  embellished. 

"  The  chief  of  the  band  was  a  man  far  from 
illiterate :  he  was  able  to  travel  by  the  stars  or  the 
compass,  and  had  marked  in  his  erratic  expedi- 
tions such  places  as  are  most  worthy  the  notice 
of  a  passenger.  He  observed  to  me,  that  build- 
ings are  always  best  preserved  in  places  little  fre- 
quented, and  difficult  of  access ;  for  when  once 
a  country  declines  from  its  primitive  splendour, 
3  L 


the  more  inhabitants  are  left,  the  quicker  ruin  will 
be  made.  Walls  supply  stones  more  easily  than 
quarries ;  and  palaces  and  temples  will  be  dc 
molished,  to  make  stables  of  granite  and  cot 
tages  of  porphyry.'' 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE   ADVENTURES   OP    PEKUAH   CONTINUED. 

"  WE  wandered  about  irx  this  manner  for  some 
weeks,  either,  as  our  chief  pretended,  for  my  gra- 
tification, or,  as  I  rather  suspected,  for  some  con- 
venience of  his  own.  I  endeavoured  to  appear 
contented  where  sullenness  and  resentment  would 
have  been  of  no  use,  and  that  endeavour  conduced 
much  to  the  calmness  of  my  mind  ;  but  my  heart 
was  always  with  Nekayah,  and  the  troubles  of 
the  night  much  overbalanced  the  amusements  ot 
the  day.  My  women,  who  threw  all  their  cares 
upon  their  mistress,  set  their  minds  at  ease  from 
the  time  when  they  saw  me  treated  with  respect, 
and  gave  themselves  up  to  the  incidental  allevia- 
tions of  our  fatigue  without  solicitude  or  sorrow. 
I  was  pleased  with  their  pleasure,  and  animated 
with  their  confidence.  My  condition  had  lost 
much  of  its  terror,  since  I  found  that  the  Arab 
ranged  the  country  merely  to  get  riches.  Avarice 
is  a  uniform  and  tractable  vice :  other  intellectual 
distempers  are  different  in  different  constitutions 
of  mind ;  that  which  sooths  the  pride  of  one 
will  offend  the  pride  of  another ;  but  to  the  favour 
of  the  covetous  there  is  a  ready  way — bring  mo- 
ney, and  nothing  is  denied. 

"  At  last  we  came  to  the  dwelling  of  our  chief; 
a  strong  and  spacious  house,  built  with  stone  in 
an  island  of  the  Nile,  which  lies,  as  I  was  told, 
under  the  tropic,  'Lady,'  said  the^Arab,  'you  shall 
rest  after  your  journey  a  few  weeks  in  this  place, 
where  you  are  to  consider  yourself  as  sovereign. 
My  occupation  is  war :  I  have  therefore  chosen 
this  obscure  residence,  from  which  I  can  issue 
unexpected,  and  to  which  I  can  retire  unpursued. 
You  may  now  repose  in  security:  here  are  few 
pleasures,  but  here  is  no  danger.'  He  then  led  me 
into  the  inner  apartments,  and,  seating  me  on  the 
richest  couch,  bowed  to  the  ground. 

"  His  women,  who  considered  me  as  a  rivai, 
looked  on  me  with  malignity;  but  being  soon 
informed  that  I  was  a  great  lady  detained  only  for 
my  ransom,  they  began  to  vie  with  each  other  in 
obsequiousness  and  reverence. 

"  Being  again  comforted  with  new  assurances 
of  speedy  liberty,  I  was  for  some  days  diverted 
from  impatience  by  the  novelty  of  the  place.  The 
turrets  overlooked  the  country  to  a  great  distance, 
and  afforded  a  view  of  many  windings  of  the 
stream.  In  the  day  I  wandered  from  one  place 
to  another,  as  the  course  of  the  sun  varied  the 
splendour  of  the  prospect,  and  saw  many  things 
which  I  had  never  seen  before.  The  crocodiles 
and  river  horses  are  common  in  this  unpeopled 
region ;  and  I  often  looked  upon  them  with  ter- 
ror, though  I  knew  that  they  could  not  hurt  me. 
For  some  time  I  expected  to  see  mermaids  and 
tritons,  which,  as  Irnlac  has  told  me,  the  European 
travellers  have  stationed  in  the  Nile ;  but  no  such 
beings  ever  appeared,  and  the  Arab,  when  I  in- 
quired after  them,  laughed  at  my  credulity. 

"  At  night  the  Arab  always  attended  me  to  a 
tower  set  apart  for  celestial  observations,  where 
he  endeavoured  to  teach  me  the  names  and 


482 


RASSELAS. 


courses  of  the  stars.  I  had  no  great  inclination 
to  this  study ;  but  an  appearance  of  attention  was 
necessary  to  please  my  instructor,  who  valued 
himself  for  his  skill,  and,  in  a  little  while,  I  found 
some  employment  requisite  to  beguile  the  tedious- 
ness  of  time,  wliich  was  to  be  passed  always 
amidst  the  same  objects.  I  was  weary  of  Jook- 
xig  in  the  morning  on  things  from  which  I  had 
tu/ned  away  weary  in  the  evening :  I  therefore 
waa  at  last  willing  to  observe  the  stars  rather  than 
do  nothing,  but  could  not  always  compose  my 
thoughts,  and  was  very  often  thinking  on  Nekayah 
when  others  imagined  me  contemplating  the  sky. 
Soon  after  the  Arab  went  upon  another  expedi- 
tion, and  then  my  only  pleasure  was  to  talk  with 
my  maids  about  the  accident  by  which  we  were 
carried  away,  and  the  happiness  that  we  should 
all  enjoy  at  the  end  of  our  captivity." 

"  There  were  women  in  your  Arab's  fortress," 
said  the  princess  ;  "why  did  you  not  make  them 
your  companions,  enjoy  their  conversation,  and 
partake  their  diversions  ?  In  a  place  where  they 
found  business  or  amusement,  why  should  you 
sit  corroded  with  idle  melancholy?  or  why  could 
not  you  bear  for  a  few  months  that  condition  to 
which  they  were  condemned  for  life  ?" 

"The  diversions  of  the  women,"  answered  Pe- 
kuah,  "  were  only  childish  play,  by  which  the 
mind,  accustomed  to  stronger  operations,  could 
not  be  kept  busy.  I  could  do  all  which  they  de- 
lighted in  doing  by  powers  merely  sensitive,  while 
my  intellectual  faculties  were  flown  to  Cairo. 
They  ran  from  room  to  room,  as  a  bird  hops  from 
wire  to  wire  in  his  cage.  They  danced  for  the 
sake  of  motion,  as  lambs  frisk  in  a  meadow.  One 
sometimes  pretended  to  be  hurt  that  the  rest 
might  be  alarmed,  or  hid  herself  that  another 
might  seek  her.  Part  of  their  time  passed  in 
watcliing  the  progress  of  light  bodies  that  floated 
on  the  river,  and  part  in  marking  the  various 
forms  into  which  clouds  broke  in  the  sky. 

"  Their  business  was  only  needlework,  in 
which  I  and  my  maids  sometimes  helped  them  ; 
but  you  know  that  the  mind  will  easily  straggle 
from  the  fingers,  nor  will  you  suspect  that  capti- 
vity and  absence  from  Nekayah  could  receive  so- 
lace from  silken  flowers. 

"Nor  was  much  satisfaction  to  be  hoped  from 
their  conversation :  for  of  what  could  they  be  ex- 
pected to  talk  ?  They  had  seen  nothing,  for  they 
had  lived  from  early  youth  in  that  narrow  spot : 
of  what  they  had  not  seen  they  could  have  no 
knowledge,  for  they  could  not  read.  They  had 
no  idea  but  of  the  few  things  that  were  within 
their  view,  and  had  hardly  names  for  any  thing 
but  their  clothes  and  their  food.  As  I  bore  a  su- 
perior character,  I  was  often  called  to  terminate 
their  quarrels,  which  I  decided  as  equitably  as  I 
could.  If  it  could  have  amused  me  to  hear  the 
complaints  of  each  against  the  rest,  I  might  have 
been  often  detained  by  long  stories  ;  but  the  mo- 
tives of  their  animosity  were  so  small  that  I  could 
not  listen  without  interrupting  the  tale." 

"How,"  said  Rasselas,  "can  the  Arab,  whom 
you  represented  as  a  man  of  more  than  common 
accomplishments,  take  any  pleasure  in  his  serag- 
lio when  it  is  filled  only  with  women  like  these  ? 
Are  they  exquisitely  beautiful?" 

"  They  do  not,"  said  Pekuah,  "want  that  un- 
affecting  and  ignoble  beauty  which  may  subsist 
without  sprightliness  or  sublimity,  without  energy 
of  thought  or  dignity  or-!irtue.  But  to  a  man  like 
the  Arab,  such  beauty  »vas  only  a  flower  casually 


plucked  and  carelessly  thrown  away.  Whatever 
pleasures  he  might  find  among  them,  they  were 
not  those  of  friendship  or  society.  When  they 
were  playing  about  him,  he  looked  on  them  with 
inattentive  superiority:  when  they  vied  for  his 
regard,  he  sometimes  turned  awciy  disgusted.  As 
they  had  no  knowledge,  their  talk  could  take  no- 
thing from  the  tediousness  of  life:  as  they  had  no 
choice,  their  fondness,  or  appearance  of  fondness, 
excited  in  him  neither  pride  nor  gratitude  :  he  was 
not  exalted  in  his  own  esteem  by  the  smiles  of  a 
woman  who  saw  no  other  man,  nor  was  much 
obliged  by  that  regard  of  which  he  could  nevei 
know  the  sincerity,  and  which  he  might  often 
perceive  to  be  exerted  not  so  much  to  delight  him 
as  to  pain  a  rival.  That  which  he  gave,  and  they 
received,  as  love,  was  only  a  careless  distribution 
of  superfluous  time;  such  love  as  man  can  bestow 
upon  that  which  he  despises,  such  as  has  neither 
hope  nor  fear,  neither  joy  nor  sorrow." 

"You  have  reason,  lady,  to  think  yourself  hap- 
py," said  Imlac,  "  that  you  have  been  thus  easily 
dismissed.  How  could  a  mind,  hungry  for  know- 
ledge, be  willing,  in  an  intellectual  famine,  to  lose 
such  a  banquet  as  Pekuah's  conversation?" 

"  I  am  inclined  to  believe,"  answered  Pekuah, 
"that  he  was  for  some  time  in  suspense  ;  for  not- 
withstanding his  promise,  whenever  I  proposed 
to  despatch  a  messenger  to  Cairo,  he  found  some 
excuse  for  delay.  While  I  was  detained  in  his 
house,  he  made  many  incursions  into  the  neigh- 
bouring countries,  and,  perhaps,  he  would  have 
refused  to  discharge  me,  had  his  plunder  been 
equal  to  his  wishes.  He  returned  always  courte- 
ous, related  his  adventures,  delighted  to  hear  my 
observations,  and  endeavoured  to  advance  my 
acquaintance  with  the  stars.  When  I  importuned 
him  to  send  away  my  letters,  he  soothed  me  with 
professions  of  honour  and  sincerity ;  and  when  I 
could  be  no  longer  decently  denied,  put  his  troop 
again  in  motion,  and  left  me  to  govern  ''n  his  ab- 
sence. I  was  much  afflicted  by  this  studied  pro- 
crastination, and  was  sometimes  afraid  that  I 
should  be  forgotten  ;  that  you  would  leave  Cairo, 
and  I  must  end  my  days  in  an  island  of  the  Nile. 

"I  grew  at  last  hopeless  and  dejected,  and 
cared  so  little  to  entertain  him,  that  he  for  a  while 
more  frequently  talked  with  my  maids.  That  he 
should  fall  in  love  with  them,  or  with  me,  might 
have  been  equally  fatal ;  and  I  was  not  much 
pleased  with  the  growing  friendship.  My  anxiety 
was  not  long  ;  for,  as  I  recovered  some  degree  of 
cheerfulness,  he  returned  to  me,  and  I  could  not 
forbear  to  despise  my  former  uneasiness. 

"He  still  delayed  to  send  for  my  ransom,  and 
would,  perhaps,  never  have  determined,  had  not 
your  agentfound  his  way  to  him.  The  gold,  which 
he  would  not  fetch,  he  could  not  reject  when  it 
was  offered.  He  hastened  to  prepare  for  our  jour- 
ney hither,  like  a  man  delivered  from  the  pain  of 
an  intestine  conflict.  I  took  leave  of  my  com- 
panions in  the  house,  who  dismissed  me  with  cold 
indifference." 

Nek  ayah,  having  heard  her  favourite's  relation, 
rose  and  embraced  her  :  and  Rasselas  gave  her  a 
hundred  ounces  of  gold,  wliich  she  presented  to 
the  Arab  for  the  fifty  that  were  promised. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE    HISTORY    OF    A   MAN    OF   LEARNING. 

THEY  returned  to  Cairo,  and  were  so  weB 
pleased  at  finding  themselves  together,  that  none 


RASSELAS. 


483 


of  them  went  much  abroad.  The  prince  began 
to  love  learning,  and  one  day  declared  to  Irnlac 
that  he  intended  to  devote  himself  to  science,  and 
pass  the  rest  of  his  days  in  literary  solitude. 

"Before  you  make  your  final  choice,"  answered 
Imlac,  "  you  ought  to  examine  its  hazards,  and 
converse  with  some  of  those  who  are  grown  old 
in  the  company  of  themselves.  I  have  just  left 
(he  observatory  of  one  of  the  most  learned  astro- 
nomers in  the  world,  who  has  spent  forty  years  in 
unwearied  attention  to  the  motions  and  appear- 
ances of  the  celestial  bodies,  and  has  drawn  out 
his  soul  in  endless  calculations.  He  admits  a  few 
friends  once  a  month  to  hear  his  deductions  and 
enjoy  his  discoveries.  I  was  introduced  as  a  man 
of  knowledge  worthy  of  his  notice.  Men  of  va- 
rious ideas  and  fluent  conversation  are  commonly 
welcome  to  those  whose  thoughts  have  been  long 
fixed  upon  a  single  point,  and  who  find  the  images 
of  other  things  stealing  away.  I  delighted  him 
with  my  remarks :  he  smiled  at  the  narrative  of 
my  travels,  and  was  glad  to  forget  the  constella- 
tions, and  descend  for  a  moment  into  the  lower 
world. 

"  On  the  next  day  of  vacation  I  renewed  my 
visit,  and  was  so  fortunate  as  to  please  him  again. 
He  relaxed  from  that  time  the  severity  of  his  rule, 
and  permitted  me  to  enter  at  my  own  choice.  I 
found  him  always  busy,  and  always  glad  to  be 
relieved.  As  each  knew  much  which  the  other 
was  desirous  o_f  learning,  we  exchanged  our  no- 
tions with  great  delight.  I  perceived  that  I  had 
every  day  more  of  his  confidence,  and  always 
found  new  cause  of  admiration  in  the  profundity  of 
his  mind.  His  comprehension  is  vast,  his  memory 
capacious  and  retentive  ;  his  discourse  is  metho- 
dical, and  his  expression  clear. 

"  His  integrity  and  benevolence  are  equal  to  his 
learning.  His  deepest  researches  and  most  fa- 
vourite studies  are  willingly  interrupted  for  any 
opportunity  of  doing  good  by  his  counsel  or  his 
riches.  To  his  closest  retreat,  at  his  most  busy 
momenta,  all  are  admitted  that  want  his  assist- 
ance. For  though  I  exclude  idleness  and  plea- 
sure, I  will  never,  says  he,  bar  my  doors  against 
charity.  To  man  is  permitted  the  contemplation 
of  the  skies,  but  the  practice  of  virtue  is  com- 
manded." 

"  Surely,"  said  the  princess,  "  this  man  is 
happy." 

"  I  visited  him,"  said  Imlac,  "  with  more  and 
more  frequency,  and  was  every  time  more  ena- 
moured of  his  conversation :  he  was  sublime 
without  haughtiness,  courteous  without  formality, 
and  communicative  without  ostentation.  I  was 
at  first,  great  princess,  of  your  opinion,  thought 
him  the  happiest  of  mankind,  and  often  congratu- 
lated him  on  the  blessing  that  he  enjoyed.  He 
seemed  to  hear  nothing  with  indifference  but  the 
praises  of  his  condition,  to  which  he  always  re- 
turned a  general  answer,  and  diverted  the  conver- 
sation to  some  other  topic. 

"Amidst  this  willingness  to  be  pleased,  and 
labour  to  please,  I  had  quickly  reason  to  imagine 
that  some  painful  sentiment  pressed  upon  his 
mind.  He  often  looked  up  earnestly  towards  the 
sun,  and  let  his  voice  fall  in  the  midst  of  his  dis- 
course. He  would  sometimes,  when  we  were 
alone,  gaze  upon  me  in  silence  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  longed  to  speak  what  he  was  yet  re- 
solved to  Suppress.  He  would  often  send  for  me 
with  vehement  injunctions  of  haste,  though,  when 
I  came  to  him,  he  had  nothing  extraordinary  to 


say.  And  sometimes,  when  I  was  leaving  him, 
would  call  me  back,  pause  a  few  moments,  and 
then  dismiss  me." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE   ASTRONOMER  DISCOVERS    THE    CAUSE    OF  HIS 
UNEASINESS. 

"AT  last,  the  time  came  when  the  secret  burst 
his  reserve.  We  were  sitting  together  last  night 
in  the  turret  of  his  house,  watching  the  emersion 
of  a  satellite  of  Jupiter.  A  sudden  tempest 
clouded  the  sky,  and  disappointed  our  observa- 
tion. We  sat  a  while  silent  in  the  dark,  and  then 
he  addressed  Himself  to  me  in  these  words  :  Im- 
lac, I  have  long  considered  thy  friendship  as  the 
greatest  blessing  of  my  life.  Integrity  without 
knowledge  is  weak  and  useless,  and  knowledge 
without  integrity  ;s  dangerous  and  dreadful.  1 
have  found  in  thee  all  the  qualities  requisite  for 
trust ;  benevolence,  experience,  and  fortitude.  1 
have  long  discharged  an  office  which  I  must  soon 
quit  at  the  call  of  nature,  and  shall  rejoice  in  the 
hour  of  imbecility  and  pain'  to  devolve  it  upon 
thee. 

"  I  thought  myself  honoured  by  this  testimony, 
and  protested  that  whatever  could  conduce  to  his 
happiness  would  add  likewise  to  mine. 

"  Hear,  Imlac,  what  thou  wilt  not  without  dif- 
ficulty credit.  I  have  possessed  for  five^ears  the 
regulation  of  the  weather,  and  the  distribution  of 
the  seasons  :  the  sun  has  listened  to  my  dictates, 
and  passed  from  tropic  to  tropic  by  my  direction  : 
the  clouds,  at  my  call,  have  poured  their  waters, 
and  the  Nile  has  overflowed  at  my  command  :  I 
have  restrained  the  rage  of  the  dog-star,  and 
mitigated  the  fervours  of  the  crab.  The  winds 
alone,  of  all  the  elemental  powers,  have  hitherto 
refused  my  authority,  and  multitudes  have  perished 
by  equinoctial  tempests,  which  I  found  myself  un- 
able to  prohibit  or  restrain.  I  have  administered 
this  great  office  with  exact  justice,  and  made  to 
the  different  nations  of  the  earth  an  impartial 
dividend  of  rain  and  sunshine.  What  must  have 
been  the  misery  of  half  the  globe,  if  I  had  limited 
the  clouds  to  particular  regions,  or  confined  the 
sun  to  either  side  of  the  equator  ?" 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE  OPINION  OF   THE   ASTRONOMER  IS  EXPLAINED 
AND   JUSTIFIED. 

"  I  SUPPOSE  he  discovered  in  me,  through  the 
obscurity  of  the  room,  some  tokens  of  amaze- 
ment and  doubt ;  for,  after  a  short  pause,  he  pro- 
ceeded thus : 

"  Not  to  be  easily  credited  will  neither  surprise 
nor  offend  me ;  for  I  am  probably  the  first  ol 
human  beings  to  whom  this  trust  has  been  im  • 
parted.  Nor  do  I  know  whether  to  deem  this 
distinction  a  reward  or  punishment ;  since  I  have 
possessed  it,  I  have  been  far  less  happy  than 
before,  and  nothing  but  the  consciousness  of  good 
intention  could  have  enabled  me  to  support  the 
weariness  of  unremitted  vigilance. 

"How  long,  sir,  said  I,  has  this  great  office 
been  in  your  hands  ? 

"  About  ten  years  ago,  said  he,  my  daily  ob- 
servations of  the  changes  of  the  sky  led  me  to 
consider,  whether,  if  I  had  the  power  of  the 


4b4 


RASSELAS. 


seasons,  I  could  confer  greater  plenty  upon  the 
inhabitants  of  the  earth.  This  contemplation 
fastened  on  my  mind,  and  I  sat  days  and  nights  in 
imaginary  dominion,  pouring  upon  this  country 
and  that  the  showers  of  fertility,  and  seconding 
every  fall  of  rain  with  a  due  proportion  of  sun- 
shine. I  had  yet  only  the  will  to  do  good,  and 
did  not  imagine  that  I  should  ever  have  the  power. 

"  One  day  as  I  was  looking  on  the  fields  with- 
ering with  heat,  I  felt  in  my  mind  a  sudden  wish 
that  I  could  send  rain  on  the  southern  mountains, 
and  raise  the  Nile  to  an  inundation.  In  the  hurry 
of  my  imagination,  I  commanded  rain  to  fall ;  and 
by  comparing  the  time  of  my  command  with  that 
of  the  inundation,  I  found  that  the  clouds  had 
listened  to  my  lips. 

"  Might  not  some  other  cause,  said  I,  produce 
this  concurrence?  The  Nile  does  not  always 
rise  on  the  same  day. 

"  Do  not  believe,  said  he,  with  impatience,  that 
such  objections  could  escape  me :  I  reasoned  long 
against  my  own  conviction,  and  laboured  against 
truth  with  the  utmost  obstinacy.  I  sometimes 
suspected  myself  of  madness,  and  should  not 
have  dared  to  impart  this  secret  but  to  a  man  like 
you,  capable  of  distinguishing  the  wonderful 
from  the  impossible,  and  the  incredible  from  the 
false. 

"  Why,  sir,  said  I,  do  you  call  that  incredible 
which  you  know,  or  think  you  know,  to  be  true  ? 

"  Because,  said  he,  I  cannot  prove  it  by  any 
external  evidence :  and  I  know  too  well  the  laws 
of  demonstration,  to  think  that  my  conviction 
ought  to  influence  another,  who  cannot,  like  me, 
be  conscious  of  its  force.  I,  therefore,  shall  not 
attempt  to  gain  credit  by  disputation.  It  is  suffi- 
cient that  1  feel  this  power,  that  I  have  long  pos- 
sessed, and  every  day  exerted  it.  But  the  life  of 
man  is  short :  the  infirmities  of  age  increase  upon 
me,  and  the  time  will  soon  come  when  the  regu- 
lator of  the  year  must  mingle  with  the  dust  The 
care  of  appointing  a  successor  has  long  disturbed 
me :  the  nigbt  and  the  day  have  been  spent  in 
comparisons  of  all  the  characters  which  have 
come  to  my  knowledge,  and  I  have  yet  found 
none  so  worthy  as  thyself." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

THE  ASTRONOMER  LEAVES  IMLAC  HIS    DIRECTIONS. 

"HEAR,  therefore,  what  I  shall  impart  with 
attention,  such  as  the  welfare  of  a  worm  requires. 
If  the  task  of  a  king  be  considered  as  difficult, 
who  lias  the  care  only  of  a  few  millions,  to  whom 
he  cannot  do  much  good  or  harm,  what  must  be 
the  anxiety  of  him,  on  whom  depends  the  action 
of  the  elements,  and  the  great  gifts  of  light  and 
neat  ?  Hear  me,  therefore,  with  attention. 

"  I  have  diligently  considered  the  position  of  the 
earth  and  sun,  and  formed  innumerable  schemes, 
m  which  I  changed  their  situation.  «I  have  some- 
times turned  aside  the  axis  of  the  earth,  and  some- 
times varied  the  ecliptic  of  the  sun  :  but  I  have 
found  it  impossible  to  make  a  disposition  by  which 
the  world  may  be  advantaged ;  what  one  region 
gains,  another  loses  by  an  imaginable  alteration, 
even  without  considering  the  distant  parts  of  the 
solar  system  with  which  we  are  unacquainted.  Do 
not,  therefore,  in  thy  administration  of  the  year, 
indulge  thy  pride  by  innovation ;  do  not  please 
thyself  with  thinking  that  thou  canst  make  thy- 


self renowned  to  all  future  ages,  by  disordering 
the  seasons.  The  memory  of  mischief  is  no  de- 
sirable fame.  Much  less  will  it  become  thee  to 
let  kindness  or  interest  prevail  Never  rob  other 
countries  of  rain  to  pour  it  on  thine  own.  For 
us  the  Nile  is  sufficient. 

"  I  promised  that  when  I  possessed  the  power 
I  would  use  it  with  inflexible  integrity ;  and  he 
dismissed  me,  pressing  my  hand. — My  heart,  said 
he,  will  be  now  at  rest,  and  my  benevolence  will 
no  more  destroy  my  quiet :  I  have  found  a  man 
of  wisdom  and  virtue,  to  whom  I  can  cheerfully 
bequeath  the  inheritance  of  the  sun." 

The  prince  heard  this  narration  with  very  se- 
rious regard ;  but  the  princess  smiled,  and  Pckuah 
convulsed  herself  with  laughter.  "  Ladies,"  said 
Imlac,  "  to  mock  the  heaviest  of  human  afflictions 
is  neither  charitable  nor  wise.  Few  can  attain 
this  man's  knowledge,  and  few  practise  his  virtues ; 
but  all  may  suffer  his  calamity.  Of  the  uncer- 
tainties of  our  present  state,  the  most  dreadful 
and  alarming  is  the  uncertain  continuance  of 
reason." 

The  princess  was  recollected,  and  the  favour- 
ite was  abashed.  Rasselas,  more  deeply  affected, 
inquired  of  Imlac,  whether  he  thought  such  mala- 
dies of  the  mind  frequent,  and  how  they  were 
contracted.  • 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE    DANGERO^"      PREVALENCE    OF   IMAGINATION, 

"  DISORDEK  of  intellect,"  answered  Imlac, 
"happen  much  more  often  than  superficial  ob- 
servers will  easily  believe.  Perhaps  if  we  speak 
\yith  rigorous  exactness,  no  human  mind  is  in  its 
right  state.  There  is  no  man  whose  imagination 
does  not  sometimes  predominate  over  his  reason, 
who  can  regulate  his  attention  wholly  by  his  will, 
and  whose  ideas  will  come  and  go  at  his  com- 
mand. No  man  will  be  found  in  whose  mind 
airy  notions  do  not  sometimes  tyrannize,  and  force 
him  to  hope  or  fear  beyond  the  limits  of  sober 
probability.  All  power  of  fancy  over  reason  is  a 
degree  of  insanity ;  but  while  this  power  is  such 
as  we  can  control  and  repress,  it  is  not  visible  to 
others,  nor  considered  as  any  depravation  of  the 
mental  faculties  :  it  is  not  pronounced  madness 
but  when  it  becomes  ungovernable,  and  appa 
rently  influences  speech  or  action. 

"  To  indulge  the  power  of  fiction,  and  send 
imagination  out  upon  the  wing,  is  often  the  sport 
of  those  who  delight  too  much  in  silent  specula- 
tion. When  we  are  alone  we  are  not  always 
busy ;  the  labour  of  excogitation  is  too  violent  to 
last  long  ;  the  ardour  of  inquiry  will  sometimes 
give  way  to  idleness  or  satiety.  He  who  has 
nothing  external  that  can  divert  him  must  find 

E'easure  in  his  own  thoughts,  and  must  conceive 
mself  what  he  is  not ;  for  who  is  pleased  with 
what  he  is  ?  He  then  expatiates  in  boundless 
futurity,  and  culls  from  all  imaginable  conditions 
that  which  for  the  present  moment  he  should 
most  desire,  amuses  his  desires  with  impossible 
enjoyments,  and  confers  upon  his  pride  unattain- 
able dominion.  The  mind  dances  from  scene  to 
scene,  unites  all  pleasures  in  all  combinations,  and 
riots  in  delights  which  nature  and  fortune,  with 
all  their  bounty,  cannot  bestow. 

"  In  time,  some  particular  train  of^ideas  fixes 
the  attention  :  all  other  intellectual  gratifications 
are  rejected  ;  the  mind,  in  weariness  or  leisure, 


RASSELAS. 


485 


recurs  constantly  to  the  favourite  conception,  and 
feasts  on  the  luscious  falsehood  whenever  she  is 
offended  with  the  bitterness  of  truth.  By  degrees, 
the  reign  of  fancy  is  confirmed  ;  she  grows  first 
imperious,  and  in  time  despotic.  Then  fictions 
begin  to  operate  as  realities,  false  opinions  fasten 
upon  the  mind,  and  life  passes  in  dreams  of  rap- 
ture or  of  anguish. 

"  This,  sir,  is  one  of  the  dangers  of  solitude  ; 
which  the  hermit  has  confessed  not  always 
promotes  goodness,  and  the  astronomer's  misery 
has  proved  to  be  not  always  propitious  to  wis- 
dom." 

"  I  will  no  more,"  said  the  favourite,  "  imagine 
myself  the  queen  of  Abissinia.  I  have  often 
spent  the  hours,  which  the  princess  gave  to  my 
own  disposal,  in  adjusting  ceremonies,  and  regu- 
lating the  court ;  I  have  repressed  the  pride  of 
the  powerful,  and  granted  the  petitions  of  the 
poor ;  I  have  built  new  palaces  in  more  happy 
situations,  planted  groves  upon  the  tops  of  moun- 
tains, and  have  exulted  in  the  beneficence  of  roy- 
alty, till,  when  the  princess  entered,  I  had  almost 
forgotten  to  bow  down  before  her." 

"  And  I,"  said  the  princess,  "  will  not  allow 
myself  any  more  to  play  the  shepherdess  in  my 
waking  dreams.  I  have  often  soothed  my  thoughts 
with  the  quiet  and  innocence  of  pastoral  employ- 
ments, till  1  have  in  my  chamber  heard  the  winds 
whistle,  and  the  sheep  bleat ;  sometimes  freed 
the  lamb  entangled  in  the  thicket,  and  sometimes 
with  my  crook  encountered  the  wolf.  I  have  a 
dress  like  that  of  the  village  maids,  which  I  put 
on  to  help  my  imagination,  and  a  pipe  on  which  I 
play  softly,  and  suppose  myself  followed  by  my 
flocks." 

"  I  will  confess,"  said  the  prince,  "  an  indul- 
gence of  fantastic  delight  more  dangerous  than 
yours.  I  have  frequently  endeavoured  to  imagine 
the  possibility  of  a  perfect  government,  bv  which 
all  wrong  should  be  restrained,  all  vice  reformed, 
and  all  the  subjects  preserved  in  tranquillity  and 
innocence.  This  thought  produced  innumerable 
schemes  of  reformation,  and  dictated  many  useful 
regulations  and  salutary  edicts.  This  has  been 
the  sport,  and  sometimes  the  labour,  of  my  soli- 
tude: and  I  start,  when  I  think  with  how  little 
anguish  I  once  supposed  the  death  of  my  father 
and  my  brothers." 

"  Such,"  said  Imlac, "  are  the  effects  of  visionary 
schemes:  when  we  first  form  them,  we  know 
them  to  be  absurd,  but  familiarize  them  by  degrees, 
and  in  time  lose  sight  of  their  folly." 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THET    DISCOURSE    WITH   AN    OLD    MAN. 

THE  evening  was  now  far  past,  and  they  rose 
to  return  home.  As  they  walked  along  the  bank 
of  the  Nile,  delighted  with  the  beams  of  the  moon 
quivering  on  the  water,  they  saw,  at  a  small  dis- 
tance, an  old  man  whom  the  prince  had  often 
heard  in  the  assembly  of  the  sages.  "  Yonder," 
said  he,  "  is  one  whose  years  have  calmed  his 
passions,  but  not  clouded  his  reason :  let  us  close 
the  disquisitions  of  the  night,  by  inquiring  what 
are  his  sentiinents  of  his  own  state,  that  we  may 
know  whether  youth  alone  is  to  struggle  with 
vexation,  and  whether  any  bott?r  hope  remains  for 
the  latter  part  of  life." 


Here  the  sage  approached  and  saluted  them. 
They  invited  him  to  join  their  walk,  ind  pratttad 
a  while  as  acquaintance  that  had  unexpectedly 
met  one  another.  The  old  man  was  cheerful  and 
talkative,  and  the  way  seemed  short  in  his  com- 
pany. He  was  pleased  to  find  himself  not  disre- 
garded, accompanied  them  to  their  house,  and,  at 
the  prince's  request,  entered  with  them.  They 
placed  him  in  the  seat  of  honour,  and  set  wine 
and  conserves  before  him. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  princess,  "  an  evening  walk 
must  give  to  a  man  of  learning  like  you  pleasures 
which  ignorance  and  youth  can  hardly  conceive. 
You  know  the  qualities  and  the  causes  of  all 
that  you  behold,  the  laws  by  which  the  river 
flows,  the  periods  in  which  the  planets  perform 
their  revolutions.  Every  thing  must  supply  you 
with  contemplation,  and  renew  the  consciousness 
of  your  own  dignity." 

"  Lady,"  answered  he,  "  let  the  gay  and  the 
vigorous  expect  pleasure  in  their  excursions:  it 
is  enough  that  age  can  attain  ease.  To  me  the 
world  has  lost  its  novelty :  I  look  round,  and  see 
what  I  remember  to  have  seen  in  happier  days.  I 
rest  against  a  tree,  and  consider,  that  in  the  same 
shade  I  once  disputed  upon  the  annual  overflow  of 
the  Nile  with  a  friend  who  is  now  silent  in  the 
grave.  I  cast  my  eyes  upwards,  fix  them  on 
the  changing  moon,  and  think  with  pain  on  the 
vicissitudes  of  life.  I  have  ceased  to  take  much 
delight  in  physical  truth ;  for  what  have  I  to  do 
with  those  things  which  I  am  soon  to  leave  ?" 

"  You  may  at  least  recreate  yourself,"  said  Im- 
lac, "  with  the  recollection  of  an  honourable  and 
useful  life,  and  enjoy  the  praise  which  all  agree  t\> 
give  you." 

"  Praise,"  said  the  sage,  with  a  sigh,  "  is  to  an 
old  man  an  empty  sound.  I  have  neither  mother 
to  be  delighted  with  the  reputation  of  her  son, 
nor  wife  to  partake  the  honours  of  her  husband. 
I  have  outlived  my  friends  and  my  rivals.  Nothing 
is  now  of  much  importance ;  for  I  cannot  extend 
my  interest  beyond  myself.  Youth  is  delighted 
with  applause,  because  it  is  considered  as  the  ear- 
nest of  some  future  good,  and  because  the  pros- 
pect of  life  is  far  extended :  but  to  me,  who  am 
now  declining  to  decrepitude,  there  is  httle  to  be 
feared  from  the  malevolence  of  men,  and  yet  less 
to  be  hoped  from  their  affection  or  esteem.  Some- 
thing they  may  yet  take  away,  but  they  can  give 
me  nothing.  Riches  would  now  be  useless,  and 
high  employment  would  be  pain.  My  retrospect 
of  life  recalls  to  my  view  many  opportunities  of 
good  neglected,  much  tune  squandered  upon  trifles, 
and  more  lost  in  idleness  and  vacancy.  I  leave 
many  great  designs  unattempted,  and  many  great 
attempts  unfinished.  My  mind  is  burdened  with 
no  heavy  crime,  and  therefore  I  compose  my- 
self to  tranquillity;  endeavour  to  abstract  my 
thoughts  from  hopes  and  cares,  which,  though 
reason  knows  them  to  be  vain,  still  try  to  keep 
their  old  possession  of  the  heart;  expect,  with 
serene  humility,  that  hour  which  nature  cannot 
long  delay,  and  hope  to  possess,  in  a  better  state, 
that  happiness  which  here  I  could  not  find,  and 
that  virtue  which  here  I  have  not  attained." 

He  arose  and  went  away,  leaving  his  audience 
not  much  elated  with  the  hope  of  long  life.  The 
prince  consoled  himself  with  remarking,  that  it 
was  not  reasonable  to  be  disappointe'd  by  this  ac- 
count; for  age  had  never  been  considered  as  the 
season  of  felicity,  and,  if  it  was  possible  to  be 
easy  in  decline  and  weakness,  it  was  likely  that 


486 


RASSELAS. 


the  dajs  of  vigour  and  alacrity  might  be  happy : 
that  the  noon  of  life  might  be  bright,  if  the  even- 
ing could  be  calm. 

The  princess  suspected  that  age  was  querulous 
and  malignant,  and  delighted  to  repress  the  ex- 
pectations of  those  who  had  newly  entered  the 
world.  She  had  seen  the  possessors  of  estates 
look  with  envy  on  their  heirs,  and  known  many 
who  enjoyed  pleasure  no  longer  than  they  could 
confine  it  to  themselves. 

Pekuah  conjectured  that  the  man  was  older 
than  he  appeared,  and  was  willing  to  impute  his 
complaints  to  delirious  dejection ;  or  else  supposed 
that  he  had  been  unfortunate,  and  was  therefore 
discontented :  "  For  nothing,"  said  she,  "  is  more 
common  than  to  call  our  own  condition  the  con- 
dition of  life." 

Imlac,  who  had  no  desire  to  see  them  de- 
pressed, smiled  at  the  comforts  which  they  could 
so  readily  procure  to  themselves;  and  remem- 
bered, that  at  the  same  age  he  was  equally  confi- 
dent of  unmingled  prosperity,  and  equally  fertile 
of  consolatory  expedients.  He  forbore  to  force 
upon  them  unwelcome  knowledge,  which  time 
itself  would  too  soon  impress.  The  princess  and 
her  lady  retired ;  the  madness  of  the  astronomer 
hv  _ng  upon  their  minds ;  and  they  desired  Imlac 
to  enter  upon  his  office,  and  delay  next  morning 
the  ris>  "»g  of  the  sun. 


CHAPTER  XL VI.   •» 

THE    PRINCESS   AND    PEKUAH   VISIT    THE 
ASTRONOMER. 

THE  princess  and  Pekuah  having  talked  in  pri- 
vate of  Imlac's  astronomer,  thought  his  character 
at  once  so  amiable  and  so  strange,  that  they  could 
not  be  satisfied  without  a  nearer  knowledge ;  and 
Imlac  was  requested  to  find  the  means  of  bring- 
ing them  together. 

This  was  somewhat  difficult ;  the  philosopher 
had  never  received  any  visits  from  women,  though 
he  lived  in  a  city  that  had  in  it  many  Europeans, 
who  followed  the  manners  of  their  own  countries, 
and  many  from  other  parts  of  the  world,  that 
lived  there  with  European  liberty.  The  ladies 
would  not  be  refused,  and  several  schemes  were 
proposed  for  the  accomplishment  of  their  design. 
It  was  proposed  to  introduce  them  as  strangers 
in  distress,  to  whom  the  sage  was  always  accessi- 
ble ;  but,  after  some  deliberation,  it  appeared,  that 
by  this  artifice,  no  acquaintance  could  be  formed, 
for  their  conversation  would  be  short,  and  they 
could  not  decently  importune  him  often.  "  This," 
said  Rasselas,  "  is  true :  but  I  have  yet  a  stronger 
objection  against  the  misrepresentation  of  your 
state.  I  have  always  considered  it  as  treason 
against  the  great  republic  of  human  nature,  to 
make  any  man's  virtues  the  means  of  deceiving 
him,  whether  on  great  or  little  occasions.  All 
imposture  weakens  confidence,  and  chills  benevo- 
lence. When  the  sage  finds  that  you  are  not 
what  you  seemed,  he  will  feel  the  resentment  na- 
tural to  a  man  who,  conscious  of  great  abilities, 
discovers  that  he  has  been  tricked  by  understand- 
ings meaner  than  his  own,  and,  perhaps,  the  dis- 
trust which  he  can  never  afterwards  wholly  lay 
aside  may  sfop  the  voice  of  counsel,  and  close  the 
hand  of  chanty;  and  where  will  you  find  the 
power  of  resu>'-in;r  hi--,  benefaction!  to  mankind, 
or  his  p  >aec  to  hhnsdf" 


To  this  no  reply  was  attempted,  and  Imlac  bt>> 
gan  to  hope  that  their  curiosity  would  subside ; 
but,  next  day,  Pekuah  told  him,  she  had  now 
found  an  honest  pretence  for  a  visit  to  the  astro- 
nomer, for  she  would  solicit  permission  to  con- 
tinue under  him  the  studies  m  which  she  had 
been  initiated  by  the  Arab,  and  the  princess  might 
go  with  her,  either  as  a  fellow-student,  or  because 
a  woman  could  not  decently  come  alone.  "I  am 
afraid,"  said  Imlac,  "  that  he  will  soon  be  weary 
of  your  company ;  men  advanced  far  in  know- 
ledge do  not  love  to  repeat  the  elements  of  their 
art;  and  I  am  not  certain  that  even  of  the  ele- 
ments, as  he  will  deliver  them  connected  with 
inferences  and  mingled  with  reflections,  you  arc  a 
very  capable  auditress?'  "  That,"  said  Pekuah 
"  must  be  my  care:  I  ask  of  you  only  to  take  me 
thither.  My  knowledge  is,  perhaps,  more  than 
you  imagine  it;  and  by  concurring  always  with 
his  opinions,  I  shall  make  him  think  it  greater  than 
it  is." 

The  astronomer,  in  pursuance  of  this  resolu- 
tion, was  told  that  a  foreign  lady,  travelling  in 
search  of  knowledge,  had  heard  of  his  reputation, 
and  was  desirous  to  become  his  scholar.  The 
uncommonness  of  the  proposal  raised  at  once  his 
surprise  and  curiosity,  and  when,  after  a  short  de- 
liberation, he  consented  to  admit  her,  he  could 
not  stay  without  impatience  till  the  next  day. 

The  ladies  dressed  themselves  magnificently, 
and  were  attended  by  Imlac  to  the  astronomer, 
who  was  pleased  to  see  himself  approached  with 
respect  by  persons  of  so  splendid  an  appearance. 
In  the  exchange  of  the  first  civilities,  he  was 
timorous  and  bashful ;  but  when  the  talk  became 
regular,  he  recollected  his  powers,  and  justified 
the  character  which  Imlac  had  given.  Inquiring 
of  Pekuah  what  could  have  turned  her  inclination 
towards  astronomy,  he  received  from  her  a  history 
of  her  adventure  at  the  pyramid,  and  of  the  time 
passed  in  the  Arab's  island.  She  told  her  tale 
with  ease  and  elegance,  and  her  conversation 
took  possession  of  his  heart.  The  discourse  was 
then  turned  to  astronomy:  Pekuah  displayed 
what  she  knew :  he  looked  upon  her  as  a  prodigy 
of  genius,  and  entreated  her  not  to  desist  from  a 
study  which  she  had  so  happily  begun. 

They  came  again  and  again,  and  were  every 
time  more  welcome  than  before.  The  sage  en- 
deavoured to  amuse  them,  that  they  might  pro- 
long their  visits,  for  he  found  his  thoughts  grow 
brighter  in  their  company  ;  the  clouds  of  solici- 
tude vanished  by  degrees,  as  he  forced  himself 
to  entertain  them,  and  he  grieved  when  he  was 
left,  at  their  departure,  to  his  old  employment  of 
regulating  the  seasons. 

The  princess  and  her  favourite  had  now  watch- 
ed his  lips  for  several  months,  and  could  not 
catch  a  single  word  from  which  they  could  judge 
whether  he  continued,  or  not,  in  the  opinion  ot 
his  preternatural  commission.  They  often  con- 
trived to  bring  him  to  an  open  declaration ;  but 
he  easily  eluded  all  their  attacks,  and,  on  which 
side  soever  they  pressed  him,  escaped  from  them 
to  some  other  topic. 

As  their  familiarity  increased,  they  invited  him 
often  to  the  house  of  Imlac,  where  they  distin- 
guished him  by  extraordinary  respect.  He  began 
gradually  to  delight  in  sublunary  pleasures.  H» 
came  early,  and  departed  late;  laboured  to  re- 
commend himself  by  assiduity  and  compliance, 
excited  their  curiosity  after  nr-w  art?,  that  they 
might  st.ill  want  his  assistance;  and  vvhun  they 


RASSELAS. 


4S7 


made  any  excursion  of  pleasure  or  inquiry,  en- 
treated to  attend  them. 

By  long  experience  of  his  integrity  and  wisdom, 
the  prince  and  his  sister  were  convinced  that  he 
might  be  trusted  without  danger:  and,  lest  he 
should  draw  any  false  hopes  from  the  civilities 
which  he  received,  discovered  to  him  their  condi- 
tion, with  the  motives  of  their  journey,  and  re- 
quired his  opinion  on  the  choice  of  life. 

"  Of  the  various  conditions  which  the  world 
spreads  before  you,  which  you  shall  prefer,"  said 
the  sage,  "  I  am  not  able  to  instruct  you.  I  can 
only  tell  that  I  have  chosen  wrong.  I  have 
passed  my  time  in  study  without  experience :  in 
the  attainment  of  sciences  which  can,  for  the 
most  part,  be  but  remotely  useful  to  mankind.  I 
have  purchased  knowledge  at  the  expense  of  all 
the  common  comforts  of  life:  I  have  missed  the 
endearing  elegance  of  female  friendship,  and  the 
happy  commerce  of  domestic  tenderness.  If  I 
have  obtained  any  prerogatives  above  other  stu- 
dents, they  have  been  accompanied  with  fear,  dis- 
quiet, and  scrupulosity;  but  even  of  these  prero- 
gatives, whatever  they  were,  I  have,  since  my 
thoughts  have  been  diversified  by  more  inter- 
course with  the  world,  begun  to  question  the  re- 
ality. When  I  have  been  for  a  few  days  lost  in 
pleasing  dissipation,  I  am  alwavs  tempted  to  think 
that  my  inquiries  have  ended  in  error,  and  that  I 
have  suffered  much,  and  suffered  it  in  vain." 

Imlac  was  delighted  to  find  that  the  sage's  un- 
derstanding was  breaking  through  its  mists,  and 
resolved  to  detain  him  from  the  planets  till  he 
should  forget  his  task  of  ruling  them,  and  reason 
should  recover  its  original  influence. 

From  this  time  the  astronomer  was  received 
into  familiar  friendship,  and  partook  of  all  their 
projects  and  pleasures :  his  respect  kept  him  atten- 
tive, and  the  activity  of  Rasselas  did  not  leave 
much  time  unengaged.  Something  was  always 
to  be  done:  the  day  was  spent  in  making  obser- 
vations, which  furnished  talk  for  the  evening,  and 
the  evening  was  closed  with  a  scheme  for  the 
morrow. 

The  sage  confessed  to  Imlac,  that  since  he  had 
mingled  in  the  gay  tumults  of  life,  and  divided  his 
hours  by  a  succession  of  amusements,  he  found 
the  conviction  of  his  authority  over  the  skies  fade 
gradually  from  his  mind,  and  began  to  trust  less 
to  an  opinion  which  he  never  could  prove  to 
others,  and  which  he  now  found  subject  to  varia- 
tion, from  causes  in  which  reason  had  no  part 
"  If  I  am  accidently  left  alone  for  a  few  hours," 
said  he,  "  my  inveterate  persuasion  rushes  upon 
my  soul,  and  my  thoughts  are  chained  down  by 
some  irresistible  violence ;  but  they  are  soon  dis- 
entangled by  the  prince's  conversation,  and  in- 
stantaneously released  at  the  entrance  of  Pekuah. 
I  am  like  a  man  habitually  afraid  of  spectres,  who 
is  sot  at  ease  by  a  lamp,  and  wonders  at  the  dread 
which  harassed  him  in  the  dark,  yet,  if  his  lamp 
be  extinguished,  feels  again  the  terrors  which  he 
knows  that  when  it  is  light  he  shall  feel  no  more. 
But  I  am  sometimes  afraid,  lest  I  indulge  my 
quiet  by  criminal  negligence,  and  voluntarily  for- 
get the  great  charge  with  which'I  am  intrusted. 
If  I  favour  myself  in  a  known  error,  or  am  deter- 
mined by  my  own  ease  in  a  doubtful  question  of 
this  importance,  how  dreadful  is  my  crime!" 

"  No  disease  of  the  imagination,"  answered 
Imlac,  "  is  so  difficult  of  cure,  as  that  which  is 
complicated  with  the  dread  of  guilt ;  fancy  and 
conscience  then  act  interchangeably  upon  us,  and 


so  often  shift  their  places,  that  the  illusions  of  one 
are  not  distinguished  from  the  dictates  of  the 
other.  If  fancy  presents  images  not  moral  or 
religious,  the  mind  drives  them  away  when  they 
give  it  pain  ;  but  when  melancholy  notions  take 
the  form  of  duty,  they  lay  hold  on  the  faculties 
without  opposition,  because  we  are  afraid  to  ex- 
clude or  banish  them.  For  this  reason  the  super- 
stitious are  often  melancholy,  and  the  melancholy 
almost  always  superstitious. 

"  But  do  not  let  the  suggestions  of  timidity 
overpower  your  better  reason :  the  danger  of  ne- 
glect can  be  but  as  the  probability  of  the  obliga- 
tion, which,  when  you  consider  it  with  freedom, 
you  find  very  little,  and  that  little  growing  every 
day  less.  Open  your  heart  to  the  influence  of 
the  light,  which,  from  time  to  time,  breaks  in 
upon  you :  when  scruples  importune  you,  which 
you  in  your  lucid  moments  know  to  be  vain,  do 
not  stand  to  parley,  but  fly  to  business,  or  to  Pe- 
kuah ;  and  keep  this  thought  always  prevalent, 
that  you  are  only  one  atom  of  the  mass  of  hu- 
manity, and  have  neither  such  virtue  nor  vice  as 
that  you  should  be  singled  out  for  supernatural 
favours  or  afflictions." 


CHAPTER  XL VII. 

THE    PRINCE   ENTERS    AND    BRINGS   A   NEW 
TOPIC. 

"  ALL  this,"  said  the  astronomer,  "  I  have  often 
thought;  but  my  reason  has  been  so  long  subju- 
gated by  an  uncontrollable  and  overwhelming 
idea,  that  it  durst  not  confide  in  its  own  decisions. 
I  now  see  how  fatally  I  betrayed  my  quiet,  by 
suffering  chimeras  to  prey  upon  me  in  secret ;  but 
melancholy  shrinks  from  communication,  and  I 
never  found  a  man  before  to  whom  I  could  impart 
my  troubles,  though  I  had  been  certain  of  relief. 
I  rejoice  to  find  my  own  sentiments  confirmed  by 
yours,  who  are  not  easily  deceived,  and  can  have 
no  motive  or  purpose  to  deceive.  I  hope  that 
time  and  variety  will  dissipate  the  gloom  that  has 
so  long  surrounded  me,  and  the  latter  part  of  my 
days  will  be  spent  in  peace." 

"  Your  learning  and  virtue,"  said  Imlac,  "  may 
justly  give  you  hopes." 

Rasselas  then  entered,  with  the  princess  and 
Pekuah,  and  inquired  whether  they  had  contrived 
any  new  diversion  for  the  next  day.  "  Such," 
said  Nekayah,  "  is  the  state  of  life,  that  none  are 
happy  but  by  the  anticipation  of  change :  the 
change  itself  is  nothing;  when  we  have  made  it, 
the  next  wish  is  to  change  again.  The  world  is 
not  yet  exhausted ;  let  me  see  something  to-mor- 
row which  I  never  saw  before." 

"  Variety,"  said  Rasselas,  "  is  so  necessary  to 
content,  that  even  the  happy  valley  disgusted  mo 
by  the  recurrence  of  its  luxuries ;  yet  I  could  not 
forbear  to  reproach  myself  with  impatience,  when 
I  saw  the  monks  of  St.  Anthony  support,  without 
complaint,  a  life,  not  of  uniform  delight,  but  uni- 
form hardship." 

"  Those  men,"  answered  Imlac,  "  are  less 
wretched  in  their  silent  convent  than  the  Abis- 
sinian  princes  in  their  prison  of  pleasure.  What- 
ever is  done  by  the  monks  is  incited  by  an  ade 
quate  and  reasonable  motive.  Their  labour  sup 
plies  them  with  necessaries ;  it  therefore  cannot 
be  omitted,  and  is  certainly  rewarded.  Their  de- 
votion prepares  them  for  another  state,  and  re- 


488 


RASSELAS. 


minds  them  of  its  approach,  while  it  fits  them 
for  it  Their  time  is  regularly  distributed ;  one 
duty  succeeds  another;  so  that  they  are  not  left 
open  to  the  distraction  of  unguided  choice,  nor 
lost  in  the  shades  of  listless  inactivity.  There  is 
a  certain  task  to  be  performed  at  an  appropriated 
hour ;  and  their  toils  are  cheerful,  because  they 
consider  them  as  acts  of  piety,  by  which  they  are 
always  advancing  towards  endless  felicity." 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Nekayah,  "  that  the  mo- 
nastic rule  is  a  more  holy  and  less  imperfect  state 
than  any  other  ?  May  not  he  equally  hope  for 
future  happiness  who  converses  openly  with  man- 
kind, who  succours  the  distressed  by  his  charity, 
instructs  the  ignorant  by  his  learning,  and  contri- 
butes by  his  industry  to  the  general  system  of  life ; 
even  though  he  should  omit  some  of  the  mortifi- 
cations which  are  practised  in  the  cloister,  and 
allow  himself  such  harmless  delights,  as  his  con- 
dition may  place  within  his  reach?" 

"  This,"  said  Imlac,  "  is  a  question  which  has 
long  divided  the  wise,  and  perplexed  the  good.  I 
am  afraid  to  decide  on  either  part  He  that  lives 
well  in  the  world  is  better  than  he  that  lives  well 
in  a  monastery.  But,  perhaps,  every  one  is  not 
able  to  stem  the  temptations  of  public  life ;  and, 
if  he  cannot  conquer,  he  may  properly  retreat. 
Some  have  little  power  to  do  good,  and  have 
likewise  little  strength  to  resist  evil.  Many 
are  weary  of  their  conflicts  with  adversity,  and 
are  willing  to  eject  those  passions  which  have 
long  busied  them  in  vain.  And  many  are  dis- 
missed by  age  and  diseases  from  the  more  labo- 
rious duties  of  society.  In  monasteries  the  weak 
and  timorous  may  be"  happily  sheltered,  the  weary 
may  repose,  and  the  penitent  may  meditate. 
Those  retreats  of  prayer  and  contemplation  have 
something  so  congenial  to  the  mind  of  man,  that, 
perhaps,  there  is  scarcely  one  that  does  not  pur- 
pose to  close  his  life  in  pious  abstraction,  with  a 
Few  associates  serious  as  himself." 

"Such,"  said  Pekuah,  "has  often  been  my 
wish  ;  and  I  have  heard  the  princess  declare,  that 
she  should  not  willingly  die  in  a  crowd." 

"  The  liberty  of  using  harmless  pleasures,"  pro- 
ceeded Imlac,  "  will  not  be  disputed  ;  but  it  is 
still  to  be  examined  what  pleasures  are  harmless. 
The  evil  of  any  pleasure  that  Nek  ayah  can  image 
is  not  in  the  act  itself,  but  in  its  consequences. 
Pleasure,  in  itself  harmless,  may  become  mis- 
cliievous,  by  endearing  to  us  a  state  which  we 
know  to  be  transient  and  probatory,  and  with- 
drawing our  thoughts  from  that,  of  which  every 
hour  brings  us  nearer  to  the  beginning,  and  of 
which  no  length  of  time  will  bring  us  to  the  end. 
Mortification  is  not  virtuous  in  itself,  nor  has  any 
other  use,  but  that  it  disengages  us  from  the  al- 
lurements of  sense.  In  the  state  of  future  perfec- 
tun,  to  which  we  all  aspire,  there  will  be  plea- 
sure without  danger,  and  security  without  re- 
s' raint." 

Tha  princes?  was  silent,  and  Rasselas,  turning 
to  the  astronomer,  asked  him  whether  he  could 
not  delay  her  retreat,  by  showing  her  something 
which  she  had  not  seen  before. 

"  Your  curiosity,"  said  the  sage,  "  has  been  so 
general,  and  your  pursuit  of  knowledge  so  vigor- 
ous, that  novelties  are  not  now  very  easily  to  be 
found  :  but  what  you  can  no  longer  procure  from 
the  living  may  be  given  by  the  dead.  Among  the 
wonders  of  this  country  are  the  catacombs,  or  the 
ancient  repositories,  in  which  ths  bodies  of  the 
earliest  generations  ware  lodged,  and  wh^ra,  by 


the  virtue  of  the  gums  which  embalmed  them, 
they  yet  remain  without  corruption." 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Rasselas,  "  what  pleasure 
the  sight  of  the  catacombs  can  afford  ;  but,  since 
nothing  else  is  offered,  I  am  resolved  to  view  them, 
and  shall  place  this  with  many  other  things  which  I 
have  done,  because  I  would  do  something." 

They  hired  a  guard  of  horsemen,  and  the  next 
day  visited  the  catacombs.  When  they  were 
about  to  descend  into  the  sepulchral  caves,  "  Pe- 
kuah," said  the  princess,  "  we  are  now  again 
invading  the  habitations  of  the  dead,  I  know  that 
you  will  stay  behind ;  let  me  find  you  safe  when 
I  return." — "  No,  I  will  not  be  left,"  answered 
Pekuah  :  "  I  will  go  down  between  you  and  the 
prince." 

They  then  all  descended,  and  roved  with  won- 
der through  the  labyrinth  of  subterraneous  pas- 
sages, where  the  bodies  were  laid  in  rows  on  either 
side. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

IMLAC  DISCOURSES  ON  THE  NATURE  OF  THE  SOUL. 

""WHAT  reason,"  said  the  prince,  "can  be 
given,  why  the  Egyptians  should  thus  expensively 
preserve  those  carcasses  which  some  nations  con- 
sume with  fire,  others  lay  to  mingle  with  the 
earth,  and  all  agree  to  remove  from  their  sight  as 
soon  as  decent  rites  can  be  performed  ?" 

"  The  original  of  ancient  customs,"  said  Imlac, 
"  is  commonly  unknown  ;  for  the  practice  often 
continues  when  the  cause  has  ceased  :  and  con- 
cerning superstitious  ceremonies,  it  is  vain  to 
conjecture ;  for  what  reason  did  not  dictate,  rea- 
son cannot  explain.  I  have  long  believed  that 
the  practice  of  embalming  arose  only  from  tender- 
ness to  the  remains  of  relations  or  friends  ;  and 
to  this  opinion  I  am  more  inclined,  because  it 
seems  impossible  that  this  care  should  have  been 
general ;  had  all  the  dead  been  embalmed,  their 
repositories  must  in  time  have  been  more  spacious 
than  the  dwellings  of  the  living.  I  suppose  only 
the  rich  or  honourable  were  secured  from  corrup- 
tion, and  the  rest  left  to  the  course  of  nature. 

"  But  it  is  commonly  supposed  that  the  Egyp- 
tians believed  the  soul  to  live  as  long  as  the  body 
continued  undissolved,  and  therefore  tried  this 
method  of  eluding  death." 

"  Could  the  wise  Egyptians,"  said  Nekayah. 
"  think  so  grossly  of  the  soul  ?  If  the  soul  could 
once  survive  its  separation,  what  could  it  after- 
wards receive  or  suffer  from  the  body  ?" 

"  The  Egyptians  would  doubtless  think  erro- 
neously," said  the  astronomer,  "  in  the  darkness 
of  heathenism,  and  the  first  dawn  of  philosophy. 
The  nature  of  the  soul  is  still  disputed,  amidst  all 
our  opportunities  of  clearer  knowledge :  some 
yet  say,  that  it  may  be  material,  who,  neverthe  • 
less,  believe  it  to  be  immortal." 

"  Some,"  answered  Imlac,  "  have  indeed  said 
that  the  soul  is  material,  but  I  can  scarcely  be- 
lieve that  any  man  has  thought  it  who  knew  how 
to  think  ;  for  all  the  conclusions  of  reason  enforce 
the  immateriality  of  mind,  and  all  the  notices  of 
sense  and  investigations  of  science  concur  to 
prove  the  unconsciousness  of  matter. 

"  It  was  never  supposed  that  cogitation  is  in- 
herent in  matter,  or  that  every  particle  is  a  think- 
ing being.  Yet  if  any  part  of  matter  be  devoid 
of  thought,  what  part  can  we  suppose  to  think  ? 
Matter  can  differ  from  matter  on!v  in  form,  dun- 


RASSELAS. 


489 


sit}1,  bulk,  motion,  and  direction  of  motion.  To 
which  of  these,  however  varied  or  combined,  can 
consciousness  be  annexed  ?  To  be  round  or 
square,  to  be  solid  or  fluid,  to  be  great  or  little,  to 
be  moved  slowly  or  swiftly,  one  way  or  another, 
are  modes  of  material  existence,  all  equally  alien 
from  the  nature  of  cogitation.  If  matter  be  once 
without  thought,  it  can  only  be  made  to  think  by 
some  new  modification  ;  but  all  the  modifications 
which  it  can  admit  are  equally  unconnected  with 
cogitative  powers." 

".But  the  materialists,"  said  the  astronomer, 
"  urge  that  matter  may  have  qualities  with  which 
we  are  unacquainted." 

"  He  who  will  determine,"  returned  Imlac, 
"  against  that  which  he  knows,  because  there 
may  be  something  which  he  knows  not ;  he  that 
can  set  hypothetical  possibility  against  acknow- 
ledged certainty,  is  not  to  be  admitted  among 
reasonable  beings.  All  that  we  know  of  matter 
is,  that  matter  is  inert,  senseless,  and  lifeless  ;  and 
if  this  conviction  cannot  be  opposed  but  by  refer- 
ring us  to  something  that  we  know  not,  we  have 
all  the  evidence  that  human  intellect  can  admit. 
Tf  that  which  is  known  may  be  overruled  by  that 
which  is  unknown,  no  being,  not  omniscient,  can 
arrive  at  certainty." 

"Yet  let  us  not,"  said  the  astronomer,  "too 
arrogantly  limit  the  Creator's  power." 

"  It  is  no  limitation  of  Omnipotence,"  replied 
the  poet,  "  to  suppose  that  one  thing  is  not  con- 
sistent with  another,  that  the  same  proposition 
cannot  be  at  once  true  and  false,  that  the  same 
number  cannot  be  even  and  odd,  that  cogitation 
cannot  be  conferred  on  that  which  is  created  in- 
capable of  cogitation." 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Nekayah,  "  any  great  use 
of  tliis  question.  Does  that  immateriality,  which, 
in  ray  opinion,  you  have  sufficiently  proved,  ne- 
cessarily include  eternal  duration  ?" 

"  Of  immateriality,"  said  Imlac,  "  our  ideas  are 
negative,  and  therefore  obscure.  Immateriality 
seems  to  imply  a  natural  power  of  perpetual 
duration  as  a  consequence  of  exemption  from  all 
causes  of  decay  :  whatever  perishes  is  destroyed 
by  the  solution  of  its  contexture,  and  separation 
of  its  parts  ;  nor  can  we  conceive  how  that  which 
has  no  parts,  and  therefore  admits  no  solution, 
can  be  naturally  corrupted  or  impaired." 

"  1  know  not,"  said  Rasselas,  "  how  to  con- 
ceive any  thing  without  extension :  what  is  ex- 
tended must  have  parts,  and  you  allow  that 
whatever  has  parts  may  be  destroyed." 

"  Consider  your  own  conceptions,"  replied  Iin- 
lac,  "  and  the  difficulty  will  be  less.  You  will 
find  substance  without  extension.  An  ideal  form 
is  no  less  real  than  material  bulk ;  yet  an  ideal 
form  has  no  extension.  It  is  no  less  certain,  when 
you  think  on  a  pyramid,  that  your  mind  possesses 
the  idea  of  a  pyramid,  than  that  the  pyramid 
itself  is  standing.  What  space  does  the  idea  of 
a  pyramid  occupy  more  than  the  idea  of  a  grain 
of  corn  ?  or  how  can  either  idea  suffer  laceration  ? 
As  is  the  effect,  such  is  the  cause  ;  as  thought, 
such  is  the  power  that  thinks,  a  power  impassive 
and  indiscerptible."  • 

"  But  the  Being,"  said  Nekayah,  "  whom  I 
fear  to  name,  the  Being  which  made  the  soul,  can 
destroy  it." 

"  He  surely  can  destroy  it,"  answered  Imlac, 
'*  since,  however  unperishable,  it  receives  from  a 
3  M 


superior  nature  its  power  of  duration.  That  it 
will  not  perish  by  any  inherent  cause  of  decay,  or 
principle  of  corruption,  may  be  shown  by  philoso- 
phy ;  but  philosophy  can  tell  no  more.  That  it 
will  not  be  annihilated,  bv  Him  that  made  it,  we 
must  humbly  learn  from  nigher  authority." 

The  whole  assembly  stood  a  while  silent,  and 
collected.  "  Let  us  return,"  said  Rasselas,  "  from 
this  scene  of  mortality.  How  gloomy  would  be 
these  mansions  of  the  dead  to  him  who  did  not 
know  that  he  should  never  die  ;  that  what  now 
acts  shall  continue  its  agency,  and  what  now 
thinks  shall  think  on  for  ever.  Those  that  lie 
here  stretched  before  us,  the  wise  and  the  power- 
ful of  ancient  times,  warn  us  to  remember  the 
shortness  of  our  present  state  :  they  were,  per- 
haps, snatched  away  while  they  were  busy,  like 
us,  in  the  choice  of  life." 

"  To  me,"  said  the  princess,  "  the  choice  of  life 
is  become  less  important ;  I  hope  hereafter  to 
think  only  on  the  choice  of  eternity." 

They  then  hastened  out  of  the  caverns,  and, 
under  the  protection  of  their  guard,  returned  to 
Cairo. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE    CONCLUSION,    IN    WHICH   NOTHING   IS 
CONCLUDED. 

IT  was  now  the  time  of  the  inundation  of  the 
Nile :  a  few  days  after  their  visit  to  the  catacomba 
the  river  began  to  rise. 

They  were  confined  to  their  house.  The  whole 
region  being  under  water,  gave  them  no  invita- 
tion to  any  excursions  ;  and  being  well  supplied 
with  materials  for  talk,  they  diverted  themselves 
with  comparisons  of  the  different  forms  of  life 
which  they  had  observed,  and  with  various 
schemes  of  happiness  which  each  of  them  had 
formed. 

Pekuah  was  never  so  much  charmed  with  any 
place  as  the  convent  of  St  Anthony,  where  the 
Arab  restored  her  to  the  princess,  and  wished 
only  to  fill  it  with  pious  maidens,  and  to  be  made 
prioress  of  the  order :  she  was  weary  of  expecta- 
tion and  disgust,  and  would  gladly  be  fixed  in 
some  unvariable  state. 

The  princess  thought,  that,  of  all  sublunary 
Jungs,  knowledge  was  the  best  She  desired 
irst  to  learn  all  sciences,  and  then  purposed  to 
'ound  a  college  of  learned  women,  in  which  she 
would  preside,  that,  by  conversing  with  the  old, 
and  educating  the  young,  she  might  divide  her 
time  between  the  acquisition  and  communication 
of  wisdom,  and  raise  up  for  the  next  age  models 
of  prudence  and  patterns  of  piety. 

The  prince  desired  a  little  kingdom,  in  which 
tie  might  administer  justice  in  his  own  person, 
and  see  all  the  parts  of  government  with  his  own 
eyes ;  but  he  could  never  fix  the  limits  of  his 
dominion,  and  was  always  adding  to  the  number 
of  his  subjects. 

Imlac  and  the  astronomer  were  contented  to 
be  driven  along  the  stream  of  life,  without  direct- 
ing their  course  to  any  particular  port 

Of  these  wishes  that  they  had  formed,  they 
well  knew  that  none  could  be  obtained.  They 
deliberated  a  while  what  was  to  be  done,  and 
resolved,  when  the  inundation  should  cease,  to 
return  to  Abissinia. 


TALfiS    OF    IMAGINATION. 


THE  VISION   OF   THEODORE,   THE 
HERMIT   OF   TENERIFFE, 

FOUND   IN   HIS    CELL. 1748. 

FROM    THE    PRECEPTOR. 

SON  of  Perseverance,  whoever  thou  art,  whose 
curiosity  has  led  thee  hither,  read  and  be  wise. 
He  that  now  calls  upon  thee  is  Theodore,  the 
Hermit  of  TenerirTe,  who  in  the  fifty-seventh  year 
of  his  retreat,  left  this  instruction  to  mankind,  lest 
his  solitary  hours  should  be  spent  in  vain. 

I  was  once  what  thou  art  now,  a  groveller  on 
the  earth,  and  a  gazer  at  the  sky ;  I  trafficked  and 
heaped  wealth  together,  I  loved  and  was  favoured, 
1  wore  the  robe  of  honour,  and  heard  the  music  of 
adulation :  I  was  ambitious,  and  rose  to  greatness : 
I  was  unhappy,  and  retired.  I  sought  for  some 
time  what  I  at  length  found  here,  a  place  where 
all  real  wants  might  be  easily  supplied,  and  where 
I  might  not  be  under  the  necessity  of  purchasing 
the  assistance  of  men  by  the  toleration  of  their 
follies.  Here  I  saw  fruits  and  herbs  and  water, 
and  here  determined  to  wait  the  hand  of  death, 
which  I  hope,  when  at  last  it  comes,  will  fall 
lightly  upon  me. 

Forty-eight  years  had  I  now  passed  in  forget- 
fulness  of  all  mortal  cares,  and  without  any  incli- 
nation to  wander  farther  than  the  necessity  of  pro- 
curing sustenance  required ;  but  as  I  stood  one 
day  beholding  the  rock  that  overhangs  my  cell,  I 
found  in  myself  a  desire  to  clknb  it ;  and  when  I 
was  on  its  top,  was  in  the  same  manner  deter- 
mined to  scale  the  next,  till  by  degrees  I  conceived 
a  wish  to  view  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  at  the 
foot  of  which  I  had  so  long  resided.  This  motion 
of  my  thoughts  I  endeavoured  to  suppress,  not 
because  it  appeared  criminal,  but  because  it  was 
new  ;  and  all  change  not  evidently  for  the  bet- 
ter, alarms  a  mind  taught  by  experience  to  dis- 
trust itself.  I  was  often  afraid  that  my  heart  was 
deceiving  me,  that  my  impatience  of  confinement 
arose  from  some  earthly  passion,  and  that  my  ar- 
dour to  survey  the  works  of  nature  was  only  a 
hidden  longing  to  mingle  once  again  in  the  scenes 
of  life.  I  therefore  endeavoured  to  settle  my 
thoughts  into  their  former  state,  but  found  their 
distraction  every  day  greater.  I  was  always  re- 
proaching myself  with  the  want  of  happiness 
within  my  reach,  and  at  last  began  to  question 
whether  it  was  not  laziness  rather  than  caution 
that  restrained  me  from  climbing  to  the  summit 
of  Teneriffe. 

I  rose  therefore  before  the  day.  and  began  my 
journey  up  the  steep  of  the  mountain  ;  but  I  had 
not  advanced  far,  old  as  I  was  and  burdened 
with  provisions,  when  the  day  began  to  shine 
upon  me,  the  declivities  grew  more  precipitous, 
and  the  sand  slided  from  beneath  my  feet :  at  last, 


fainting  with  labour,  I  arrived  at  a  small  plain 
almost  enclosed  by  rocks,  and  open  only  to  the 
east.  I  sat  down  to  rest  awliile,  in  full  persuasion 
that  when  I  had  recovered  my  strength  I  should 
proceed  on  my  design ;  but  when  once  I  had 
tasted  ease,  I  found  many  reasons  against  dis- 
turbing it.  The  branches  spread  a  shade  over  my 
head,  and  the  gales  of  spring  wafted  odours  to 
my  bosom. 

As  I  sat  thus,  forming  alternately  excuses  for 
delay,  and  resolutions  to  go  forward",  an  irresisti- 
ble heaviness  suddenly  surprised  me  ;  I  laid  my 
head  upon  the  bank,  and  resigned  myself  to  sleep: 
when  methought  I  heard  the  sound  as  of  the  flight 
of  eagles,  and  a  being  of  more  than  human  dig- 
nity stood  before  me.  While  I  was  deliberating 
how  to  address  him,  he  took  me  by  the  hand  with 
an  air  of  kindness,  and  asked  me  solemnly,  but 
without  severity,  "Theodore,  whither  art  thou 
going?"  "I  am  climbing,"  answered  I,  "to  the 
top  of  the  mountain,  to  enjoy  a  more  extensive 
prospect  of  the  works  of  nature."  "  Attend  first," 
says  he,  "  to  the  prospect  which  this  place  affords, 
and  what  thou  dost  not  understand  I  will  explain. 
I  am  one  of  the  benevolent  beings  who  watch 
over  the  children  of  the  dust,  to  preserve  them 
from  those  evils  which  will  not  ultimately  termi- 
nate in  good,  and  which  they  do  not,  by  their  own 
faults,  bring  upon  themselves.  Look  round  there 
fore  without  fear :  observe,  contemplate,  and  be 
instructed." 

Encouraged  by  this  assurance,  I  looked  and 
beheld  a  mountain  higher  than  TenerifFe.  to  the 
summit  of  which  the  human  eye  could  never 
reach :  when  I  had  tired  myself  with  gazing  upon 
its  height,  I  turned  my  eyes  towards  its  foot, 
which  I  could  easily  discover,  but  was  amazed  to 
find  it  without  foundation,  and  placed  inconceiva 
bly  in  emptiness  and  darkness.  Thus  I  stood 
terrified  and  confused ;  above  were  tracks  inscru- 
table and  below  was  total  vacuity.  But  my  pre- 
ceptor, with  a  voice  of  admonition, .  cried  out, 
"  Theodore,  be  not  affrighted,  but  raise  thy  eyes 
again;  the  Mountain  of  Existence  is  before  thee, 
survey  it  and  be  wise." 

I  then  looked  with  more  deliberate  attention, 
and  observed  the  bottom  of  the  mountain  to  be 
of  gentle  rise,  and  overspread  with  flowers  ;  the 
middle  to  be  more  steep,  embarrassed  with  crags, 
and  interrupted  by  precipices,  over  which  hung 
branches  loaded  with  fruits,  and  among  which 
were  scattered  palaces  and  bowers.  The  tracts 
which  my  eye»could  reach  nearest  the  top  were 
generally  barren  ;  but  there  were  among  the 
clefts  of  the  rocks  a  few  hardy  evergreens,  which 
though  they  did  not  give  much  pleasure  to  the 
sight  or  smell,  yet  seemed  to  cheer  the  labour  and 
facilitate  the  steps  of  those  who  were  clambering 
among  them. 


THE  VISION  OF  THEODORE, 


491 


Then,  beginning  to  examine  more  minutely  the 
different  parts,  I  observed  at  a  great  distance  a 
multitude  of  both  sexes  issuing  into  view  from  the 
bottom  of  the  mountain.  Their  first  actions  I 
could  not  accurately  discern  ;  but,  as  they  every 
moment  approached  nearer,  I  found  that  they 
amused  themselves  with  gathering  flowers  under 
the  superintendence  of  a  modest  virgin  in  a  white 
robe,  who  seemed  not  over  solicitous  to  confine 
them  to  any  settled  pace  or  certain  track :  for  she 
knew  that  the  whole  ground  was  smooth  and 
solid,  and  that  they  could  not  easily  be  hurt  or 
bewildered.  When,  as  it  often  happened,  they 
plucked  a  thistle  for  a  flower,  Innocence,  so  she 
was  called,  would  smile  at  the  mistake.  Happy, 
said  I,  are  they  who  are  under  so  gentle  a  govern- 
ment, and  yet  are  safe.  But  I  had  no  opportunity 
to  dwell  long  on  the  consideration  of  their  felicity ; 
for  I  found  that  Innocence  continued  her  attend- 
ance but  a  little  way,  and  seemed  to  consider  only 
the  flowery  bottom  of  the  mountain  as  her  pro- 
per province.  Those  whom  she  abandoned 
scarcely  knew  that  they  were  left,  before  they  per- 
ceived themselves  in  the  hands  of  Education,  a 
nymph  more  severe  in  her  aspect,  and  imperious 
in  her  commands,  who  confined  them  to  certain 
paths,  in  their  opinion  too  narrow  and  too  rough. 
These  they  were  continually  solicited  to  leave  by 
Appetite,  whom  Education  could  never  fright 
away,  though  she  sometimes  awed  her  to  such 
timidity,  that  the  effects  of  her  presence  were 
scarcely  perceptible.  Some  went  back  to  the  first 
part  of  the  mountain,  and  seemed  desirous  of 
continuing  busied  in  plucking  flowers,  but  were 
no  longer  guarded  by  Innocence;  and  such  as 
Education  could  not  force  back,  proceeded  up  the 
mountain  by  some  miry  road,  in  which  they  were 
seldom  seen,  and  scarcely  ever  regarded. 

As  Education  led  her  troop  up  the  mountain, 
nothing  was  more  observable  than  that  she  was 
frequently  giving  them  cautions  to  beware  of  Ha- 
bits ;  and  was  calling  out  to  one  or  another  at 
every  step,  that  a  Habit  was  ensnaring  them ;  that 
they  would  be  under  the  dominion  of  Habit  before 
they  perceived  their  danger ;  and  that  those  whom 
Habit  should  once  subdue,  had  little  hope  of  re- 
gaining their  liberty. 

Of  this  caution,  so  frequently  repeated,  1  was 
very  solicitous  to  know  the  reason,  when  my  pro- 
tector directed  my  regard  to  a  troop  of  pigmies, 
which  appeared  to  walk  silently  before  those  that 
were  climbing  the  mountain,  and  each  to  smooth 
the  way  before  her  follower.  I  found  that  I  had 
missed  the  notice  of  them  before,  both  because 
thev  were  so  minute  as  not  easily  to  be  discerned, 
and  because  they  grew  every  moment  nearer  in 
their  colour  to  the  objects  with  which  they  were 
surrounded.  As  the  followers  of  Education 
did  not  appear  to  be  sensible  of  the  presence  of 
these  dangerous  associates,  or,  ridiculing  their 
diminutive  size,  did  not  think  it  possible  that  hu- 
man beings  should  ever  be  brought  into  subjection 
by  such  feeble  enemies,  they  generally  heard  her 
precepts  of  vigilance  with  wonder:  and  when 
they  thought  her  eye  withdrawn,  treated  them 
with  contempt.  Nor  could  I  myself  think  her 
cautions  so  necessary  as  her  frequent  inculcations 
seemed  to  suppose,  till  I  observed  that  each  of 
these  petty  beings  held  secretly  a  chain  in  her 
hand,  with  which  she  prepared  to  bind  those 
whom  she  found  within  her  power.  Yet  these 
Habits,  under  the  eye  of  Education,  went  quietly 
forward,  and  seeined  very  little  to  increase  in 


bulk  or  strength ;  for  though  they  were  always 
willing  to  join  with  Appetite,  yet  when  Education 
kept  them  apart  from  her,  they  would  very  punc- 
tually obey  command,  and  make  the  narrow  roads 
in  which  they  were  confined  easier  and  smoother 

It  was  observable,  that  their  stature  was  never 
at  a  stand,  but  continually  growing  or  decreasing, 
yet  not  always  in  the  same  proportions :  nor  could 
1  forbear  to  express  my  admiration,  when  I  saw 
in  how  much  less  time  they  generally  gained  than 
lost  bulk.  Though  they  grew  slowly  in  the  road 
of  Education,  it  might  however  be  perceived  that 
they  grew  ;  but  if  they  once  deviated  at  the  call 
of  Appetite,  their  stature  soon  became  gigantic; 
and  their  strength  was  such  that  Education 
pointed  out  to  her  tribe  many  that  were  led  in 
chains  by  them,  whom  she  could  never  more 
rescue  from  their  slavery.  She  pointed  them  out, 
but  with  little  effect ;  for  all  her  pupils  appeared 
confident  of  their  own  superiority  to  the  strongest 
Habit,  and  some  seemed  in  secret  to  regret  that 
they  were  hindered  from  following  the  triumph  of 
Appetite. 

It  was  the  peculiar  artifice  of  Habit  not  to  suf- 
fer her  power  to  be  felt  at  first.  Those  whom  she 
led,  she  had  the  address  of  appearing  only  to  at- 
tend, but  was  continually  doubling  her  chains 
upon  her  companions;  which  were  so  slender  in 
themselves,  and  so  silently  fastened,  that  while 
the  attention  was  engaged  by  other  objects,  they 
were  not  easily  perceived.  Each  link  grew  tighter 
as  it  had  been  longer  worn  ;  and  when  by  con- 
tinual additions  they  became  so  heavy  as  to  be 
felt,  they  were  very  frequently  too  strong  to  be 
broken. 

When  Education  had  proceeded  in  this  manner 
to  the  part  of  the  mountain  where  the  declivity 
began  to  grow  craggy,  she  resigned  her  charge  to 
two  powers  of  superior  aspect  The  meaner  of 
them  appeared  capable  of  presiding  in  senates,  or 
governing  nations,  and  yet  watched  the  steps  of 
the  other  with  the  most  anxious  attention,  and 
was  visibly  confounded  and  perplexed  if  ever  she 
suffered  her  regard  to  be  drawn  away.  The  other 
seemed  to  approve  her  submission  as  pleasing, 
but  with  such  a  condescension  as  plainly  showed 
that  she  claimed  it  as  due  ;  and  indeed  so  great 
was  her  dignity  and  sweetness,-  that  he  who  would 
not  reverence,  must  not  beholfl  her. 

"  Theodore,"  said  my  protector,  "  be  fearless, 
and  be  wise ;  approach  these  powers,  whose  do- 
minion extends  to  all  the  remaining  part  of  the 
Mountain  of  Existence."  I  trembled,  and  ven- 
tured to  address  the  inferior  nymph,  whose  eyes, 
though  piercing  and  awful,  I  was  not  able  to  sus- 
tain. "  Bright  Power,"  said  I, "  by  whatever  name 
it  is  lawful  to  address  thee,  tell  me,  thou  who  pre- 
sidest  here,  on  what  condition  thy  protection  will 
be  granted?"  "It  will  be  granted,"  said  shey 
"  only  to  obedience.  I  am  Reason,  of  all  subordi- 
nate beings  the  noblest  and  the  greatest ;  who,  if 
thou  wilt  receive  my  laws,  will  reward  thee  like 
the  rest  of  my  votaries,  by  conducting  thee  to  Re- 
ligion." Charmed  by  her  voice  and  aspect,  I  pro- 
fessed my  readiness  to  follow  her.  She  then  pre- 
sented me  to  her  mistress,  who  looked  upon  me 
with  tenderness.  I  bowed  before  her,  and  she 
smiled. 

When  Education  delivered  up  those  for  whose 
happiness  she  had  been  so  long  solicitous,  she 
seemed  to  expect  that  they  should  express  some 
gratitude  for  her  care,  or  some  regret  at  the  loss 
of  that  protection  which  she  had  hitherto  afforded 


492 


THE  HERMIT  OF  TENERIFFK 


them.  But  it  was  easy  to  discover,  by  the  alacrity 
which  broke  out  at  her  departure,  that  her  pre- 
sence had  been  long  displeasing,  and  that  she  had 
been  teaching  those  who  felt  in  themselves  no 
want  of  instruction.  They  all  agreed  in  rejoicing 
that  they  should  no  longer  be  subject  to  her  ca- 
prices, or  disturbed  by  her  documents,  but  should 
be  now  under  the  direction  only  of  Reason,  to 
whom  they  made  no  doubt  of  being  able  to  re- 
commend themselves  by  a  steady  adherence  to 
all  her  precepts.  Reason  counselled  them,  at 
their  first  entrance  upon  her  province,  to  enlist 
themselves  among  the  votaries  of  Religion ;  and 
informed  them,  that  if  they  trusted  to  her  alone, 
they  would  find  the  same  fate  with  her  other  ad- 
mirers, whom  she  had  not  been  able  to  secure 
against  Appetites  and  Passions,  and  who,  having 
been  seized  by  Habits  in  the  regions  of  Desire, 
had  been  dragged  away  to  the  caverns  of  De- 
spair. Her  admonition  was  vain ;  the  greater 
number  declared  against  any  other  direction,  and 
doubted  not  but  by  her  superintendency  they 
should  climb  with  safety  up  the  Mountain  of  Ex- 
istence. "My  power,"  said  Reason,  "  is  to  ad- 
vise, not  to  compel ;  I  have  already  told  you  the 
danger  of  your  choice.  The  path  seems  now 
plain  and  even,  but  there  are  asperities  and  pit- 
falls, over  which  Religion  only  can  conduct  you. 
Look  upwards,  and  you  perceive  a  mist  before 
you,  settled  upon  the  highest  visible  part  of  the 
mountain  ;  a  mist  by  which  my  prospect  is  termi- 
nated, and  which  is  pierced  only  by  the  eyes  of 
Religion.  Beyond  it  are  the  temples  of  Happi- 
ness, in  which  those  who  climb  the  precipice  by 
her  direction,  after  the  toil  of  their  pilgrimage,  re- 
pose for  ever.  I  know  not  the  way,  and  therefore 
can  only  conduct  you  to  a  better  guide.  Pride 
has  sometimes  reproached  me  with  the  narrow- 
ness of  my  view,  but  when  she  endeavoured  to 
extend  it,  could  only  show  me,  below  the  mist, 
the  bowers  of  Content;  even  they  vanished  as  I 
fixed  my  eyes  upon  them ;  and  those  whom  she 
persuaded  to  travel  towards  them  were  enchained 
by  Habits,  and  ingulfed  by  Despair,  a  cruel  ty- 
rant, whose  caverns  are  beyond  the  darkness  on 
the  right  side  and  on  the  left,  from  whose  prisons 
none  can  escape,  and  whom  I  cannot  teach  you 
to  avoid." 

Such  was  the  declaration  of  Reason  to  those 
who  demanded  her  protection.  Some  that  recol- 
lected the  dictates  of  Education,  finding  them  now 
seconded  by  another  authority,  submitted  with 
reluctance  to  the  strict  decree,  and  engaged  them- 
selves among  the  followers  of  Religion,  who  were 
distinguished  by  the  uniformity  of  their  march, 
though  many  of  them  were  women,  and  by  their 
continual  endeavours  to  move  upwards,  without 
appearing  to  regard  the  prospects  which  at  every 
step  courted  their  attention. 

All  those  who  determined  to  follow  either  Rea- 
son or  Religion,  were  continually  importuned  to 
forsake  the  road,  sometimes  by  Passions,  and 
sometimes  by  Appetites,  of  whom  both  had  rea- 
son to  boast  the  success  of  their  artifices  ;  for 
so  many  were  drawn  into  by-paths,  that  any  way 
was  more  populous  than  the  right  The  attacks 
of  the  Appetites  were  more  impetuous,  those  of 
the  Passions  longer  continued.  The  Appetites 
turned  their  followers  directly  from  the  true  way ; 
but  the  Passions  marched  at  first  in  a  path  nearly 
in  the  same  direction  with  that  of  Reason  and  Re- 
ligion, but  deviated  by  slow  degrees,  till  at  last 
they  entirely  changed  their  course.  Appetite 


drew  aside  the  dull,  and  Passion  the  sprightly. 
Of  the  Appetites,  Lust  was  the  strongest;  and  of 
the  Passions,  Vanity.  The  most  powerful  assault 
was  to  be  feared,  when  a  Passion  and  an  Appe- 
tite joined  their  enticements;  and  the  path  of 
Reason  was  best  followed,  when  a  Passion  called 
to  one  side,  and  an  Appetite  to  the  other. 

These  seducers  had  the  greatest  success  upon 
the  followers  of  Reason,  over  whom  they  scarcely 
ever  failed  to  prevail,  except  when  they  counter- 
acted one  another.  They  had  not  the  same  tri- 
umphs over  the  votaries  of  Religion  ;  for  though 
they  were  often  led  aside  for  a  time,  Religion 
commonly  recalled  them  by  her  emissary  Con- 
science, before  Habit  had  time  to  enchain  them. 
But  they  that  professed  to  obey  Reason,  if  once 
they  forsook  her,  seldom  returned  ;  for  she  had 
no  messenger  to  summon  them  but  Pride,  who 
generally  betrayed  her  confidence,  and  employed 
all  her  skill  to  support  Passion  ;  and  if  ever  she 
did  her  duty,  was  found  unable  to  prevail,  if  Ha- 
bit had  interposed. 

I  soon  found  that  the  great  danger  to  the  fol- 
lowers of  Religion  was  only  from  Habit ;  every 
other  power  was  easily  resisted,  nor  did  they  find 
any  difficulty,  when  they  inadvertently  quitted 
her,  to  find  her  again  by  the  direction  of  Con- 
science, unless  they  had  given  time  to  Habit  to 
draw  her  chain  behind  them,  and  bar  up  the  way 
by  which  they  had  wandered.  Of  some  of  those 
the  condition  was  justly  to  be  pitied,  who  turned 
at  every  call  of  Conscience,  and  tried,  but  with- 
out effect,  to  burst  the  chains  of  Habit ;  saw  Reli- 
gion walking  forwards  at  a  distance,  saw  her 
with  reverence,  and  longed  to  join  her  ;  but  were, 
whenever  they  approached  her,  withheld  by  Ha- 
bit, and  languished  in  sordid  bondage,  which 
they  could  not  escape,  though  they  scorned  and 
hated  it 

It  was  evident  that  the  Habits  were  so  far  from 
growing  weaker  by  these  repeated  contests,  that 
if  they  were  not  totally  overcome,  every  struggle 
enlarged  their  bulk  and  increased  their  strength  ; 
and  a  Habit  opposed  and  victorious  was  more 
than  twice  as  strong  as  before  the  contest.  The 
manner  in  which  those  who  were  weary  of  their 
tyranny  endeavoured  to  escape  from  them,  ap- 
peared by  the  event  to  be  generally  wrong  ;  they 
tried  to  loose  their  chains  one  by  one,  and  lo  re- 
treat by  the  same  degrees  as  they  advanced  ;  but 
before  the  deliverance  was  completed,  Habit  al- 
ways threw  new  chains  upon  her  fugitive ;  nor  did 
any  escape  her  but  those  who,  by  an  effort  sud- 
den and  violent,  burst  their  shackles  at  once  and 
left  her  at  a  distance ;  and  even  of  these  many 
rushing  too  precipitately  forward,  and  liinder- 
ed  by  their  terrors  from  stopping  where  they 
were  safe,  were  fatigued  with  their  own  vehe- 
mence, and  resigned  themselves  again  to  that 
power  from  whom  an  escape  must  be  so  dearly 
bought,  and  whose  tyranny  was  little  felt,  except 
when  it  was  resisted. 

Some  however  there  always  were,  who  when 
they  found  Habit  prevailing  over  them,  called 
upon  Reason  or  Religion  for  assistance ;  each  of 
them  willingly  came  to  the  succour  of  her  suppli- 
ant, but  neither  with  the  same  strength  nor  the 
same  success.  Habit,  insolent  with  her  power, 
would  often  presume  to  parley  with  Reason, 
and  offer  to  loose  some  of  her  chains  if  the  rest 
might  remain.  To  this  Reason,  who  was  never 
certain  of  victory,  frequently  consented,  but  al- 
ways found  her  concession  destructive,  and  saw 


THE  VISION  OF  THEODORE, 


493 


the  captive  led  away  by  Habit  to  his  former  sla- 
very. Religion  never  submitted  to  treaty,  but  held 
out  her  hand  with  certainty  of  conquest ;  and  if 
the  captive  to  whom  she  gave  it  did  not  quit  his 
hold,  always  led  him  away  in  triumph,  and  placed 
him  in  the  direct  path  to  the  Temple  of  Happi- 
ness, where  Reason  neverfailed  to  congratulate  his 
deliverance,  and  encourage  his  adherence  to  that 
power  to  whose  timely  succour  he  was  indebted 
for  it. 

When  the  traveller  was  again  placed  in  the 
road  of  Happiness,  I  saw  Habit  again  gliding 
before  him,  but  reduced  to  the  stature  of  a  dwarf, 
without  strength  and  without  activity  ;  but  when 
the  Passions  or  Appetites,  which  had  before  se- 
duced him,  made  their  approach,  Habit  would  on 
a  sudden  start  into  size,  and  with  unexpected 
violence  push  him  towards  them.  The  wretch, 
thus  impelled  on  one  side,  and  allured  on  the 
other,  too  frequently  quitted  the  road  of  Happi- 
ness, to  which  after  his  second  deviation  from  it, 
he  rarely  returned:  but  by  a  timely  call  upon  Re- 
ligion, the  force  of  Habit  was  eluded,  her  attacks 
grew  fainter,  and  at  last  her  correspondence  with 
the  enemy  was  entirely  destroyed.  She  then 
began  to  employ  those  restless  faculties  in  com- 
pliance with  the  power  which  she  could  not  over- 
come ;  and  as  she  grew  again  in  stature  and  in 
strength,  cleared  away  the  asperities  of  the  road 
to  Happiness. 

From  this  road  I  could  not  easily  withdraw  my 
attention,  because  all  who  travelled  it  appeared 
cheerful  and  satisfied  ;  and  the  farther  they  pro- 
ceeded, the  greater  appeared  their  alacrity,  and 
the  stronger  their  conviction  of  the  wisdom  of 
their  guide.  Some,  who  had  never  deviated  but 
by  short  excursions,  had  Habit  in  the  middle  of 
their  passage  vigorously  supporting  them,  and 
driving  off  their  Appetites  and  Passions  which 
attempted  to  interrupt  their  progress.  Others, 
who  had  entered  this  road  late,  or  had  long  for- 
saken it,  were  toiling  on  without  her  help  at  least, 
and  commonly  against  her  endeavours.  But  I 
observed,  when  they  approached  to  the  barren 
top,  that  few  were  able  to  proceed  without  some 
support  from  Habit :  and  that  they  whose  Habits 
were  strong,  advanced  towards  the  mists  with 
little  emotion,  and  entered  them  at  last  with  calm- 
ness and  confidence  ;  after  which,  they  were  seen 
only  by  the  eye  of  Religion :  and  though  Reason 
looked  after  them  with  the  most  earnest  curiosity, 
she  could  only  obtain  a  faint  glimpse,  when  her 
mistress  to  enlarge  her  prospect  raised  her  from 
the  ground.  Reason,  however,  discerned  that 
they  were  safe,  but  Religion  saw  that  they  were 
happy. 

"Now,  Theodore,"  said  my  protector,  "  with- 
draw thy  view  from  the  regions  of  obscurity,  and 
see  the  fate  of  those  who,  when  they  were  dis- 
missed by  Education,  would  admit  no  direction 
but  that  of  Reason.  Survey  their  wanderings,  and 
be  wise." 

I  looked  then  upon  the  Road  of  Reason,  which 
was  indeed,  so  far  as  it  reached,  the  same  with 
that  of  Religion,  nor  had  reason  discovered  it  but 
by  her  instruction.  Yet  when  she  had  once  been 
taught  it,  she  clearly  saw  that  it  was  right ;  and 
Pride  had  sometimes  incited  her  to  declare  that 
she  discovered  it  herself,  and  persuaded  her  to 
offer  herself  as  a  guide  to  Religion:  whom  after 
many  vain  experiments  she  found  it  her  highest 
privilege  to  follow.  Reason  was  however  at  last 
M  ell  instructed  in  part  of  the  way,  and  appeared 


to  teach  it  with  some  success  when  her  precepts 
were  not  misrepresented  by  Passion,  or  her  influ- 
ence overborne  by  Appetite.  But  neither  of  these 
enemies  was  she" able  to  resist.  When  Passion 
seized  upon  her  votaries,  she  seldom  attempted 
opposition  ;  she  seemed  indeed  to  contend  with 
more  vigour  against  Appetite,  but  was  generally 
over-wearied  in  the  contest ;  and  if  either  of  her 
opponents  had  confederated  with  Habit,  her  au- 
thority was  wholly  at  an  end.  When  Habit  en- 
deavoured to  captivate  the  votaries  of  Religion, 
she  grew  by  slow  degrees,  and  gave  time  to 
escape ;  but  in  seizing  the  unhappy  followers  of 
Reason,  she  proceeded  as  one  that  had  nothing 
to  fear,  and  enlarged  her  size,  and  doubled  her 
chains  without  intermission,  and  without  reserve. 

Of  those  who  forsook  the  directions  of  Reason, 
some  were  led  aside  by  the  whispers  of  Ambition, 
who  was  perpetually  pointing  to  stately  palaces, 
situated  on  eminences  on  either  side,  recounting 
the  delights  of  affluence,  and  boasting  the  secu- 
rity of  power.  They  were  easily  persuaded  to 
follow  her,  and  Habit  quickly  threw  her  chains 
upon  them  ;  they  were  soon  convinced  of  the  folly 
of  their  choice,  but  few  of  them  attempted  to  re- 
turn. Ambition  led  them  forward  from  precipice 
to  precipice,  where  many  fell,  and  were  seen  no 
more.  Those  that  escaped  were,  after  a  long 
series  of  hazards,  generally  delivered  over  to  Ava- 
rice, and  enlisted  by  her  in  the  service  of  Ty- 
ranny, where  they  continued  to  heap  up  gold  till 
their  patrons  or  their  heirs  pushed  them  headlong 
at  last  into  the  cavern  of  Despair. 

Others  were  enticed  by  Intemperance  to  ram- 
ble in  search  of  those  fruits  that  hung  over  the 
rocks,  and  filled  the  air  with  their  fragrance.  I 
observed,  that  the  Habits  which  hovered  about 
these  soon  grew  to  an  enormous  size,  nor  were 
there  any  who  less  attempted  to  return  to  Rea- 
son, or  sooner  sunk  into  the  gulfs  that  lay  before 
them.  When  these  first  quitted  the  road,  Reason 
looked  after  them  with  a  frown  of  contempt,  but 
had  little  expectations  of  being  able  to  reclaim 
them  ;  for  the  bowl  of  intoxication  was  of  such 
qualities  as  to  make  them  lose  all  regard  but  for 
the  present  moment ;  neither  Hope  nor  Fear 
could  enter  their  retreats :  and  Habit  had  so  abso- 
lute a  power,  that  even  Conscience,  if  Religion 
had  employed  her  in  their  favour,  would  not  have 
been  able  to  force  an  entrance. 

There  were  others  whose  crime  it  was  rather  to 
neglect  Reason  than  to  disobey  her :  and  who 
retreated  from  the  heat  and  tumult  of  the  way, 
not  to  the  bowers  of  Intemperance,  but  to  the 
maze  of  Indolence.  They  had  this  peculiarity  in 
their  condition,  that  they  were  always  in  sight  of 
the  Road  of  Reason,  always  wishing  for  her  pre- 
sence, and  always  resolving  to  return  to-morrow. 
In  these  was  most  eminently  conspicuous  the  sub- 
tlety of  Habit,  who  hung  imperceptible  shackles 
upon  them,  and  was  every  moment  leading  them 
farther  from  the  road,  which  they  always  imagined 
that  they  had  the  power  of  reaching.  They  wan- 
dered on  from  one  double  of  the  labyrinth  to  ano- 
ther, with  the  chains  of  Habit  hanging  secretly 
upon  them,  till,  as  they  advanced,  the  flowers 
grew  paler,  and  the  scents  fainter ;  they  proceeded 
in  their  dreary  march  without  pleasure  in  their 
progress,  yet  without  power  to  return ;  and  had 
this  aggravation  above  all  others,  that  they  were 
criminal  but  not  delighted.  The  drunkard  for  a 
time  laughed  over  his  wine ;  the  ambitious  man 
triumphed  in  the  miscarriage  of  his  rival ;  but  the 


494 


THE  FOUNTAINS. 


captives  of  Indolence  had  neither  superiority  no: 
merriment  Discontent  lowered  in  their  looks 
and  Sadness  hovered  round  their  shades  ;  ye 
they  crawled  on  reluctant  and  gloomy,  till  thei 
arrived  at  the  depth  of  the  recess,  varied  onli 
with  poppies  and  nightshade,  where  the  domi- 
nion of  Indolence  terminates,  and  the  hopeless 
wanderer  is  delivered  up  to  Melancholy  ;  the 
chains  of  Habit  are  riveted  for  ever,  and  Melan 
choly,  having  tortured  her  prisoner  for  a  time 
consigns  him  at  last  to  the  cruelty  of  Despair. 

While  I  was  musing  on  this  miserable  scene 
my  protector  called  out  to  me,  "  Remember 
Theodore,  and  be  wise,  and  let  not  Habit  prevai 
against  thee."  I  started,  and  beheld  myself  sur- 
rounded by  the  rocks  of  Teneriffe  :  the  birds  ol 
light  were  singing  in  the  trees,  and  the  glances  o 
the  morning  darted  upon  me. 


THE  FOUNTAINS : 

A  FAIRY  TALE.* 

Felix  (|iii  potuit  boni 

Fontem  visere  lucidum.  Soethius. 

As  Floretta  was  wandering  in  a  meadow  at  the 
foot  of  Plinlimmon,  she  heard  a  little  bird  cry  in 
such  a  note  as  she  had  never  observed  before,  anc 
looking  round  her,  saw  a  lovely  goldfinch  entan- 
gled by  a  lime-twig,  and  a  hawk  hovering  over 
him,  as  at  the  point  of  seizing  him  in  his  talons. 

Floretta  longed  to  rescue  the  little  bird,  but  was 
afraid  to  encounter  the  hawk,  who  looked  fiercely 
upon  her  without  any  apparent  dread  of  her  ap- 
proach, and  as  she  advanced  seemed  to  increase 
in  bulk,  and  clapped  his  wings  in  token  of  de- 
fiance. Floretta  stood  deliberating  a  few  mo- 
ments, but,  seeing  her  mother  at  no  great  distance, 
took  courage,  and  snatched  the  twig  with  the 
little  bird  upon  it.  When  she  had  disengaged 
him,  she  put  him  in  her  bosom,  and  the  hawk  flew 
away. 

Floretta,  showing  her  bird  to  her  mother,  told 
her  from  what  danger  she  had  rescued  him  :  her 
mother,  after  admiring  its  beauty,  said,  that  he 
would  be  a  very  proper  inhabitant  of  the  little 
gilded  cage,  which  had  hung  empty  since  the  star- 
ling died  for  want  of  water,  and  that  he  should  be 
placed  at  the  chamber  window,  for  it  would  be 
wonderfully  pleasant  to  hear  him  in  the  morning. 

Floretta,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  replied,  that  he 
had  better  have  been  devoured  by  the  hawk  than 
die  for  want  of  water,  and  that  she  would  not 
save  him  from  a  less  evil  to  put  him  in  danger  of 
a  greater  :  she  therefore  took  him  into  her  hand, 
cleaned  his  feathers  from  the  bird-lime,  looked 
upon  him  with  great  tenderness,  and,  having  put 
his  bill  to  her  lips,  dismissed  him  into  the  air. 

He  flew  in  circles  round  her  as  she  went  home, 
and,  perching  on  a  tree  before  the  door,  delighted 
them  a  while  with  such  sweetness  of  song,  that 
her  mother  reproved  her  for  not  putting  him  in 
the  cage.  Floretta  endeavoured  to  look  grave, 
but  silently  approved  her  own  act,  and  wished 
her  mother  more  generosity.  Her  mother  guess- 
ed her  thoughts,  and  told  her,  that  when  she  was 
older  she  would  be  wiser. 

Floretta,  however,  did  not  repent,  but  hoped  to 
hear  her  little  bird  the  next  morning  singing  at 


*  From  Mi»cell.ii.i<>5  in  Pros*  and  Verse.     By    Anna 
Williai-,..     I  ?->•;,  .;[.. 


liberty.  She  awaked  early  and  listened,  but  nn 
goldfinch  could  she  hear.  She  rose,  and  walking 
again  in  the  same  meadow,  went  to  view  the 
bush  where  she  had  seen  the  lime-twig  the  day 
before. 

When  she  entered  the  thicket,  and  was  neai 
the  place  for  which  she  was  looking,  from  behind 
a  blossoming  hawthorn  advanced  a  female  form 
of  very  low  stature,  but  of  elegant  proportion  and 
majestic  air,  arrayed  in  all  the  colours  of  the 
meadow,  and  sparkling  as  she  moved  like  a  dew- 
drop  in  die  sun. 

Floretta  was  too  much  disordered  to  speak  or 
fly,  and  stood  motionless  between  fear  and  plea- 
sure, when  the  little  lady  took  her  by  the  hand. 

"  I  am,"  says  she,  "  one  of  that  order  of  beings 
which  some  call  Fairies,  and  some  Piskies :  we 
have  always  been  known  to  inhabit  the  crags 
and  caverns  of  Plinlimmon.  The  maids  and 
shepherds  when  they  wander  by  moonlight,  have 
often  heard  our  music,  and  sometimes  seen  our 
dances. 

"  I  am  the  chief  of  the  fairies  of  this  region, 
and  am  known  among  them  by  the  name  of  Lady 
Lilinet  of  the  Blue  Rock.  As  I  lived  always  in 
my  own  mountain,  I  had  very  little  knowledge  of 
human  manners,  and  thought  better  of  mankind 
than  other  fairies  found  them  to  deserve  ;  I  there- 
fore often  opposed  the  mischievous  practices  of 
my  sisters,  without  always  inquiring  whether 
they  were  just.  I  extinguished  the  light  that 
was  kindled  to  lead  a  traveller  into  a  marsh,  and 
found  afterwards  that  he  was  hastening  to  cor- 
rupt a  virgin  ;  I  dissipated  a  mist  which  assumed 
the  form  of  a  town,  and  was  raised  to  decoy  a 
monopolizer  of  corn  from  his  way  to  the  next 
market ;  I  removed  a  thorn  artfully  planted  to 
prick  the  foot  of  a  churl  that  was  going  to  hinder 
the  poor  from  following  his  reapers  ;  and  defeat- 
ed so  many  schemes  of  obstruction  and  punish- 
ment, that  I  was  cited  before  the  queen  as  one 
who  favoured  wickedness,  and  opposed  the  exe- 
cution of  fairy  justice. 

"  Having  never  been  accustomed  to  suffer  con- 
trol, and  thinking  myself  disgraced  by  the  neces 
sity  of  defence,  I  so  much  irritated  the  dueen  by 
my  sullenness  and  petulance,  that  in  her  anger 
she  transformed  me  into  a  goldfinch.  'In  this 
'orm,'  says  she,  'I  doom  thee  to  remain  till  some 
luman  being  shall  show  thee  kindness  without 
any  prospect  of  interest.' 

"  I  flew  out  of  her  presence  not  much  dejected ; 
"or  I  did  not  doubt  but  every  reasonable  being 
must  love  that  which,  having  never  offended,  could 
not  be  hated,  and  having  no  power  to  hurt,  could 
not  be  feared. 

"  I  therefore  fluttered  about  the  villages,  and 
endeavoured  to  force  myself  into  notice. 

"Having  heard  that  nature  was  least  corrupted 
among  those  who  had  no  acquaintance  with  ele- 
gance and  splendour,  I  employed  myself  for  five 
'ears  in  hopping  before  the  doors  of  cottages, 
and  often  sat  singing  on  the  thatched  roof:  my 
motions  were  seldom  seen,  or  my  notes  heard  ; 
no  kindness  was  ever  excited,  and  all  the  reward 
of  my  ofncioiisness  was  to  be  aimed  at  with  a 
stone  when  I  stood  within  a  throw. 

"  The  stones  never  hurt  me  for  I  had  still  the 
>ower  of  a  fairy. 

"I  then  betook  myself  to  spacious  and  maff- 
lificent  habitations,  and  sung  in  bowers  by  tfie 
walks  or  on  the  banks  of  fountains. 

In  these  places,  where  novelty  was  recom- 


THE  FOUNTAINS: 


495 


mended  by  satiety,  and  curiosity  excited  by  lei- 
sure, my  form  and  my  voice  were  soon  distin- 
guished, and  I  was  known  by  the  name  of  the 
pretty  goldfinch ;  the  inhabitants  would  walk  out 
to  listen  to  my  music,  and  at  last  it  was  their  prac- 
tice to  court  my  visits  by  scattering  meat  in  my 
common  haunts. 

"  This  was  repeated  till  I  went  about  pecking 
in  full  security,  and  expected  to  regain  my  original 
form,  when  I  observed  two  of  my  most  liberal 
benefactors  silently  advancing  with  a  net  behind 
me.  I  flew  off,  and  fluttering  beside  them  pricked 
the  leg  of  each,  and  left  them  halting  and  groan- 
ing with  the  cramp. 

"I  then  went  to  another  house,  where  for  two 
springs  and  summers  I  entertained  a  splendid 
family  with  such  melody  as  they  had  never  heard 
in  the  woods  before.  The  winter  that  followed 
the  second  summer  was  remarkably  cold,  and 
many  little  birds  perished  in  the  field.  I  laid 
myself  in  the  way  of  one  of  the  ladies  as  be- 
numbed with  cold  and  faint  with  hunger ;  she 
picked  me  up  with  great  joy,  telling  her  com- 
panions that  she  had  found'  the  goldfinch  that 
sung  so  finely  all  summer  in  the  myrtle  hedge, 
that  she  would  lay  him  where  he  should  die,  for 
she  could  not  bear  to  kill  him,  and  would  then 
pick  his  fine  feathers  very  carefully,  and  stick 
them  in  her  muff! 

"  Finding  that  her  fondness  and  her  gratitude 
could  give  way  to  so  slight  an  interest,  I  chilled 
licr  fingers  that  she  could  not  hold  me,  then  flew 
at  her  face,  and  with  my  beak  gave  her  nose  four 
pecks  that  left  four  black  spots  indelible  behind 
Ihem,  and  broke  a  match  by  which  she  would 
have  obtained  the  finest  equipage  in  the  county. 

"  At  length  the  queen  repented  of  her  sentence, 
and  being  unable  to  revoke  it,  assisted  me  to  try 
experiments  upon  man,  to  excite  his  tenderness, 
end  attract  his  regard. 

"  We  made  many  attempts,  in  which  we  were 
always  disappointed.  At  last  she  placed  me  in 
your  way  held  by  a  lime-twig,  and  herself  in  the 
shape  of  a  hawk,  made  the  sliow  of  devouring  me. 
You,  my  dear,  have  rescued  me  from  the  seeming 
danger,  without  desiring  to  detain  me  in  captivity, 
or  seeking  any  other  recompense  than  the  plea- 
sure of  benefiting  a  feeling  creature. 

"  The  queen  is  so  much  pleased  with  your 
kindness,  that  I  am  come,  by  her  permission,  to 
reward  you  with  a  greater  favour,  than  ever  fairy 
bestowed  before. 

"  The  former  gifts  of  fairies,  though  bounties 
in  design,  have  proved  commonly  mischiefs  in  the 
event.  We  have  granted  mortals  to  wish  accord- 
ing to  their  own  discretion,  and  their  discretion 
being  small,  and  their  wishes  irreversible,  they 
havf  rashly  petitioned  for  their  own  destruction. 
But  you,  my  dearest  Floretta,  shall  have,  what 
none  have  ever  before  obtained  from  us,  the 
power  of  indulging  your  wish  and  the  liberty  of 
retracting  it.  Be  bold,  and  follow  me." 

Floretta  was  easily  persuaded  to  accompany 
the  fairy,  who  led  her  through  a  labyrinth  of  crags 
and  shrubs,  to  a  cavern  covered  by  a  thicket  on 
the  side  of  the  mountain. 

"  This  cavern,"  said  she,  "  is  the  court  of  Lili- 
net,  your  friend  ;  in  this  place  you  shall  find  a 
certain  remedy  for  all  real  evil?.'"  Lilinet  then 
went  before  her  through  a  long  subterraneous  pas- 
lage,  where  she  saw  many  beautiful  fairies,  who 
lame  to  gaze  at  the  stranger,  but  who,  from  re- 
verence to  their  mistress,  gave  her  no  disturbance. 


She  heard  from  remp'.e  corners  of  the  gloomy 
cavern,  the  roar  of  winds  and  the  fall  of  waters, 
and  more  than  once  entreated  to  return  ;  but  Li- 
linet, assuring  her  that  she  was  safe,  persuaded 
her  to  proceed,  till  they  came  to  an  arch,  into 
which  the  light  found  its  way  through  a  fissure 
of  the  rock. 

There  Lilinet  seated  herself  and  her  guest  upon 
a  bench  of  agate,  and  pointing  to  two  fountains 
that  bubbled  before  them,  said,  "Now  attend,  my 
dear  Floretta,  and  enjoy  the  gratitude  of  a  fairy. 
Observe  the  two  fountains  that  spring  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  vault,  one  into  a  bason  of  alabaster, 
and  the  other  into  a  bason  of  dark  flint  The 
one  is  called  the  Spring  of  Joy,  the  other  of  Sor- 
row ;  they  rise  from  distant  veins  in  the  rock,  and 
burst  out  in  two  places,  but  after  a  short  course 
unite  their  streams,  and  run  ever  after  in  one  min- 
gled current. 

"By  drinking  of  these  fountains,  which,  though 
shut  up  from  all  other  human  beings,  shall  be 
always  accessible  to  you,  it  will  be  in  your  power 
to  regulate  your  future  life. 

"  When  you  are  drinking  the  water  of  joy  frt>m 
the  alabaster  fountain,  you  may  form  your  wish, 
and  it  shall  be  granted.  As  you  raise  your  wish 
higher,  the  water  will  be  sweeter  and  sweeter  to 
the  taste ;  but  beware  that  you  are  not  tempted  by 
its  increasing  sweetness  to  repeat  your  draughts, 
for  the  ill  effects  of  your  wish  can  only  be  removed 
by  drinking  of  the  spring  of  sorrow  from  the  hason 
of  flint,  which  will  be  bitter  in  the  same  propor- 
tion as  the  water  of  joy  was  sweet.  Now,  my 
Floretta,  make  the  experiment,  and  give  me  the 
first  proof  of  moderate  desires.  Take  the  golden 
cup  that  stands  on  the  margin  of  the  spring  of 
joy,  form  your  wish,  and  drink." 

Floretta  wanted  no  time  to  deliberate  on  the 
subject  of  her  wish  ;  her  first  desire  was  the  in- 
crease of  her  beauty.  She  had  some  dispropor- 
tion of  features.  She  took  the  cup,  and  wished 
to  be  agreeable  ;  the  water  was  sweet,  and  she 
drank  copiously  ;  and  in  the  fountain,  which  was 
clearer  than  crystal,  she  saw  that  her  face  was 
completely  regular. 

She  then  filled  the  cup  again,  and  wished  for 
a  rosy  bloom  upon  her  cheeks :  the  water  was 
sweeter  than  before,  and  the  colour  of  her  cheeks 
was  heightened. 

She  next  wished  for  a  sparkling  eye  :  the  water 
grew  yet  more  pleasant,  and  her  glances  were  like 
the  beams  of  the  sun. 

She  could  not  yet  stop  ;  she  drank  again,  de- 
sired to  be  made  a  perfect  beauty,  and  a  perfect 
beauty  she  became. 

She  had  now  whatever  her  heart  could  wish ; 
and  making  an  humble  reverence  to  Lilinet,  re- 
quested to  be  restored  to  her  own  habitation. 
They  went  back,  and  the  fairies  in  the  way  won- 
dered at  the  change  of  Floretta's  form.  She  came 
home  delighted  to  her  mother,  who,  on  seeing 
the  improvement,  was  yet  more  delighted  than 
herself. 

Her  mother  from  that  time  pushed  her  forw  ard 
into  public  view  :  Floretta  was  at  all  the  resorts 
of  idleness  and  assemblies  of  pleasure  ;  she  was 
fatigued  with  balls,  she  was  cloyed  with  treats, 
she  was  exhausted  by  the  necessity  of  returning 
compliments.  This  life  delighted  her  a  while,  but 
custom  soon  destroyed  its  pleasure.  She  found 
that  the  men  who  courted  her  to-day,  resigned 
her  on  the  morrow  to  other  flatterers,  and  that 
the  women  attacked  her  reputation  by  whispers 


496 


A  FAIRY  TALE. 


and  calumnies,  till,  without  knowing  how  she  had 
offended,  she  was  shunned  as  infamous. 

She  knew  that  her  reputation  was  destroyed  by 
the  envy  of  her  beauty,  and  resolved  to  degrade 
herself  from  the  dangerous  pre-eminence.  She 
went  to  the  bush  where  she  rescued  the  bird,  and 
called  for  Lady  Lilinet.  Immediately  Lilinet  ap- 
peared, and  discovered  by  Floretta's  dejected  look 
that  she  had  drank  too  much  from  the  alabaster 
fountain. 

"  Follow  me,"  she  cried,  "  my  Floretta,  and  be 
wiser  for  the  future." 

They  went  to  the  fountains,  and  Floretta  be- 
gan to  taste  the  waters  of  sorrow,  which  were  so 
bitter  that  she  withdrew  more  than  once  the  cup 
from  her  mouth :  at  last  she  resolutely  drank 
away  the  perfection  of  beauty,  the  sparkling  eye 
and  rosy  bloom,  and  left  herself  only  agreeable. 

She  lived  for  some  time  with  great,  content ;  but 
content  is  seldom  lasting.  She  had  a  desire  in  a 
short  time  again  to  taste  the  waters  of  joy  ;  she 
called  for  the  conduct  of  Lilinet,  and  was  led  to 
the  alabaster  fountain,  where  she  drank,  and 
wished  for  a  faithful  lover. 

After  her  return  she  was  soon  addressed  by  a 
young  man,  whom  she  thought  worthy  of  her  af- 
fection. He  courted,  and  flattered,  and  promised ; 
till  at  last  she  yielded  up  her  heart.  He  then 
applied  to  her  parents  ;  and,  finding  her  fortune 
less  than  he  expected,  contrived  a  quarrel,  and 
deserted  her. 

Exasperated  by  her  disappointment,  she  went 
in  quest  of  Lilinet,  and  expostulated  with  her  for 
the  deceit  which  she  had  practised.  Lilinet  asked 
her  with  a  smile,  for  what  she  had  been  wishing ; 
and  being  told,  made  her  this  reply,  "  You  are 
not,  my  dear,  to  wonder  or  complain :  you  may 
wish  for  yourself,  but  your  wishes  can  have  no 
effect  upon  another.  You  may  become  lovely  by 
the  efficacy  of  the  fountain,  but  that  you  shall  be 
loved  is  by  no  means  a  certain  consequence  ;  for 
you  cannot  confer  upon  another  either  discern- 
ment or  fidelity ;  that  happiness  which  you  must 
derive  from  others,  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  regu- 
late or  bestow." 

Floretta  was  for  some  time  so  dejected  by  this 
limitation  of  the  fountain's  power,  that  she  thought 
it  unworthy  of  another  visit ;  but,  being  on  some 
occasion  thwarted  by  her  mother's  authority,  she 
went  to  Lilinet,  and  drank  at  the  alabaster  foun- 
tain for  a  spirit  to  do  her  own  way. 

Lilinet  saw  that  she  drank  immoderately,  and 
admonished  her  of  her  danger ;  but  spirit  and  her 
own  waif  gave  such  sweetness  to  the  water,  that 
she  could  not  prevail  upon  herself  to  forbear,  till 
Lilinet,  in  pure  compassion,  snatched  the  cup  out 
of  her  hand. 

When  she  came  home  every  thought  was  con- 
tempt, and  every  action  was  rebellion  :  she  had 
drunk  into  herself  a  spirit  to  resist,  but  could  not 
give  her  mother  a  disposition  to  yield  ;  the  old 
lady  asserted  her  right  to  govern  ;  and,  though 
she  was  often  foiled  by  the  impetuosity  of  her 
daughter,  she  Supplied  by  pertinacity  what  she 
wanted  in  violence  :  so  that  the  house  was  in  con- 
tinual tumult  by  the  pranks  of  the  daughter  and 
opposition  of  the  mother. 

In  time,  Floretta  was  convinced  that  spirit  had 
only  made  her  a  capricious  termagant,  and  that 
her  own  ways  ended  in  error,  perplexity,  and  dis- 
grace ;  she  perceived  that  the  vehemence  of  mind, 
which  to  a  man  may  sometimes  procure  awe  and 
obedience,  produce  to  a  woman  nothing  but  de- 


testation ;  she  therefore  went  back,  and  by  a 
large  draught  from  the  flinty  fountain,  though  the 
water  was  very  bitter,  replaced  herself  under  her 
mother's  care,  and  quitted  her  spirit,  and  her 
own  way. 

Floretta's  fortune  was  moderate,  and  her  de- 
sires were  not  larger,  till  her  mother  took  her 
to  spend  a  summer  at  one  of  the  places  which 
wealth  and  idleness  frequent,  under  pretence  of 
drinking  the  waters.  Sne  was  now  no  longer  a 
perfect  beauty,  and  therefore  conversation  in  her 
presence  took  its  course  as  in  other  company, 
opinions  were  freely  told  and  observations  made 
without  reserve.  Here  Floretta  first  learned  the 
importance  of  money.  When  she  saw  a  wo- 
man of  mean  air  and  empty  talk  draw  the  atten- 
tion of  the  place,  she  always  discovered  upon  in- 
quiry that  she  had  so  many  thousands  to  her  for- 
tune. 

She  soon  perceived  that  where  these  golden 
goddesses  appeared,  neither  birth,  nor  elegance, 
nor  civility,  had  any  power  of  attraction,  and 
every  art  of  entertainment  was  devoted  to  them, 
and  that  the  great  and  the  wise  courted  their  re- 
gard. 

The  desire  after  wealth  was  raised  yet  higher 
by  her  mother,  who  was  always  telling  her  how 
much  neglect  she  suffered  for  want  of  fortune, 
and  what  distinctions,  if  she  had  but  a  fortune, 
her  good  qualities  would  obtain.  Her  narrative 
of  the  day  was  always,  that  Floretta  walked  in 
the  morning,  but  was  not  spoken  to  because  she 
had  a  smalt  fortune,  and  that  Floretta  danced  at 
the  ball  better  than  any  of  them,  but  nobody 
minded  her  for  want  of  a  fortune. 

This  want,  in  which  all  other  wants  appeared 
to  be  included,  Floretta  was  resolved  to  endure 
no  longer,  and  came  home  flattering  her  imagina- 
tion in  secret  with  the  riches  which  she  was  now 
about  to  obtain. 

On  the  day  after  her  return  she  walked  out 
alone  to  meet  Lady  Lilinet,  and  went  with  her  to 
the  fountain  :  riches  did  not  taste  so  sweet  as 
either  beauty  or  spirit,  and  therefore  she  was  not 
immoderate  in  her  draught 

When  they  returned  from  the  cavern,  Lilinet 
gave  her  wand  to  a  fairy  that  attended  her,  with 
an  order  to  conduct  Floretta  to  the  Black  Rock. 

The  way  was  not  long,  and  they  soon  came  to 
the  mouth  of  a  mine  in  which  there  was  a  hidden 
treasure,  guarded  by  an  earthly  fairy  deformed  and 
shaggy,  who  opposed  the  entrance  of  Floretta  till 
he  recognised  the  wand  of  the  lady  of  the  Moun- 
tain. Here  Floretta  saw  vast  heaps  of  gold  and 
silver  and  gems,  gathered  and  reposited  in  former 
ages,  and  intrusted  to  the  guard  of  the  fairies  of 
the  earth.  The  little  fairy  delivered  the  orders  of 
her  mistress,  and  the  surly  sentinel  promised  to 
obey  them. 

Floretta,  wearied  with  her  walk,  and  pleased 
with  her  success,  went  home  to  rest,  and  when 
she  waked  in  the  morning,  first  opened  her  eyes 
upon  a  cabinet  of  jewels,  and  looking  into  her 
drawers  and  boxes,  found  them  filled  with  gold. 

Floretta  was  now  as  fine  as  the  finest.  She 
was  the  first  to  adopt  any  expensive  fashion,  to 
subscribe  to  any  pompous  entertainment,  to  en- 
courage any  foreign  artist,  or  engage  in  any  frolic 
of  which  the  cost  was  to  make  the  pleasure. 

She  was  on  a  sudden  the  favourite  of  every 
place.  Report  made  her  wealth  thrice  greater 
than  it  really  was,  and  wherever  she  came,  all 
was  attention,  reverence,  and  obedience.  The 


THE  FOUNTAINS  : 


497 


ladies  who  had  formerly  slighted  her,  or  by  whom 
she  had  been  formerly  caressed,  gratified  her 
pride  by  open  flattery  and  private  murmurs.  She 
sometimes  overheard  them  railing  at  upstarts,  and 
wondering  whence  some  people  came,  or  how 
their  expenses  were  supplied.  This  incited  her 
to  heighten  the  splendour  of  her  dress,  to  in- 
crease the  number  of  her  retinue,  and  to  make 
such  propositions  of  costly  schemes,  that  her  ri- 
vals were  forced  to  desist  from  contest 

But  she  now  began  to  find  that  the  tricks 
which  can  be  played  with  money  will  seldom  bear 
to  be  repeated,  that  admiration  is  a  short-lived 
passion,  and  that  the  pleasure  of  expense  is  gone 
when  wonder  and  envy  are  no  more  excited.  She 
found  that  respect  was  an  empty  form,  and  that 
all  those  who  crowded  round  her  were  drawn  to 
her  by  vanity  or  interest. 

It  was,  however,  pleasant  to  be  able  on  any 
terms  to  elevate  and  to  mortify,  to  raise  hopes 
and  fears  :  and  she  would  still  have  continued 
to  be  rich,  had  not  the  ambition  of  her  mother 
contrived  to  marry  her  to  a  lord,  whom  she  de- 
epised  as  ignorant,  and  abhorred  as  profligate. 
Her  mother  persisted  in  her  importunity ;  and 
Floretta  having  now  lost  the  spirit  of  resistance, 
had  no  other  refuge  than  to  divest  herself  of  her 
fairy  fortune. 

She  implored  the  assistance  of  Lilinet,  who 
praised  her  resolution.  She  drank  cheerfully 
from  the  flinty  fountain,  and  found  the  waters  not 
extremely  bitter.  When  she  returned  she  went 
to  bed,  and  in  the  morning  perceived  that  all  her 
riches  had  been  conveyed  away  she  knew  not 
how,  except  a  few  ornamental  jewels,  which 
Lilinet  had  ordered  to  be  carried  back  as  a  re- 
ward for  her  dignity  of  mind. 

She  was  now  almost  weary  of  visiting  the 
fountain,  and  solaced  herself  with  such  amuse- 
ments as  every  day  happened  to  produce  :  at  last 
there  arose  in  her  imagination  a  strong  desire  to 
become  a  Wit 

The  pleasures  with  which  this  new  character 
appeared  to  teem  were  so  numerous  and  so  great, 
that  she  was  impatient  to  enjoy  them,  and,  rising 
before  the  sun,  hastened  to  the  place  where  she 
knew  that  her  fairy  patroness  was  alwavs  to  be 
found.  Lilinet  was  willing  to  conduct  her,  but 
could  now  scarcely  restrain  her  from  leading  the 
way  but  by  telling  her,  that,  if  she  went  first,  the 
fairies  of  the  cavern  would  refuse  her  passage. 

They  came  in  time  to  the  fountain,  and  Floretta 
took  the  golden  cup  into  her  hand ;  she  filled  it 
and  drank,  and  again  she  filled  it,  for  wit  was 
sweeter  than  riches,  spirit,  or  beauty. 

As  she  returned  she  felt  new  successions  of 
imagery  rise  in  her  mind,  and  whatever  her  memory 
offered  to  her  imagination,  assumed  a  new  form, 
and  connected  itself  with  things  to  which  it  seem- 
ed before  to  have  no  relation.  All  the  appear- 
ances about  her  were  changed,  but  the  novelties 
exhibited  were  commonly  defects.  She  now  saw 
that  almost  every  thing  was  wrong,  without  often 
seeing  how  it  could  be  better  ;  and  frequently  im- 
puted to  the  imperfection  of  art  those  failures 
which  were  caused  by  the  limitation  of  nature. 

Wherever  she  went,  she  breathed  nothing  but 
censure  and  reformation.  If  she  visited  her 
friends,  she  quarrelled  with  the  situation  of  their 
houses,  the  disposition  of  their  gardens,  the  di- 
rection of  their  walks,  and  the  termination  of 
their  views.  It  was  vain  to  show  her  fine  furni- 
ture, for  she  was  alwavs  readv  to  tell  how  it 
3N 


might  be  finer,  or  to  conduct  her  through  spacious 
apartments,  for  her  thoughts  were  full  of  nobler 
fabrics  of  airy  palaces,  and  Hesperian  gardens. 
She  admired  nothing,  and  praised  but  little. 

Her  conversation  was  generally  thought  un- 
civil. If  she  received  flatteries,  she  seldom  re- 
paid them  ;  for  she  set  no  value  upon  vulgar 
praise.  She  could  not  hear  a  long  story  without 
hurrying  the  speaker  on  to  the  conclusion  ;  and 
obstructed  the  mirth  of  her  companions,  for  she 
rarely  took  notice  of  a  good  jest,  and  never 
laughed  except  when  she  was  delighted. 

This  behaviour  made  her  unwelcome  wherever 
she  went ;  nor  did  her  speculation  upon  human 
manners  much  contribute  to  forward  her  recep- 
tion. She  now  saw  the  disproportions  between 
language  and  sentiment,  between  passion  and  ex- 
clamation ;  she  discovered  the  defects  of  every 
action,  and  the  uncertainty  of  every  conclusion  ; 
she  knew  the  malignity  of  friendship,  the  avarice 
of  liberality,  the  anxiety  of  content,  and  the 
cowardice  of  temerity. 

To  see  all  this  was  pleasant,  but  the  greatest 
of  all  pleasures  was  to  show  it  To  laugh  was 
something,  but  it  was  much  more  to  make  others 
laugh.  As  every  deformity  of  character  made  a 
strong  impression  upon  her,  she  could  not  always 
forbear  to  transmit  it  to  others :  as  she  hated 
false  appearances,  she  thought  it  her  duty  to  de- 
tect them,  till  between  wantonness  and  virtue, 
scarce  any  that  she  knew  escaped  without  some 
wounds  by  the  shafts  of  ridicule  ;  not  that  her 
merriment  was  always  the  consequence  of  total 
contempt,  for  she  often  honoured  virtue  where 
she  laughed  at  affectation. 

For  these  practices,  and  who  can  wonder,  the 
cry  was  raised  against  her  from  every  quarter,  and 
to  hunt  her  down  was  generally  determined. 
Every  eye  was  watching  for  a  fault,  and  every 
tongue  was  busy  to  supply  its  share  of  defama- 
tion. With  the  most  unpolluted  purity  of  mind, 
she  was  censured  as  too  free  of  favours,  because 
she  was  not  afraid  to  talk  with  men  :  with  gene- 
rous sensibility  of  every  human  excellence,  she 
was  thought  cold  or  envious,  because  she  could 
not  scatter  praise  with  undistinguished  profusion : 
with  tenderness  that  agonized  at  real  misery,  she 
was  charged  with  delight  in  the  pain  of  others, 
when  she  would  not  condole  with,  those  whom 
she  knew  to  counterfeit  affliction.  She  derided 
false  appearances  of  kindness  and  of  pity,  and 
was  therefore  avoided  as  an  enemy  to  society. 
As  she  seldom  commended  or  censured  but  with 
some  limitations  and  exceptions,  the  world  con- 
demned her  as  indifferent  to  the  good  and  bad ; 
and  because  she  was  often  doubtful  where  others 
were  confident,  she  was  charged  with  laxity  of 
principles,  while  her  days  were  distracted  and  her 
rest  broken  by  niceties  of  honour  and  scruples  of 
morality. 

Report  had  now  made  her  so  formidable  that  all 
flattered  and  all  shunned  her.  If  a  lover  gave  a 
ball  to  his  mistress  and  her  friends,  it  was  stipu- 
lated that  Floretta  should  not  be  invited.  If  she 
entered  a  public  room,  the  ladies  courtsied,  and 
shrunk  away,  for  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
speaking,  but  Floretta  would  find  something  to 
criticise.  If  a  girl  was  more  sprightly  than  her 
aunt,  she  was  threatened  that  in  a  little  time  she 
would  be  like  Floretta.  Visits  were  very  dili- 
gently paid  when  Floretta  was  known  not  to  be 
at  home  ;  and  no  mother  trusted  her  daughter  to 
herself  without  a  caution,  if  she  should  meet 


498 


A  FAIRY  TALE. 


Floretta,  to  leave  the  company  as  soon  as  she 
could. 

With  all  this  Floretta  made  sport  at  first,  but 
in  time  grew  weary  of  general  hostility.  She 
would  have  been  content  with  a  few  friends,  but 
no  friendship  was  durable  :  it  was  the  fashion  to 
desert  her,  and  with  the  fashion  what  fidelity  will 
contend  ?  She  could  have  easily  amused  herself 
in  solitude,  but  that  she  thought  it  mean  to  quit 
the  field  to  treachery  and  folly. 

Persecution  at  length  tired  her  constancy,  and 
she  implored  Lilinet  to  rid  her  of  her  wit :  Lili- 
net  complied,  and  walked  up  the  mountain,  but 
was  often  forced  to  stop  and  wait  for  her  follower. 
When  they  came  to  the  flinty  fountain,  Floretta 
filled  a  small  cup  and  slowly  brought  it  to  her 
lips,  but  the  water  was  insupportably  bitter. 
She  just  tasted  it,  and  dashed  it  to  the  ground, 
diluted  the  bitterness  at  the  fountain  of  alabaster, 
and  resolved  to  keep  her  wit  with  all  its  conse- 
quences. 

Being  now  a  wit  for  life,  she  surveyed  the  va- 
rious conditions  of  mankind  with  such  superiority 
of  sentiment,  that  she  found  few  distinctions  to 
be  envied  or  desired,  and  therefore  did  not  very 
soon  make  another  visit  to  the  fountain.  At 
length  being  alarmed  by  sickness,  she  resolved  to 
drink  length  of  life  from  the  golden  cup.  She 
returned  elated  and  secure,  for  though  the  lon- 
gevity acquired  was  indeterminate,  she  considered 
death  as  far  distant,  and  therefore  suffered  it  not 
to  intrude  upon  her  pleasures. 


But  length  of  life  included  not  perpetual  health. 
She  felt  herself  continually  decaying,  and  saw  tho 
world  fading  about  her.     The  delights  of  her 
early  days  would  delight  no  longer,  and  however 
widely  she  extended  her  view,  no  new  pleasure 
could  be  found  ;  her  friends,  her  enemies,  her  ad- 
mirers, her  rivals,  dropped  one  by  one  into  the 
frave,  and  with  these  who  succeeded  them  she 
ad  neither  community  of  joys  nor  strife  of  com 
petition. 

By  this  time  she  began  to  doubt  whether  old 
age  were  not  dangerous  to  virtue  ;  whether  pain 
would  not  produce  peevishness,  and  peevishness 
impair  benevolence.  She  thought  that  the  spec- 
tacle of  life  might  be  too  long  continued,  and  the 
vices  which  were  often  seen  might  raise  less  ab- 
horrence ;  that  resolution  might  be  sapped  by 
time,  and  let  that  virtue  sink,  which  in  its  firmest 
state  it  had  not  without  difficulty  supported ;  and 
that  it  was  vain  to  delay  me  hour  which  must 
come  at  last,  and  might  come  at  a  time  of  less 
preparation  and  greater  imbecility. 

These  thoughts  led  her  to  Lilinet,  whom  she 
accompanied  to  the  flinty  fountain  ;  where,  after 
a  short  combat  with  herself,  she  drank  the  bitter 
water.  They  walked  back  to  the  favourite  bush 
pensive  and  silent ;  "  And  now,"  said  she,  "  ac- 
cept my  thanks  for  the  last  benefit  that  Floretta 
can  receive."  Lady  Lilinet  dropped  a  tear,  im- 
pressed upon  her  lips  the  final  kiss,  and  resigned 
her,  as  she  resigned  herself,  to  the  course  of  na« 
tuie. 


LETTERS 

BY 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D 

SELECTED  FROM 

THE   COLLECTION  OF  MRS.  PIOZZI,  AND  OTHERS. 


LETTER  I. 
To  MR.  JAMES  ELPHINSTOV. 

Sept.  25th,  1750. 
DEAR  SIR, 

You  have,  as  I  find  by  every  kind  of  evidence, 
lost  an  excellent  mother;  and  I  hope  you  wil 
not  think  me  incapable  of  partaking  of  your 
grief.  I  have  a  mother,  now  eighty-two  years 
of  age,  whom  therefore  I  must  soon  lose,  un- 
less it  please  God  that  she  rather  should  mourn 
for  me.  I  read  the  letters  in  which  you  relate 
your  mother's  death  to  Mrs.  Strahan,  and  think 
I  do  myself  honour,  when  I  tell  you,  that  1 
read  them  with  tears ;  but  tears  are  neither  to 
you,  nor  to  me,  of  any  farther  use,  when  once 
the  tribute  of  nature  has  been  paid.  The  busi- 
ness of  life  summons  us  away  from  useless  grief, 
and  calls  us  to  the  exercise  of  those  virtues,  of 
which  we  are  lamenting  our  deprivation. 

The  greatest  benefit  which  one  friend  can 
confer  upon  another,  is  to  guard,  and  excite,  and 
elevate  his  virtues.  This  your  mother  will  still 
perform,  if  you  diligently  preserve  the  memory 
of  her  life,  and  of  her  death :  a  life,  so  far  as  I 
can  learn,  useful,  wise,  and  innocent;  and  a 
death,  resigned,  peaceful,  and  holy.  I  cannot 
forbear  to  mention,  that  neither  reason  nor  reve- 
lation denies  you  to  hope  that  you  may  increase 
her  happiness  by  obeying  her  precepts  ;  and  that 
she  may,  in  her  present  state,  look  with  pleasure 
upon  every  act  of  virtue  to  which  her  instructions 
or  example  have  contributed.  Whether  this  be 
more  than  a  pleasing  dream,  or  a  just  opinion  of 
separate  spirits,  is,  indeed,  of  no  great  import- 
ance to  us,  when  we  consider  ourselves  as  act- 
ing under  the  eye  of  God:  yet,  surely,  there  is 
something  pleasing  in  the  belief,  that  our  separa* 
tion  from  those,  whom  we  love,  is  merely  cor- 
poreal ;  and  it  may  be  a  great  incitement  to 
virtuous  friendship,  if  it  can  be  made  probable, 
that  that  union,  which  has  received  the  divine 
approbation,  shall  continue  to  eternity. 

There  is  one  expedient,  by  which  you  may, 
in  some  degree,  continue  her  presence.  If  you 
write  down  minutely  what  you  remember  of  her 
from  your  earliest  years,  you  will  read  it  with, 
great  pleasure,  and  receive  from  it  many  hints  of 
soothing  recollection,  when  time  shall  remove 
her  yet  farther  from  you,  and  your  grief  shall  be 
matured  to  veneration.  To  this,  however  pain- 
ful for  the  present,  I  cannot  but  advise  you,  as  to 
a  source  of  comfort  and  satisfaction  in  the  time 
to  come ;  for  all  comfort  and  all  satisfaction  is 
sincerely  wished  you  by, 
Dear  Sir, 
Your  most  obliged,  most  obedient, 

And  most  humble  servant, 
SAM. JOHNSON. 


LETTER  II.— To  MRS.  THKALE. 

London,  Aug.  13tA,  1765. 

MADAM, 

IF  you  have  really  so  good  an  opinion  of  me  as 
you  express,  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  inform 
you  how  unwillingly  I  miss  the  opportunity  of 
coming  to  Brighthelmstone  in  Mr.Thrale's  com- 
pany ;  or,  since  I  cannot  do  what  I  wish  first, 
how  eagerly  I  shall  catch  the  second  degree  of 
pleasure,  by  coming  to  you  and  him,  as  soon  as 
1  can  dismiss  my  work  from  my  hands. 

I  am  afraid  to  make  promises  even  to  myself; 
but  I  hope  that  the  week  after  the  next  will  be 
the  end  of  my  present  business.  When  busi- 
ness is  done,  what  remains  but  pleasure?  and 
where  should  pleasure  be  sought,  but  under 
Mrs.  Thrale's  influence  ? 

Do  not  blame  me  for  a  delay  by  which  I  must 
suffer  so  much,  and  by  which  I  suffer  alone.  If 
you  cannot  think  I  am  good,  pray  think  I  am 
mending,  and  that  in  time  I  may  deserve  to  be, 
dear  Madam,  your,  &c. 


LETTER  HI.— To  THE  SAME. 

Lilchfield,  July  20th,  1767. 

MADAM, 

THOUGH  I  have  been  away  so  much  longer  than 
I  purposed  or  expected,  I  have  found  nothing 
that  withdraws  my  affections  from  the  friends 
whom  I  left  behind,  or  which  makes  me  less 
desirous  of  reposing  at  that  place  which  your 
kindness  and  Mr.  Thrale's  allows  me  to  call  my 
home. 

Miss  Lucy*  is  more  kind  and  civil  than  I 
expected,  and  has  raised  my  esteem  by  many 
excellences  very  noble  and  resplendent,  though 
a  little  discoloured  by  hoary  virginity.  Every 
thing  else  recalls  to  my  remembrance  years,  in 
which  I  proposed  what,  I  am  afraid,  I  have  not 
ione,  and  promised  myself  pleasure  which  I 
have  not  found.  But  complaint  can  be  of  no 
use ;  and  why  then  should  I  depress  your  hopes 
jy  my  lamentations  ?  I  suppose  it  is  the  condi- 
:ion  of  humanity  to  design  what  never  will  be 
done,  and  to  hope  what  never  will  be  obtained. 
But  among  the  vain  hopes,  let  me  not  number 
:he  hope  which  I  have,  of  being  long,  dear 
Madam,  your,  &c. 


LETTER  IV.— To  THE  SAME. 

Lilchfield,  Jlugust  Uth,  1769. 
MADAM, 

'.  SET  out  oti  Thursday  morning,  and  found  my 
companion,  to  whom  I  was  very  much  a  stranger, 


*  Miss  Lucy  Porter,  daughter  to  Dr.  Johnson's  wife 
by  a  former  husband. 


500 


LETTERS. 


more  agreeable  than  I  expected.  We  went 
cheerfully  forward,  and  passed  the  night  at 
Coventry.  We  came  in  late,  and  went  out  early ; 
and  therefore  I  did  not  send  for  my  cousin  Tom; 
but  I  des:gn  to  make  him  some  amends  for  the 
omission. 

Next  day  we  came  early  to  Lucy,  who  was.  I 
believe,  glad  to  see  us.  She  had  saved  her  best 
gooseberries  upon  the  tree  for  me ;  and,  as 
Steele  says,  "  I  was  neither  too  proud  nor  too 
wise"  to  gather  them.  I  have  rambled  a  very 
little  inter  fontes  et  fiumina  no/a,  but  I  am  not 
yet  well.  They  have  cut  down  the  trees  in 
George-Lane.  Evelyn,  in  his  book  of  Forest 
Trees,  tells  us  of  wicked  men  that  cut  down 
trees,  and  never  prospered  afterwards ;  yet 
nothing  has  deterred  these  audacious  aldermen 
from  violating  the  Hamadryads  of  George-Lane. 
As  an  impartial  traveller,  I  must  however  tell, 
that,  in  Stow-Street,  where  I  left  a  draw-well, 
I  have  found  a  pump,  but  the  lading-well  in  this 
ill-fated  George-Lane  lies  shamefully  neglected. 

I  am  going  to-day,  or  to-morrow,  to  Ash- 
bourne  ;  but  I  am  at  a  loss  how  I  shall  get  back 
in  time  to  London.  Here  are  only  chance 
coaches,  so  that  there  is  no  certainty  of  a  place. 
If  I  do  not  come,  let  it  not  hinder  your  jour- 
ney. I  can  be  but  a  few  days  behind  you ;  and 
I  will  follow  in  the  Brighthelmstone  coach.  But 
I  hope  to  come. 

I  took  care  to  tell  Miss  Porter,  that  I  have 

fot  another  Lucy.     I  hope  she  is  well.    Tell 
Irs.  Salusbury,  that  I  beg  her  stay  at  Strea- 
tham,  for  little  Lucy's  sake.     I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  V. — To  THE  SAME. 

Litchfield,  July  nth,  1770. 

MADAM, 

SINCE  my  last  letter,  nothing  extraordinary  has 
happened.  Rheumatism,  which  has  been  very 
troublesome,  is  grown  better.  I  have  not  yet 
seen  Dr.  Taylor,  and  July  runs  fast  away.  I 
shall  not  have  much  time  for  him,  if  he  delays 
much  longer  to  come  or  send.  Mr.  Green,  the 
apothecary,  has  found  a  book,  which  tells  who 
paid  levies  in  our  parish,  and  how  much  they 
paid,  above  a  hundred  years  ago.  Do  you  not 
think  we  study  this  book  hard  ?  Nothing  is 
like  going  to  the  bottom  of  things.  Many  fami- 
lies that  paid  the  parish-rates  are  now  extinct, 
like  the  race  of  Hercules.  Pulvis  et  umbra  su- 
mus.  What  is  nearest  us  touches  us  most.  The 
passions  rise  higher  at  domestic  than  at  imperial 
tragedies.  I  am  not  wholly  unaffected  by  the 
revolutions  of  Sadler-Street ;  nor  can  forbear  to 
mourn  a  little  when  old  names  vanish  away,  and 
new  come  into  their  place. 

Do  not  imagine,  Madam,  that  I  wrote  this  let- 
ter for  the  sake  of  these  philosophical  medita- 
tions ;  for  when  I  began  it,  I  had  neither  Mr. 
Green,  nor  his  book,  in  my  thoughts ;  but  was 
resolved  to  write,  and  did  not  know  what  I  had 
to  send,  but  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Salusbury,  and 
Mr.  Thrale,  and  Harry,  and  the  Misses.  I  am, 
dearest  Madam,  your,  &c. 


LETTER  VI.— To  THE  SAME. 

Ashbourne,  July  23d,  1770. 
DEAREST  MADAM, 

THERE  had  not  been  so  long  an  interval  between 
my  two  last  letters,  but  that  when  I  came  hither 


I  did  not  at  first  understand  the  hours  of  the 
post. 

I  have  seen  the  great  bull ;  and  very  great  he 
is.  I  have  seen  likewise  his  heir  apparent,  who 
promises  to  inherit  all  the  bulk  and  all  the  vir- 
tues of  his  sire.  I  have  seen  the  man  who  offered 
a  hundred  guineas  for  the  young  bull,  while  he 
was  yet  little  better  than  a  calf.  Matlock,  I  am 
afraid,  I  shall  not  see,  but  I  purpose  to  see  Dove- 
dale  ,  and,  after  all  this  seeing,  I  hope  to  see 
you.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  VII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Jlshbourne,  July  3d,  1771 
DEAR  MADAM, 

LAST  Saturday  I  came  to  Ashbourne;  the  dan- 
gers or  the  pleasures  of  the  journey  I  have  at 
present  no  disposition  to  recount ;  else  might  I 
paint  the  beauties  of  my  native  plains ;  might  I 
tell  of  the  "smiles  of  nature  and  the  charms  of 
art;"  else  might  I  relate  how  I  crossed  the 
Staffordshire  canal,  one  of  the  great  efforts  of 
human  labour,  and  human  contrivance ;  which, 
from  the  bridge  on  which  I  viewed  it,  passed 
away  on  either  side,  and  loses  itself  in  distant 
regions,  uniting  waters  that  nature  had  divided, 
and  dividing  lands  which  nature  had  united.  1 
might  tell  how  these  reflections  fermented  in 
my  mind  till  the  chaise  stopped  at  Ashbourne, 
at  Ashbourne  in  the  Peak.  Let  not  the  barren 
name  of  the  Peak  terrify  you ;  I  have  never 
wanted  strawberries  and  cream.  The  great 
bull  has  no  disease  but  age.  I  hope  in  time  to 
be  like  the  great  bull :  and  hope  you  will  be  like 
him  too  hundred  years  hence. 

I  am,  &.c 


LETTER  VIII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Ashbourne,  July  Wth,  1771 

DEAREST  MADAM, 

I  AM  obliged  to  my  friend  Harry  for  his  remem- 
brance ;  but  think  it  a  little  hard  that  I  hear 
nothing  from  Miss. 

There  has  been  a  man  here  to-day  to  take  a 
farm.  After  some  talk  he  went  to  see  the  bull, 
and  said  that  he  had  seen  a  bigger.  Do  you. 
think  he  is  likely  to  get  the  farm  ? 

Toujours  strawberries  and  cream. 

Dr.  Taylor  is  much  better,  and  my  rheuma- 
tism is  less  painful.  Let  me  hear  in  return  as 
much  good  of  you  and  Mrs.  Salusbury.  You 
despise  the  Dog  and  Duck ;  things  that  are  at 
hand  are  always  slighted.  I  remember  that  Dr. 
Grevil,  of  Gloucester,  sent  for  that  water  when 
his  wife  was  in  the  same  danger ;  but  he  lived 
near  Malvern,  and  you  live  near  the  Dog  and 
Duck.  Thus,  in  difficult  cases,  we  naturally 
trust  most  what  we  least  know. 

Why  Bormefield,  supposing  that  a  lotion  can 
do  good,  should  despise  laurel-water  in  compa- 
rison with  his  own  receipt,  I  do  not  see ;  and  see 
still  less  why  he  should  laugh  at  that  which 
Wall  thinks  efficacious.  I  am  afraid  philosophy 
will  not  warrant  much  hope  in  a  lotion. 

Be  pleased  to  make  my  compliments  from 
Mrs.  Salusbury  to  Susy. 

I  am,  &c. 


LETTERS. 


601 


LETTER  IX.— To  THE  SAME. 

October  3lst,  1772. 

MADAM, 

THOUGH  I  am  just  informed,  that,  by  some  acci- 
dental negligence,  the  letter  which  I  wrote  on 
Thursday  was  not  given  to  the  post,  yet  I  can- 
not refuse  myself  the  gratification  of  writing 
again  to  my  mistress ;  not  that  I  have  any  thing 
to  tell,  but  that  by  showing  how  much  I  r  01 
employed  upon  you,  I  hope  to  keep  you  from 
forgetting  me. 

Doctor  Taylor  asked  me  this  morning  on 
what  1  was  thinking?  and  I  was  thinking  on 
Lucy.  I  hope  Lucy  is  a  good  girl.  But  she 
cannot  yet  be  so  good  as  dueeney.  I  have  got 
nothing  yet  for  dueeney's  cabinet 

I  hope  dear  Mrs.  Salusbury  grows  no  worse. 
.(  wish  any  thing  could  be  found  that  would 
make  her  better.  You  must  remember  her 
admonition,  and  bustle  in  the  brewhouse.  When 
I  come,  you  may  expect  to  have  your  hands  full 
with  all  of  us. 

Our  bulls  and  cows  are  all  well ;  but  we  yet 
hate  the  man  that  had  seen  a  bigger  bull.  Our 
deer  have  died  ;  but  many  are  left.  Our  water- 
fall at  the  garden  makes  a  great  roaring  this  wet 
weather. 

And  so  no  more  at  present  from,  Madam, 
your,  &c. 


LETTER  X. — To  THE  SAME. 

Nov.  23d,  1772. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

I  AM  sorry  that  none  of  your  letters  bring  better 
ne\vs  of  the  poor  dear  lady.  I  hope  her  pain  is 
not  great  To  have  a  disease  confessedly  incur- 
able and  apparently  mortal,  is  a  very  heavy 
affliction  ;  and  it  is  still  more  grievous  when 
pain  is  added  to  despair. 

Every  thing  else  in  your  letter  pleased  me 
very  well,  except  that  when  I  come  I  entreat  I 
may  not  be  flattered,  as  your  letters  flatter  me. 
You  have  read  of  heroes  and  princes  ruined  by 
flattery,  and  I  question  if  any  of  them  had  a 
flatterer  so  dangerous  as  you.  Pray  keep  strictly 
to  your  character  of  governess. 

I  cannot  yet  get  well ;  my  nights  are  flatulent 
and  unquiet,  but  my  days  are  tolerably  easy, 
and  Taylor  says  that  I  look  much  better  than 
when  I  came  hither.  You  will  see  when  I  come, 
and  I  can  take  your  word. 

Our  house  affords  no  revolutions.  The  great 
bull  is  well.  But  I  write  not  merely  to  think 
on  you,  for  I  do  that  without  writing,  but  to 
keep  you  a  little  thinking  on  me.  I  perceive 
that  I  have  taken  a  broken  piece  of  paper,  but 
that  is  not  the  greatest  fault  that  you  must  for- 
give in,  Madam,  your,  &c. 


LETTER  XL— To  THE  SAME. 

Nov.  yilh,  1772. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

IF  you  are  so  kind  as  to  write  to  me  on  Satur- 
day, the  day  on  which  you  will  receive  this,  I 
shall  have  it  before  I  leave  Ashbourne.  I  am 
to  go  to  Litchfield  on  Wednesday,  and  purpose 
to  find  my  way  to  London  through  Birmingham 
and  Oxford. 


I  was  yesterday  at  Chatsworth.  It  is  a  verj 
fine  house.  I  wish  you  had  been  with  me  to 
see  it ;  for  then,  as  we  are  apt  to  want  matter  of 
talk,  we  should  have  gained  something  new  to 
talk  on.  They  complimented  me  with  playing 
the  fountain,  and  opening  the  cascade.  But  I 
am  of  my  friend's  opinion,  that  when  one  has 
seen  the  ocean,  cascades  a  e  but  little  things. 

I  am  in  hope  of  a  letter  to-day  from  you  or 
Glueeney,  but  the  post  has  made  some  blunder, 
and  the  packet  is  not  yet  distributed.  I  wish 
it  may  bring  me  a  little  good  of  you  all.  I 
am,  &c. 


LETTER  XII. — To  THE  SAME. 

Tuesday,  Jan.  26rA,  1773 
MADAM, 

THE  inequalities  of  human  life  have  always 
employed  the  meditation  of  deep  thinkers,  and  1 
cannot  forbear  to  reflect  on  the  difference  be- 
tween your  condition  and  my  own.  You  liva 
upon  mock-turtle,  and  stewed  rumps  of  beef; 
I  dined  yesterday  upon  crumpets.  You  sit 
with  parish  officers,  caressing  and  caressed,  the 
idol  of  the  table,  and  the  wonder  of  the  day.  I 
pine  in  the  solitude  of  sickness,  not  bad  enough 
to  be  pitied,  and  not  well  enough  to  be  endured. 
You  sleep  away  the  night,  and  laugh  or  scold 
away  the  day.  I  cough  and  grumble,  and 
grumble  and  cough.  Last  night  was  very 
tedious,  and  this  day  makes  no  promises  of  much 
ease.  However,  I  have  this  day  put  on  my 
shoe,  and  hope  that  gout  is  gone.  I  shall  have 
only  the  cough  to  contend  with,  and  I  doubt 
whether  I  shall  get  rid  of  that  without  change 
of  place.  I  caught  cold  in  the  coach  as  I  went 
away,  and  am  disordered  by  very  little  things. 
Is  it  accident  or  age  ?  I  am,  dearest  Madam,  &c. 


LETTER  XIII.— To  THE  SAME. 

March  nth,  1773. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

To  tell  you  that  1  am  sorry  both  for  the  poor 
lady  and  for  you  is  useless.  I  cannot  help  either 
of  you.  The  weakness  of  mind  is  perhaps  only 
a  casual  interruption  or  intermission  of  the  atten- 
tion, such  as  we  all  suffer  when  some  weighty 
care  or  urgent  calamity  has  possession  of  the 
mind.  She  will  compose  herself.  She  is  unwil- 
ling to  die,  and  the  first  conviction  of  approach- 
ing death  raised  great  perturbation.  I  think  she 
has  but  very  lately  thought  death  close  at  hand 
She  will  compose  herself  to  do  that  as  well  aa 
she  can,  which  must  at  last  be  done.  May  she 
not  want  the  divine  assistance ! 

You,  Madam,  will  have  a  great  loss ;  a  greater 
than  is  common  in  the  loss  of  a  parent.  Fill 
your  mind  with  hope  of  her  happiness,  and 
turn  your  thoughts  first  to  Him  who  gives  and 
takes  away,  in  whose  presence  the  living  and 
dead  are  standing  together.  Then  remember, 
that  when  this  mournful  duty  is  paid,  others 
yet  remain  of  equal  obligation,  and,  we  may 
hope,  of  less  painful  performance.  Grief  is  a 
species  of  idleness,  and  the  necessity  of  atten- 
tion to  the  present  preserves  us,  by  the  merciful 
disposition  of  Providence,  from  being  lacerated 


602 


LETTERS. 


and  devoured  by  sorrow  for  the  past.  You 
must  think  on  your  husband  and  your  children, 
and  do  what  this  dear  lady  has  done  for  you. 

Not  to  corne  to  town  while  the  great  struggle 
continues  is  undoubtedly  well  resolved.  But  do 
not  harass  yourself  into  danger;  you  owe  the 
care  of  your  health  to  all  that  love  you,  at  least 
to  all  whom  it  is  your  duty  to  love.  You 
cannot  give  such  a  mother  too  much,  if  you  do 
not  give  her  what  belongs  to  another.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XIV.— To  THE  SAME. 

April  ytlh,  1773. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

HOPE  is  more  pleasing  than  fear,  but  not  less 
fallacious ;  you  know,  when  you  do  not  try  to 
deceive  yourself,  that  the  disease  which  at  last  is 
to  destroy,  must  be  gradually  growing  worse, 
and  that  it  is  vain  to  wish  for  more  than  that 
the  descent  to  death  may  be  slow  and  easy.  In 
this  wish  I  join  with  you,  and  hope  it  will  be 
granted.  Dear,  dear  lady!  whenever  she  is  lost 
she  will  be  missed,  and  whenever  she  is  remem- 
bered she  will  be  lamented.  Is  it  a  good  or  an 
evil  to  me  that  she  now  loves  me  ?  It  is  surely 
a  good ;  for  you  will  love  me  better,  and  we  shall 
have  a  new  principle  of  concord  ;  and  I  shall  be 
happier  with  honest  sorrow,  than  with  sullen 
indifference :  and  far  happier  still  than  counter- 
feited sympathy. 

I  am  reasoning  upon  a  principle  very  far  from 
certain,  a  confidence  of  survivance.  You  or  I, 
or  both,  may  be  called  into  the  presence  of  the 
Supreme  Judge  be  ore  her.  I  have  lived  a  life 
of  which  I  do  not  like  the  review.  Surely  I  shall 
in  time  live  better. 

I  sat  down  with  an  intention  to  write  high 
compliments ;  but  my  thoughts  have  taken 
another  course,  and  some  other  time  must  now 
serve  to  tell  you  with  what  other  emotions,  bene- 
volence, and  fidelity,  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XV.— To  THE  SAME. 

May  Vlth,  1773. 
MADAM, 

NEVER  imagine  that  your  letters  are  long ;  they 
are  always  too  short  for  my  curiosity.  I  do  not 
know  that  I  was  ever  content  with  a  single 
perusal. 

Of  dear  Mrs.  Salusbury  I  never  expect  much 
better  news  than  you  send  me;  tie  pis  en  pis  is 
the  natural  and  certain  course  of  her  dreadful 
malady.  I  am  content  when  it  leaves  her  ease 
enough  foi  the  exercise  of  her  mind. 

Why  should  Mr.  *****  suppose  that  what 
I  took  the  liberty  of  suggesting  was  concerted 
with  you?  He  does  not  know  how  much  I 
revolve  his  affairs,  and  how  honestly  I  desire  his 
prosperity.  I  hope  he  has  let  the  hint  take  some 
hold  of  his  mind. 

Your  declaration  to  Miss  *****  js  more 
general  than  my  opinions  allow.  I  think  an 
unlimited  promise  of  acting  by  the  opinion  of 
another  so  wrong,  that  nothing,  or  hardly  any 
thing,  can  make  it  right.  All  unnecessary  vows 
are  folly,  because  they  suppose  a  prescience  of 
the  future  which  has  not  been  given  us.  They 
arc,  I  think,  a  crime,  because  they  resign  that 


life  to  chance  which  God  has  given  us  to  be 
regulated  by  reason  ;  and  superinduce  a  kind  of 
fatality,  from  which  it  is  the  great  privilege  of 
our  nature  to  be  free.  Unlimited  obedience  is 
due  only  to  the  universal  Father  of  Heaven  and 
Earth.  My  parents  may  be  mad  and  foolish ; 
may  be  wicked  and  malicious,  may  be  erro- 
neously religious,  or  absurdly  scrupulous.  I  am 
not  bound  to  compliance  with  mandates  either 
positive  or  negative,  which  either  religion  con- 
demns, or  reason  rejects.  There  wanders  about 
the  world  a  wild  notion,  which  extends  over 
marriage  more  than  over  any  other  transaction. 
If  Miss  *  *  *  *  followed  a  tra'de,  would  it  be  said 
that  she  was  bound  in  conscience  to  give  or  refuse 
credit  at  her  father's  choice  ?  And  is  not  mar- 
riage a  thing  in  which  she  is  more  interested,  and 
has  therefore  more  right  of  choice?  When  I  may 
suffer  for  my  own  crimes,  when  I  may  be  sued 
for  my  own  debts,  I  may  judge  by  parity  of  rea- 
son for  my  own  happiness.  The  parent's  moral 
right  can  arise  only  from  his  kindness,  and  his 
civil  right  only  from  his  money. 

Conscience  cannot  dictate  obedience  to  the 
wicked,  or  compliance  with  the  foolish  ;  and  of 
interest  mere  prudence  is  the  judge. 

If  the  daughter  is  bound  without  a  promise, 
she  promises  nothing  ;  and  if  she  is  not  bound, 
she  promises  too  much. 

What  is  meant  by  tying  up  money  in  trade  I 
do  not  understand.  No  money  is  so  little  tied 
as  that  which  is  employed  in  trade.  Mr.  *  *  *  * 
perhaps  only  means,  that  in  consideration  of 
money  to  be  advanced,  he  will  oblige  his  son  to 
be  a  trader.  This  is  reasonable  enough.  Upon 
ten  thousand  pounds  diligently  occupied,  they 
may  live  in  great  plenty  and  splendour,  without 
the  mischiefs  of  idleness. 

I  can  write  a  long  letter  as  well  as  my  mis- 
tress; and  shall  be  glad  that  my  long  letters 
may  be  as  welcome  as  hers. 

My  nights  are  grown  again  very  uneasy  and 
troublesome.  I  know  not  that  the  country  will 
mend  them;  but  I  hope  your  company  will 
mend  my  days.  Though  I  cannot  now  expect 
much  attention,  and  would  not  wish  for  more 
than  can  be  spared  from  the  poor  dear  lady,  yet 
I  shall  see  you  and  hear  you  every  now  and 
then;  and  to  see  and  hear  you,  is  always  to  hear 
wit,  and  to  see  virtue. 

I  shall,  I  hope,  see  you  to-morrow,  and  a 
little  on  the  two  next  days ;  and  with  that  little 
I  must  for  the  present  try  to  be  contented.  I 
am,  &c. 


LETTER  XVI.— To  THE  SAME. 

August  I2tfi,  1773. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

WE  left  London  on  Friday  the  6th,  not  very 
early,  and  travelled  without  any  memorable  acci- 
dent through  a  country  which  I  had  seen  before. 
In  the  evening  I  was  not  well,  and  was  forced  to 
stop  at  Stilton,  one  stage  short  of  Stamford, 
where  we  intended  to  have  lodged. 

On  the  7th  we  passed  through  Stamford  and 
Grantham,  and  dined  at  Newark,  where  I  had 
only  time  toob  serve  that  the  market-place  was 
uncommonly  spacious  and  neat.  In  London 
we  should  call  it  a  square,  though  the  sides  wero 
neither  straight  nor  parallel.  We  came,  at  night, 


LETTERS. 


503 


to  Doncaster,  and  went  to  church  in  the  morn- 
ing, where  Chambers  found  the  monument  of 
Robrrt  of  Doncaster,  who  says  on  his  stone 
something  like  this ; — What  I  gave,  that  I  have ; 
what  I  spent,  that  I  had  ;  what  I  left,  that  I  lost. — 
So  saith  Robert  of  Doncaster,  who  reigned  in  the 
world  sixty-seven  years,  and  all  that  time  lived 
not  one.  Here  we  were  invited  to  dinner,  and 
therefore  made  no  great  haste  away. 

We  reached  York,  however,  that  night ;  I 
was  much  disordered  with  old  complaints.  Next 
morning  we  saw  the  Minster,  an  edifice  of  lofti- 
ness and  elegance  equal  to  the  highest  hopes  of 
architecture.  I  remember  nothing  but  the  dome 
of  St.  Paul's  that  can  be  compared  with  the 
middle  walk.  The  Chapter-house  is  a  circular 
building,  very  stately,  but  I  think  excelled  by  the 
Chapter-house  of  Lincoln. 

I  then  went  to  see  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey, 
which  are  almost  vanished,  and  I  remember 
nothing  of  them  distinct. 

The  next  visit  was  to  the  jail,  which  they  call 
the  castle ;  a  fabric  built  lately,  such  is  terres- 
trial mutability,  out  of  the  materials  of  the  ruined 
abbey.  The  under  jailer  was  very  officious  to 
show  his  fetters,  in  which  there  was  no  con- 
trivance. The  head  jailer  came  in,  and  seeing 
me  look,  I  suppose,  fatigued,  offered  me  wine, 
and  when  I  went  away,  would  not  suffer  his 
servant  to  take  money.  The  jail  is  accounted 
the  best  in  the  kingdom,  and  you  find  the  jailer 
deserving  of  his  dignity. 

We  dined  at  York,  and  went  on  to  Northal- 
lerton,  a  place  of  which  I  know  nothing,  but 
that  it  afforded  us  a  lodging  on  Monday  night, 
and  about  two  hundred  and  seventy  years  ago 
gave  birth  to  Roger  Ascham. 

Xext  morning  we  changed  our  horses  at 
Darlington,  where  Mr.  Cornelius  Harrison,  a 
cousin-german  of  mine,  was  perpetual  curate. 
He  was  the  only  one  of  my  relations  who  ever 
rose  in  fortune  above  penury,  or  in  character 
above  neglect. 

The  church  is  built  crosswise,  with  a  fine 
spire,  and  might  invite  a  traveller  to  survey  it  ; 
but  I  perhaps  wanted  vigour,  and  thought  I 
wanted  time. 

The  next  stage  brought  us  to  Durham,  a  place 
of  which  Mr.  Thrale  bade  me  take  particular 
notice.  The  bishop's  palace  has  the  appearance 
of  an  old  feudal  castle,  built  upon  an  eminence, 
and  looking  down  upon  the  river,  upon  which 
was  formerly  thrown  a  drawbridge,  as  1  suppose, 
to  be  raised  at  night  lest  the  Scots  should  pass  it 

The  cathedral  has  a  massiness  and  solidity 
such  as  I  have  seen  in  no  other  place ;  it  rather 
awes  than  pleases,  as  it  strikes  with  a  kind  of 
gigantic  dignity,  and  aspires  to  no  other  praise 
than  that  of  rocky  solidity  and  indeterminate 
duration.  I  had  none  of  my  friends  resident, 
and  therefore  saw  but  little.  The  library  is 
mean  and  scanty. 

At  Durham,  beside  all  expectation,  I  met  an 
old  friend :  Miss  Fordyce  is  married  there  to  a 
physician.  We  met,  I  think,  with  honest  kind- 
ness on  both  sides.  I  thought  her  much  decayed, 
and  having  since  heard  that  the  banker  had 
involved  her  husband  in  his  extensive  ruin,  I 
cannot  forbear  to  think  that  I  saw  in  her  with- 
ered features  more  impression  of  sorrow  than  of 
time-  • 

Qua  terra  patet,  sera  regnat  Erinnys. 


He  that  wanders  about  the  world  sees  new 
forms  of  human  misery,  and  if  he  chances  to 
meet  an  old  friend,  meets  a  face  darkened  with 
troubles. 

On  Tuesday  night  we  came  hither ;  yesterday 
I  to§k  some  care  of  myself,  and  to-day  I  am 
quite  polite.  I  have  been  taking  a  view  of  all 
that  could  be  shown  me,  and  find  that  all  very 
near  to  nothing.  You  have  often  heard  me 
complain  of  finding  myself  disappointed  by 
books  of  travels ;  I  am  afraid  travel  itself  will 
end  likewise  in  disappointment.  One  town, 
one  country,  is  very  like  another:  civilized 
nations  have  the  same  customs,  and  barbarous 
nations  have  the  same  nature  :  there  are  indeed 
minute  discriminations  both  of  places  and  of 
manners,  which  perhaps  are  not  wanting  of 
curiosity,  but  which  a  traveller  seldom  stayslong 
enough  to  investigate  and  compare.  The  dull 
utterly  neglect  them ;  the  acute  see  a  little,  and 
supply  the  rest  with  fancy  and  conjecture. 

I  shall  set  out  again  to-morrow;  but  I  shall 
not,  I  am  afraid,  see  Alnwick,  for  Dr.  Percy  is 
not  there.  I  hope  to  lodge  to-morrow  night  at 
Berwick,  and  the  next  at  Edinburgh,  where  I 
shall  direct  Mr.  Drummond,  bookseller,  at 
Ossian's  head,  to  take  care  of  my  letters. 

I  hope  the  little  dears  are  all  well,  and  that 
my  dear  master  and  mistress  may  go  some- 
whither; but  wherever  you  go  do  not  forget, 
Madam,  your  most  humble  servant 

I  am  pretty  well. 

August  lath. 

Thus  far  I  had  written  at  Newcastle.  I  forgot 
to  send  it.  I  am  now  at  Edinburgh  ;  and  have 
been  this  day  running  about  I  run  pretty  well. 


LETTER  XVII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Edinburgh,  Aug.  nth,  1773. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

ON  the  13th  I  left  Newcastle,  and  in  the  after- 
noon came  to  Alnwick,  where  we  were  treated 
with  great  civility  by  the  Duke:  I  went  through 
the  apartments,  walked  on  the  wall,  and  climbed 
the  towers.  That  night  we  lay  at  Belford,  and 
on  the  next  night  came  to  Edinburgh.  On 
Sunday  ( 1 5th)  I  went  to  the  English  chapel. 
After  dinner  Dr.  Robertson  came  in,  and  pro- 
mised to  show  me  the  place.  On  Monday  I 
saw  their  public  buildings :  the  cathedral,  which 
I  told  Robertson  I  wished  to  see  because  it  had 
once  been  a  church,  the  courts  of  justice,  the 
parliament  house,  the  advocates'  library,  the 
repository  of  records,  the  college  and  its  library, 
and  the  palace,  particularly  the  old  tower  where 
the  king  of  Scotland  seized  David  Rizzio  in 
the  queen's  presence.  Most  of  their  buildings 
are  very  mean ;  and  the  whole  town  bears  some 
resemblance  to  the  old  part  of  Birmingham. 

Boswell  has  very  handsome  and  spacious 
rooms ;  level  with  the  ground  on  one  side  of  the 
house,  and  on  the  other  four  stories  high. 

At  dinner  on  Monday  were  the  Dutchess  of 
Douglas,  an  old  lady,  who  talks  broad  Scotch 
with  a  paralytic  voice,  and  is  scarcely  under- 
stood by  her  own  countrymen ;  the  Lord  Chief 
Baron,  Sir  Adolphus  Oughton,  and  many  more. 
At  supper  there  was  such  a  conflux  of  company 
that  I  could  scarcely  support  the  tumult.  I  have 


504 


LETTERS. 


never  been  well  in  the  whole  journey,  and  am 
very  easily  disordered. 

This  morning  I  saw  at  breakfast  Dr.  Black- 
lock,  the  blind  poet,  who  does  not  remember  to 
have  seen  light,  and  is  read  to,  by  a  poor  scholar, 
in  Latin,  Greek,  and  French.  He  was  originally 
a  poor  scholar  himself.  I  looked  on  him  with 
reverence.  To-morrow  our  journey  begins;  I 
know  not  when  I  shall  write  again.  I  am  but 
poorly.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XVIII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Bamff,  Jiug.  25  th,  1773. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

IT  has  so  happened  that  though  I  am  perpetually 
thinking  on  you,  I  could  seldom  find  opportu- 
nity to  write ;  I  have  in  fourteen  days  sent  only 
one  letter ;  you  must  consider  the  fatigues  of 
travel,  and  the  difficulties  encountered  in  a 
strange  country. 

August  18th,  I  passed,  with  Boswell,  the  Frith 
of  Forth,  and  began  our  journey ;  in  the  passage 
we  observed  an  island,  which  I  persuaded  my 
companions  to   survey.     We   found  it  a   rock 
somewhat  troublesome  to  climb,  about  a  mile 
long,  and  half  a  mile  broad  ;  in  the  middle  were 
the  ruins  of  an  old  fort,  which  had  on  one  of  the 
stones — Maria  Re.  1564.     It  had  been  only  a 
blockhouse,  one  story  high.     I  measured  two 
ap'artments,  of  which  the  walls  were  entire,  and 
found  them  twenty-seven  feet  long,  and  twenty- 
three  broad.     The  rock   had   some  grass   and 
many  thistles;  both  cows  and  sheep  were  grazing. 
There  was  a  spring  of  water.     The  name  is 
Inchkeith.      Look  on  your  maps.     This  visit 
took  about  an  hour.     We  pleased  ourselves  with 
being  in  a  country  all  our  own,  and  then  went 
back  to  the  boat,  and  landed  at  Kinghorn,  a 
mean  town  ;  and  travelling  through  Kirkaldie,  a 
very  long  town  meanly  built,  and  Cowpar,  which 
I  could  not  see  because  it  was  night,  we  came 
late  to  St.  Andrew's,  the  most  ancient  of  the 
Scotch   universities,   and   once   the   see  of  the 
Primate  of  Scotland.     The  inn  was  full ;   but 
lodgings  were  provided  for  us  at  the  house  of 
the  professor  of  rhetoric,  a  man  of  elegant  man- 
ners, who  showed  us,  in  the  morning,  the  poor 
remains  of  a  stately  cathedral,  demolished  in 
Knox's  reformation,  and  now  only  to  be  ima- 
gined by  tracing  its  foundation,  and  contemplat- 
ing the  little  ruins  that  are  l<?ft.     Here  was  once 
a  religious  house.     Two  of  the  vaults  or  cellars 
of  the  subprior  are  even  yet  entire.     In  one  oi 
them  lives  an  old  woman,  who  claims  an  here- 
ditary residence  in  it,  boasting  that  her  husbanc 
was  the  sixth  tenant  of  this  gloomy  mansion,  in 
a  lineal   descent,  and   claims  by  her  marriage 
with  this  lord  of  the  cavern  an  alliance  with  the 
Bruces.     Mr.  Boswell  stayed  a  while  to  interro- 
gate her,  because  he  understood  her  language 
ehe  told  him,  that  she  and  her  cat  lived  together 
that  she  had  two  sons  somewhere,  who  migh 
perhaps  be  dead  ;  that  when  there  were  qualitj 
in  the  town  notice  was  taken  of  her,  and  tha" 
now  she  was  neglected,  but  did  not  trouble  them 
Her  habitation  contained  all  that  she  had  ;  he 
t'irf  for  fire  was  laid  in  one  place,  and  her  ball 
of  coal-dust  in  another,  but  her  bed  seemed  t 
be  clean.     Boswell  asked  her,  if  she  never  hearc 
any  noises ;  but  she  could  tell  him  of  nothin 
supernatural,  though  she  often  wandered  in  th 


light  among  the  graves  and  ruins,  only  she  had 
ometimes  notice  by  dreams  of  the  death  of  her 
Delations.  We  then  viewed  the  remains  of  a 
astle  on  the  margin  of  the  sea,  in  which  the 
rchbishops  resided,  and  in  which  Cardinal 
Jcatoun  was  killed. 

The  professors  who  happened  to  be  resident 
i  the  vacation  made  a  public  dinner,  and  treated 
s  very  kindly  and  respectfully.  They  showed 
s  their  colleges,  in  one  of  which  there  is  a  libra- 
y  that,  for  luminousness  and  elegance,  may  vie 
t  least  with  the  new  edifice  at  Streatham.  But 
earning  seems  not  to  prosper  among  them ;  one 
>f  their  colleges  has  been  lately  alienated,  and 
me  of  their  churches  lately  deserted.  An  ex- 
eriment  was  made  of  planting  a  shrubbery  in 
he  church,  but  it  did  not  thrive. 

Why  the  place  should  thus  fall  to  decay,  I 

tnow  not;  for  education,  such  as  is  here  to  be 

had,  is  sufficiently  cheap.     The  term,  or,  as  they 

all  it,  their  session,  lasts  seven  months  in  the 

•ear,  which  the  students  of  the  highest  rank  and 

;reatest  expense    may  pass    here   for    twenty 

tounds,  in  which  are  included  board,  lodging, 

looks,  and   the   continual   instruction  of  three 

professors. 

20th.  We  left  St.  Andrew's,  well  satisfied  with 

our  reception,  and  crossing  the  Frith  of  Tay, 

ame  to  Dundee,  a  dirty,  despicable  town.     V>  e 

lassed  afterwards  through  Aberbrothic,  famous 

once  for  an  abbey,  of  which  there  are  only  a  few 

Vagments  left  ;  but  those  fragments  testify  that 

he  fabric  was  once  of  great  extent,  and  of  stu- 

-endous  magnificence.     Two  of  the  towers  aro 

_/et  standing,  though  shattered  ;  into  one  of  them 

ioswell  climbed,  but  found  the  stairs  broken : 

.he  way  into  the  other  we  did  not  see,  and  had 

not  time  to  search ;  I  believe  it  might  be  ascend- 

:d,  but  the  top,  I  think,  is  open. 

We  lay  at  Montrosc,  a  neat  place,  with  a  spa- 
cious area  for  the  market,  and  an  elegant  town- 
louse. 

21st.  We  travelled  towards  Aberdeen,  another 
university,  and  in  the  way  dined  at  Lord  i\J  on- 
boddo's,  the  Scotch  Judge,  who  has  lately  writ.- 
;en  a  strange  book  about  the  origin  of  language, 
,n  which  he3 traces  monkeys  up  to  men,  and  says 
that  in  some  countries  the  human  species  have 
tails  like  other  beasts.  He  inquired  for  these 
long-tailed  men  of  Banks,  and  was  not  well 
pleased  that  they  had  not  been  found  in  all  his 
peregrination.  He  talked  nothing  of  this  to 
me,  "and  I  hope  we  parted  friends ;  for  we 
agreed  pretty  well,  only  we  disputed  in  adjust- 
ing the  claims  of  merit  between  a  shopkeeper  of 
London  and  a  savage  of  the  American  wilder- 
nesses. Our  opinions  were,  I  think,  maintained 
on  both  sides  without  full  conviction:  Mon- 
boddo  declared  boldly  for  the  savage,  and  I,  per- 
haps for  that  reason,  sided  with  the  citizen. 

We  came  late  to  Aberdeen,  where  I  found 
my  dear  mistress's  letter,  and  learned  that  all 
our  little  people  were  happily  recovered  of  the 
measles.  Every  part  of  your  letter  was  pleas- 
ing. 

There  are  two  cities  of  the  name  of  Aberdeen  • 
the  old  town,  built  about  a  mile  inland,  once  tin 
see  of  a  bishop,  which  contains  the  King's  Col 
lege,  and  the  remains  of  the  cathedral,  and  th< 
new  town,  which  stands,  for  the  sake  of  trade 
upon  a  frith  or  arm  of  the  sea,  so  that  ships  res' 
against  the  quay. 
The  two  cities  bavo  their  separate  magistrates^ 


LETTERS. 


605 


and  the  two  colleges  are  in  effect  two  universi- 
ties, which  confer  degrees  independently  of  each 
other. 

New  Aberdeen  is  a  large  town,  built  almost 
wholly  of  that  granite  which  is  used  for  the  new 
pavement  in  London,  which,  hard  as  it  is,  they 
square  with  very  little  difficulty.  Here  I  first 
saw  the  women  in  plaids.  The  plaid  makes  at 
once  a  hood  and  cloak,  without  cutting  or  sew- 
ing, merely  by  the  manner  of  drawing  the  oppo- 
site sides  over  the  shoulders.  The  maids  at  the 
inns  run  over  the  house  barefoot;  and  children, 
not  dressed  in  rags,  go  without  shoes  or  stock- 
ings. Shoes  are  indeed  not  yet  in  universal  use ; 
they  came  late  into  this  country.  One  of  the 
professors  told  us,  as  we  were  mentioning  a  fort 
built  by  Cromwell,  that  the  country  owed  much 
of  its  present  industry  to  Cromwell's  soldiers. 
They  taught  us,  said  he,  to  raise  cabbage  and 
make  shoes.  How  they  lived  without  shoes  may 
yet  be  seen  ;  but  in  the  passage  through  villages, 
it  seems  to  him  that  surveys  their  gardens,  that 
when  they  had  not  cabbage  they  had  nothing. 

Education  is  here  of  the  same  price  as  at  St. 
Andrew's,  only  the  session  is  but  from  the  1st 
of  November  to  the  1st  of  April.  The  acade- 
mical buildings  seem  rather  to  advance  than 
decline.  They  showed  their  libraries,  which 
were  not  very  splendid,  but  some  manuscripts 
were  so  exquisitely  penned  that  I  wished  my 
dear  mistress  to  have  seen  them.  I  had  an  unex- 
pected pleasure  by  finding  an  old  acquaintance 
now  professor  of  physic  in  the  King's  College : 
we  were  on  both  sides  glad  of  the  interview, 
having  not  seen  nor  perhaps  thought  on  one 
another  for  many  years ;  but  we  had  no  emula- 
tion, nor  had  either  of  us  risen  to  the  other's 
envy,  and  our  old  kindness  was  easily  renewed. 
I  hope  we  shall  never  try  the  effect  of  so  long 
an  absence,  and  that  I  shall  always  be,  Madam, 
your,  &c. 


LETTER  XIX.— To  THE  SAME. 

Inverness,  Jlug.  2Sth,  1773. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

AUGUST  23d,  I  had  the  honour  of  attending  the 
Lord  Provost  of  Aberdeen,  and  was  presented 
with  the  freedom  of  the  city,  not  in  a  gold  box, 
but  in  good  Latin.  Let  me  pay  Scotland  one 
just  praise !  there  was  no  officer  gaping  for  a 
fee  ;  this  could  have  been  said  of  no  city  on  the 
English  side  of  the  Tweed.  I  wore  my  patent  of 
freedom  pro  more  in  my  hat,  from  the  new  town 
to  the  old,  about  a  mile.  I  then  dined  with  my 
friend,  the  professor  of  physic,  at  his  house,  and 
saw  the  King's  College.  Boswell  was  very 
angry  that  the  Aberdeen  professors  would  not 
talk.  When  I  was  at  the  English  church  in 
Aberdeen,  I  happened  to  be  espied  by  Lady  Di. 
Middleton,  whom  I  had  some  time  seen  in  Lon- 
don ;  she  told  what  she  had  seen  to  Mr.  Boyd, 
Lord  Errol's  brother,  who  wrote  us  an  invita- 
tion to  Lord  Errol's  house,  called  Slane's  Castle. 
We  went  thither  on  the  next  day,  (24th  of 
August,)  and  found  a  house,  not  old,  except  but 
one  tower,  built  upon  the  margin  of  the  sea 
upon  a  rock,  scarce  accessible  from  the  sea ;  at 
one  corner  a  tower  makes  a  perpendicular  con- 
tinuation of  the  lateral  surface  of  the  rock,  so 
that  it  is  impracticable  to  walk  round :  the  house 


inclosed  a  square  court,  and  on  all  sides  within 
the  court  is  a  piazza  or  gallery  two  stories  high. 
We  came  in  as  we  were  invited  to  dinner,  and 
after  dinner  offered  to  go;  but  Lady  Errol  sent 
us  word  by  Mr.  Boyd,  that  if  we  went  before 
Lord  Errol  came  home  we  must  never  be  for- 
given, and  ordered  out  the  coach  to  show  us  two 
curiosities.  We  were  first  conducted  by  Mr. 
Boyd  to  Dun  buys,  or  the  yellow  rock.  Dun- 
buys  is  a  rock  consisting  of  two  protuberances, 
each  perhaps  one  hundred  yards  round,  joined 
together  by  a  narrow  neck,  and  separated  from 
the  land  by  a  very  narrow  channel  or  gully. 
These  rocks  are  the  haunts  of  sea-fowl,  whose 
clang,  though  this  is  not  their  season,  we  heard 
at  a  distance.  The  eggs  and  the  young  are 
gathered  here  in  great  numbers  at  the  time  of 
breeding.  There  is  a  bird  here  called  a  coote, 
which,  though  not  much  bigger  than  a  duck,  lays 
a  larger  egg  than  a  goose.  We  went  then  to  see 
the  Buller  or  Boulloir  of  Buchan:  Buchan  is 
the  name  of  the  district,  and  the  Buller  is  a 
small  creek  or  gulf  into  which  the  sea  flows 
through  an  arch  of  the  rock.  We  walked  round 
it,  and  saw  it  black  at  a  great  depth.  It  has  its 
name  from  the  violent  ebullition  of  the  water, 
when  high  winds  or  high  tides  drive  it  up  the 
arch  into  the  basin.  Walking  a  little  farther  I 
spied  some  boats,  and  told  my  companions  that 
we  would  go  into  the  Buller  and  examine  it 
There  was  no  danger;  all  was  calm;  we  went 
through  the  arch,  and  found  ourselves  in  a  nar- 
row gulf  surrounded  by  craggy  rocks,  of  height 
not  stupendous,  but  to  a  Mediterranean  visiter 
uncommon.  On  each  side  was  a  cave,  of  which 
the  fishermen  knew  not  the  extent,  in  which 
smugglers  hide  their  goods,  and  sometimes  par- 
ties of  pleasure  take  a  dinner.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XX.— To  THE  SAME. 

Skie,  Sept.  6lh,  177S 

DEAREST  MADAM, 

I  AM  now  looking  on  the  sea  from  a  house  of 
Sir  Alexander  Macdonald,  in  the  Isle  of  Skie. 
Little  did  I  once  think  of  seeing  this  region  of 
obscurity,  and  little  did  you  once  expect  a  salu- 
tation from  this  verge  of  European  life.  I  have 
now  the  pleasure  of  going  where  nobody  goes, 
and  seeing  what  nobody  sees.  Our  design  is  to 
visit  several  of  the  smaller  islands,  and  then  pass 
over  to  the  south-west  of  Scotland. 

I  returned  from  the  sight  of  Buller's  Buchan 
to  Lord  Errol's,  and,  having  seen  his  library,  had 
for  a  time  only  to  look  upon  the  sea,  which  rolled 
between  us  and  Norway.  Next  morning, 
August  25th,  we  continued  our  journey  through 
a  country  not  uncultivated,  but  so  denuded  of 
its  woods,  that  in  all  this  journey  I  had  not 
travelled  a  hundred  yards  between  hedges,  or 
seen  five  trees  fit  for  the  carpenter.  A  few  small 
plantations  may  be  found,  but  I  believe  scarcely 
any  thirty  years  old ;  at  least,  they  are  all  poste- 
rior to  the  Union.  This  day  we  dined  with  a 
country  gentleman,  who  has  in  his  grounds  the 
remains  of  a  Druid's  temple,  which,  when  it  i? 
complete,  is  nothing  more  than  a  circle  or  double 
circle  of  stones,  placed  at  equal  distances,  with 
a  flat  stone,  perhaps  an  altar,  at  a  certain  point, 
and  a  stone  taller  than  the  rest  at  the  opposite 


506 


LETTERS. 


point.  The  tall  stone  is  erected,  I  think,  at  the 
south.  Of  these  circles  there  are  many  in  all  the 
unfrequented  parts  of  the  island.  The  inhabi- 
tants of  these  parts  respect  them  as  memorials 
of  the  sepulture  of  some  illustrious  person.  Here 
I  saw  a  few  trees.  We  lay  at  Bamff 

August  26th.  We  dined  at  Elgin,  where  we 
saw  the  ruins  of  a  noble  cathedral ;  the  chapter- 
house is  yet  standing.  A  great  part  of  Elgin  is 
built  with  small  piazzas  to  the  lower  story.  We 
went  on  to  Foris,  over  the  heath  where  Macbeth 
met  the  witches,  but  had  no  adventure ;  only  in 
the  way  we  saw  for  the  first  time  some  houses 
with  fruit-trees  about  them.  The  improvements 
of  the  Scotch  are  for  immediate  profit ;  they  do 
not  yet  think  it  quite  worth  their  while  to  plant 
what  will  not  produce  something  to  be  eaten  or 
sold  in  a  very  little  time.  We  rested  at  Foris. 

A  very  great  proportion  of  the  people  are  bare- 
foot ;  shoes  are  not  yet  considered  as  necessaries 
of  life.  It  is  still  the  custom  to  send  out  the  sons 
of  gentlemen  without  them  into  the  streets  and 
ways.  There  are  more  beggars  than  I  have  ever 
seen  in  England :  they  beg,  if  not  silently,  yet 
very  modestly. 

Next  day  we  came  to  Nairn,  a  miserable 
town,  but  a  royal  burgh,  of  which  the  chief 
annual  magistrate  is  styled  Lord  Provost.  In 
the  neighbourhood  we  saw  the  castle  of  the  old 
Thane  of  Cawdor.  There  is  one  ancient  tower 
with  its  battlements  and  winding  stairs  yet 
remaining ;  the  rest  of  the  house  is,  though  not 
modern,  of  later  erection. 

On  the  28th  we  went  to  Fort  George,  which  is 
accounted  the  most  regular  fortification  in  the 
island.  The  major  of  artillery  walked  with  us 
round  the  walls,  and  showed  us  the  principles 
upon  which  every  part  was  constructed,  and  the 
way  in  which  it  could  be  defended.  We  dined 
with'  the  governor,  Sir  Eyre  Coote,  and  his 
officers.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  and  instructive 
day,  but  nothing  puts  my  honoured  mistress  out 
of  my  mind. 

At  night  we  came  to  Inverness,  the  last  con- 
siderable town  in  the  North,  where  we  stayed  all 
the  next  day,  for  it  was  Sunday,  and  saw  the 
ruins  of  what  is  called  Macbeth's  castle.  It 
never  was  a  large  house,  but  was  strongly  situ- 
ated. From  Inverness  we  were  to  travel  on 
horseback. 

August  30th.  We  set  out  with  four  horses. 
We  had  two  Highlanders  to  run  by  us,  who 
were  active,  officious,  civil,  and  hardy.  Our 
journey  was  for  many  miles  along  a  military 
way  made  upon  the  banks  of  Lough  Ness,  a 
water  about  eighteen  miles  long,  but  not,  I 
think,  half  a  mile  broad.  Our  horses  were  not 
bad,  and  the  way  was  very  pleasant ;  the  rock 
out  of  which  the  road  was  cut  was  covered  with 
birch-trees,  fern,  and  heath.  The  lake  below 
was  beating  its  bank  by  a  gentle  wind,  and  the 
rocks  beyond  the  water  on  the  right  stood  some- 
times horrid  and  wild,  and  sometimes  opened 
into  a  kind  of  bay,  in  which  there  was  a  spot  of 
cultivated  ground,  yellow  with  corn.  In  one  part 
of  the  way  we  had  trees  on  both  sides  for  perhaps 
half  a  mile. — Such  a  length  of  shade  perhaps 
Scotland  cannot  show  in  any  other  place. 

You  are  not  to  suppose  that  here  are  to  be  any 
more  towns  or  inns.  We  came  to  a  cottage 
which  they  call  the  General's  Hut,  where  we 
alighted  to  dine,  and  had  eggs  and  bacon,  and 


mutton,  with  wine,  rum,  and  whiskey.     1  had 
water. 

At  a  bridge  over  the  river,  which  runs  into  the 
Ness,  the  rocks  rise  on  three  sides,  with  a  direc 
tion  almost  perpendicular,  to  a  great  height ;  they 
are  in  part  covered  with  trees,  and  exhibit  a  kind 
of  dreadful  magnificence ; — standing  like  the 
barriers  of  nature  placed  to  keep  different  orders 
of  being  in  perpetual  separation.  Near  this 
bridge  is  the  Fall  of  Fiers,  a  famous  cataract,  of 
which,  by  clambering  over  the  rocks,  we  obtained 
a  view.  The  water  was  low,  and  therefore  wo 
had  only  the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  rain  would 
make  it  at  once  pleasing  and  formidable  ;  there 
will  then  be  a  mighty  flood,  foaming  along  a 
rocky  channel,  frequently  obstructed  by  protu- 
berances, and  exasperated  by  reverberation,  at 
last  precipitated  with  a  sudden  descent,  and  lost 
in  the  depth  of  a  gloomy  chasm. 

We  came  somewhat  late  to  Fort  Augustus, 
where  the  lieutenant-governor  met  us  beyond 
the  gates,  and  apologized  that  at  that  hour  he 
could  not,  by  the  rules  of  a  garrison,  admit  us 
otherwise  than  at  a  narrow  door  which  only  one 
can  enter  at  a  time.  We  were  well  entertained 
and  well  lodged,  and  next  morning,  after  having 
viewed  the  fort,  we  pursued  our  journey. 

Our  way  now  lay  over  the  mountains,  which 
are  not  to  be  passed  by  climbing  them  directly, 
but  by  traversing ;  so  that  as  we  went  forward 
we  saw  our  baggage  following  us  below  in  a 
direction  exactly  contrary.  There  is  in  these 
ways  much  labour  but  little  danger,  and  perhaps 
other  places,  of  which  very  terrific  representa- 
tions are  made,  are  not  in  themselves  more  for 
midable.  These  roads  have  all  been  made  by 
hewing  the  rock  away  with  pickaxes,  or  bursting 
it  with  gunpowder.  The  stones  so  separated 
are  often  piled  loose  as  a  wall  by  the  way-side. 
We  saw  an  inscription  importing  the  year  in 
which  one  of  the  regiments  made  two  thousand 
yards  of  the  road  eastward. 

After  tedious  travel  of  some  hours  we  came 
to  what  I  believe  we  must  call  a  village,  a  place 
where  there  were  three  huts  built  of  turf;  at  one 
of  which  we  were  to  have  our  dinner  and  our 
bed,  for  we  could  not  reach  any  better  place  that 
night.  This  place  is  called  Enoch  in  Glenmor- 
rison.  The  house  in  which  we  lodged  was 
distinguished  by  a  chimney,  the  rest  had  only  a 
hole  for  .the  smoke.  Here  we  had  eggs,  and 
mutton,  and  a  chicken  and  a  sausage,  and  rum. 
In  the  afternoon  tea  was  made  by  a  very  decent 
girl  in  a  printed  linen :  she  engaged  me  so  much, 
that  I  made  her  a  present  of  Cocker's  arithmetic. 
I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXL— To  THE  SAME. 

Skie,  Sept.  14M,  177.S 
DEAREST  MADAM, 

THE  post  which  comes  but  once  a  week  into 
these  parts  is  so  soon  to  go  that  I  have  not  time 
to  go  on  where  IleftofFin  my  last  letter.  I  have 
been  several  days  in  the  island  of  Raarsa,  and 
am  now  again  in  the  Isle  of  Skie,  but  at  the  other 
end  of  it. 

Skie  is  almost  equally  divided  between  the 
two  great  families  of  Macdonald  and  Macleod, 
other  proprietors  having  only  small  districts. 


LETTERS. 


507 


The  two  great  lords  do  not  know  within  twenty 
square  miles  the  contents  of  their  own  territories. 

kept  up  but  ill  the  reputation  of  High- 
land hospitality ;  we  are  now  with  Macleod, 
quite  at  the  other  end  of  the  island,  where  there 
is  a  fine  young  gentleman  and  fine  ladies.  The 
ladies  are  studying  Erse.  I  have  a  cold  and  am 
miserably  deaf,  and  am  troublesome  to  Lady 
Macleod ;  I  force  her  to  speak  loud,  but  she  will 
seldom  speak  loud  enough. 

Raarsa  is  an  island  about  fifteen  miles  long 
and  two  broad,  under  the  dominion  of  "one  gen- 
tleman, who  has  three  sons  and  ten  daughters  ; 
the  eldest  is  the  beauty  of  this  part  of  the  world, 
and  has  been  polished  at  Edinburgh:  they  sing 
and  dance,  and,  without  expense,  have  upon 
their  table  most  of  what  sea,  air,  or  earth  can 
afford.  I  intended  to  have  written  about  Raarsa, 
but  the  post  will  not  wait  longer  than  while  I 
send  my  compliments  to  my  dear  master  and 
little  mistresses.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Stie,  Sept.  21st,  1773. 
DEAREST  MADAM, 

I  AM  so  vexed  at  the  necessity  of  sending  yester- 
day so  short  a  letter,  that  I  purpose  to  get  a  long 
letter  beforehand  by  writing  something  every 
day,  which  I  may  the  more  easily  do,  as  a  cold 
makes  me  now  too  deaf  to  take  the  usual  plea- 
sure in  conversation.  Lady  Macleod  is  very 
good  to  me;  and  the  place  at  which  we  now  are 
is  equal,  in  strength  of  situation,  in  the  wildness 
of  the  adjacent  country,  and  in  the  plenty  and 
elegance  of  the  domestic  entertainment,  to  a 
castle  in  Gothic  romances.  The  sea,  with  a 
little  island,  is  before  us;  cascades  play  within 
view.  Close  to  the  house  is  the  formidable 
skeleton  of  an  old  castle,  probably  Danish,  and 
the  whole  mass  of  building  stands  upon  a  protu- 
berance of  rock,  inaccessible  till  of  late  but  by  a 
pair  of  stairs  on  the  sea-side,  and  secure  in 
ancient  times  against  any  enemy  that  was  likely 
to  invade  the  kingdom  of  Skie. 

Macleod  has  offered  me  an  island ;  if  it  were 
not  too  far  off,  I  should  hardly  refuse  it:  my 
island  would  be  pleasanter  than  Brighthelmstone, 
if  you  and  my  master  could  come  to  it;  but  I 
cannot  think  it  pleasant  to  live  quite  alone, 
Oblitusque  meorutn,  obliviscendus  et  illis. 

That  I  should  be  elated  by  the  dominion  of  an 
island  to  forgetfulness  of  my  friends  at  Strea- 
tham,  I  cannot  believe,  and  I  hope  never  to 
deserve  that  they  should  be  willing  to  forget  me. 

It  has  happened  that  I  have  been  often  recog- 
nised in  my  journey  where  I  did  not  expect  it. 
At  Aberdeen  I  found  one  of  my  acquaintance 
professor  of  physic ;  turning  aside  to  dine  with 
a  country  gentleman,  I  was  owned  at  table  by 
one  who  had  seen  me  at  a  philosophical  lecture  ; 
at  Macdonald's  I  was  claimed  by  a  naturalist, 
who  wanders  about  the  islands  to  pick  up  curio- 
sities ;  and  I  had  once  in  London  attracted  the 
notice  of  Lady  Macleod.  I  will  now  go  on  with 
nfy  account. 

The  Highland  girl  made  tea,  and  looked  and 
talked  not  inelegantly  ;  her  father  was  by  no 
means  an  ignorant  or  a  weak  man  ;  there  were 


books  in  the  cottage,  among  which  were  some 
volumes  of  Prideaux's  Connection;  this  man's 
conversation  we  were  glad  of  while  we  staid. 
He  had  been  out,  as  they  call  it,  in  forty-five,  and 
still  retained  his  old  opinions.  He  was  goin»  to 
America,  because  his  rent  was  raised  beyond 
what  he  thought  himself  able  to  pay. 

At  night  our  beds  were  made,  but  we  had 
some  difficulty  in  persuading  ourselves  to  lie 
down  in  them,  though  we  had  put  on  our  own 
sheets;  at  last  we  ventured,  and  I  slept  very 
soundly  in  the  vale  of  Glenmorrison,  amidst  the 
rocks  and  mountains.  Next  morning  our  land- 
lord liked  us  so  well,  that  he  walked  some  miles 
with  us  for  our  company,  through  a  country  so 
wild  and  barren,  that  the  proprietor  does  not, 
with  all  his  pressure  upon  his  tenants,  raise 
more  than  four  hundred  pounds  a-year  for  near 
one  hundred  square  miles,  or  sixty  thousand 
acres.  He  let  us  know  that  he  had  forty  head 
of  black  cattle,  a  hundred  goats,  and  a  hundred 
sheep,  upon  a  farm  that  he  remembered  let  at 
five  pounds  a  year,  but  for  which  he  now  paid 
twenty.  He  told  us  some  stories  of  their  march 
into  England.  At  last  he  left  us,  and  we  went 
forward,  winding  among  mountains,  sometimes 
green  and  sometimes  naked,  commonly  so  steep 
as  not  easily  to  be  climbed  by  the  greatest  vigour 
and  activity:  our  way  was  often  crossed^  by 
little  rivulets,  and  we  were  entertained  with 
small  streams  trickling  from  the  rocks,  which 
after  heavy  rains  must  be  tremendous  torrents. 

About  noon  we  came  to  a  small  glen,  so  they 
call  a  valley,  which,  compared  with  other  places, 
appeared  rich  and  fertile;  here  our  guides 
desired  us  to  stop,  that  the  horses  might  graze, 
for  the  journey  was  very  laborious,  and  no  more 
grass  would  be  found.  We  made  no  difficulty 
of  compliance,  and  I  sat  down  to  take  notes  on 
a  green  bank,  with  a  small  stream  running  at 
my  feet,  in  the  midst  of  savage  solitude,  with 
mountains  before  me,  and  on  either  hand,  covered 
with  heath.  I  looked  around  me,  and  wondered 
that  I  was  not  more  affected,  but  the  mind  is 
not  at  all  times  equally  ready  to  be  put  in 
motion ;  if  my  mistress  and  master  and  dueeney 
had  been  there,  we  should  have  produced  some 
reflections  among  us,  either  poetical  or  philoso- 
phical, for  though  solitude  be  the  nurse  of  wo, 
conversation  is  often  the  parent  of  remarks  and 
discoveries. 

In  about  an  hour  we  remounted,  and  pursued 
our  journey.  The  lake  by  which  we  had  tra- 
velled for  some  time  ended  in  a  river,  which  we 
passed  by  a  bridge,  and  came  to  another  glen, 
with  a  collection  of  huts,  called  Auknashealds ; 
the  huts  were  generally  built  of  clods  of  earth, 
held  together  by  the  intertexture  of  vegetable 
fibres,  of  which  earth  there  are  great  levels  in 
Scotland,  which  they  call  mosses.  Moss  in 
Scotland  is  bog  in  Ireland,  and  moss-trooper  ia 
bog-trotter;  there  was,  however,  one  hut  built 
of  loose  stones,  piled  up  with  great  thickness 
into  a  stronf  though  not  solid  wall.  From  this 
house  we  obtained  some  great  pails  of  milk,  and 
having  brous-  it  bread  with  us,  we  were  liberally 
regaled.  T)  -e  inhabitants,  a  very  coarse  tribe, 
ignorant  of  »-ny  language  but  Erse,  gathered  so 
fast  about  u^,  that  if  we  hsul  not  had  High- 
landers with  \a,  they  might  have  caused  more 
alarm  than  p)«sure ;  they  are  called  the  Clan  of 
Macrae. 


508 


LETTERS. 


We  had  been  told  that  nothing  gratified  the 
Highlanders  so  much  as  snuff  and  tobacco,  and 
had  accordingly  stored  ourselves  with  both  a) 
Fort  Augustus.  Boswell  opened  his  treasure, 
and  gave  them  each  a  piece  of  tobacco  roll. 
We  had  more  bread  than  we  could  eat  for  the 
present,  and  were  more  liberal  than  provident. 
Boswell  cut  it  in  slices,  and  gave  them  an  oppor- 
tunity of  tasting  wheaten  bread  for  the  first 
time.  I  then  got  some  halfpence  for  a  shilling, 
and  made  up  the  deficiencies  of  Boswell's  dis- 
tribution, who  had  given  some  money  among 
the  children.  We  then  directed  that  the  mis- 
tress of  the  stone-house  should  be  asked  what 
we  must  pay  her :  she,  who  perhaps  had  never 
before  sold  any  thing  but  cattle,  knew  not,  I 
believe,  well  what  to  ask,  and  referred  herself  to 
us :  we  obliged  her  to  make  some  demand,  and 
one  of  the  Highlanders  settled  the  account  with 
ner  at  a  shilling.  One  of  the  men  advised  her, 
with  the  cunning  that  clowns  never  can  be  with- 
out, to  ask  more ;  but  she  said  that  a  shilling 
was  enough.  We  gave  her  half-a-crown,  and 
she  offered  part  of  it  again.  The  Macraes  were 
so  well  pleased  with  our  behaviour,  that  they 
declared  it  the  best  day  they  had  seen  since  the 
time  of  the  old  Laird  of  Macleod,  who,  I  sup- 
pose,  like  us,  stopped  in  their  valley,  as  he  was 
travelling  to  Skie. 

We  were  mentioning  this  view  of  the  High- 
lander's life  at  Macdonald's,  and  mentioning 
the  Macraes  with  some  degree  of  pity,  when  a 
Highland  lady  informed  us  that  we  might  spare 
our  tenderness,  for  she  doubted  not  but  the 
woman  who  supplied  us  with  milk  was  mistress 
of  thirteen  or  fourteen  milch  cows. 

I  cannot  forbear  to  interrupt  my  narative. 
Boswell,  with  some  of  his  troublesome  kindness, 
has  informed  this  family,  and  reminded  me,  that 
the  18th  of  September  is  my  birth-day.  The 
return  of  my  birth-day,  if  I  remember  it,  fills  me 
with  thoughts  which  it  seems  to  be  the  general 
care  of  humanity  to  escape.  I  can  now  look 
back  upon  three  score  and  four  years,  in  which 
little  has  been  done,  and  little  has  been  enjoyed  ; 
a  life  diversified  by  misery,  spent  part  in  the 
sluggishness  of  penury,  and  part  under  the  vio- 
lence of  pain,  in  gloomy  discontent  or  importu- 
nate distress.  But  perhaps  I  am  better  than  I 
should  have  been  if  I  had  been  less  afflicted. 
With  this  I  will  try  to  be  content 

In  proportion  as  there  is  less  pleasure  in  retro- 
spective considerations,  the  mind  is  more  disposed 
to  wander  forward  into  futurity ;  but  at  sixty- 
four  what  promises,  however  liberal,  of  imaginary 
good  can  futurity  venture  to  make?  yet  some"- 
thing  will  be  always  promised,  and  some  promises 
will  be  always  credited.  I  am  hoping  and  I  am 
praying  that  I  may  live  better  in  the  time  to 
come,  whether  long  or  short,  than  I  have  yet 
ived,  and  in  the  solace  of  that  hope  endeavour 
to  repose.  Dear  Qlueeney's  day  is  next :  I  hope 
she  at  sixty-four  will  have  less  to  regret. 

I  will  now  complain  no  more,  but  tell  my 
mistress  of  my  travels. 

After  we  left  the  Macraes,  we  travelled  on 
through  a  country  like  that  which  we  passed  in 
the  morning.  The  Highlands  are  very  uniform, 
for  there  is  little  variety  in  universal  barrenness ; 
the  rocks,  nowever,  are  not  all  naked,  for  some 
have  grass  on  their  sides,  and  birches  and  alders 
on  their  tops,  and  in  the  valleys  are  often  broad 


and  clear  streams,  which  have  little  depth,  and 
commonly  run  very  quick;  the  channels  are 
made  by  the  violence  of  the  wintry  floods ;  the 
quickness  of  the  stream  is  in  proportion  to  the 
declivity  of  the  descent,  and  the  breadth  of  the 
channel  makes  the  water  shallow  in  a  dry 
season. 

There  are  red  deer  and  roebucks  in  the  moun- 
tains, but  we  found  oa'y  goats  in  the  road,  and 
had  very  little  entertainment  as  we  travelled 
either  for  the  eye  or  ear.  There  are,  I  fancy,  no 
singing  Birds  in  the  Highlands. 

Towards  night  we  came  to  a  very  formidable 
hill,  called  Rattiken,  which  we  climbed  with 
more  difficulty  than  we  had  yet  experienced, 
and  at  last  came  to  Glanelg,  a  place  on  the  sea- 
side opposite  to  Skie.  We  were  by  this  time 
weary  and  disgusted,  nor  was  our  humour  much 
mended  by  our  inn,  which,  though  it  was  built 
of  lime  and  slate,  the  Highlander's  description 
of  a  house  which  he  thinks  magnificent,  had 
neither  wine,  bread,  eggs,  nor  any  thing,  that  we 
could  eat  or  drink.  When  we  were  taken  up 
stairs,  a  dirty  fellow  bounced  out  of  the  bed 
where  one  of  us  was  to  lie.  Boswell  blustered, 
but  nothing  could  be  got.  At  last  a  gentleman 
in  the  neighbourhood,  who  heard  of  our  arrival, 
sent  us  rum  and  white  sugar.  Boswell  was 
now  provided  for  in  part,  and  the  landlord  pre- 
pared some  mutton  chops,  which  we  could  not 
eat,  and  killed  two  hens,  of  which  Boswell 
made  his  servant  broil  a  limb,  with  what  effect 
I  know  not.  We  had  a  lemon  and  a  piece  of 
bread,  which  supplied  me  with  my  supper. 
When  the  repast  was  ended,  we  began  to  delibe- 
rate upon  bed  ;  Mrs.  Boswell  had  warned  us 
that  we  should  catch  something,  and  had  given 

us  sheets  for  our  security,  for and , 

she  said,  came  back  from  Skie,  so  scratching 
themselves.  I  thought  sheets  a  slender  defence 
against  the  confederacy  with  which  we  were 
threatened,  and  by  this  time  our  Highlanders 
had  found  a  place  where  they  could  get  some 
hay  :  I  ordered  hay  to  be  laid  thick  upon  the 
bed,  and  slept  upon  it  in  my  great  coat :  Boswell 
laid  sheets  upon  his  bed,  and  reposed  in  linen 
like  a  gentleman.  The  horses  were  turned  out 
to  grass,  with  a  man  to  watch  them.  The  hill 
Rattiken  and  the  inn  at  Glanelg  were  the  only 
things  of  which  we.  or  travellers  yet  more  deli- 
cate, could  find  any  pretensions  to  complain. 

Sept.  2d.  I  rose  rustling  from  the  hay,  and 
went  to  tea,  which  I  forget  whether  we  found 
or  brought.  We  saw  the  isle  of  Skie  before  us, 
darkening  the  horizon  with  its  rocky  coast.  A 
joat  was  procured,  and  we  launched  into  one  ot 
the  straits  of  the  Atlantic  ocean.  We  had  a 
passage  of  about  twelve  miles  to  the  point 

where resided,  having  come  from  his  seat 

in  the  middle  of  the  island,  to  a  small  house  on 
the  shore,  as  we  believe,  that  he  might  with  less 
reproach  entertain  us  meanly.  If  he  aspired  to 
meanness,  his  retrograde  ambition  was  com- 
pletely gratified,  but  he  did  not  succeed  equally 
:n  escaping  reproach.  He  had  no  cook,  nor  \ 
suppose  much  provision,  nor  had  the  lady  the 
common  decencies  of  her  tea-table  ;  we  picked 
up  our  sugar  with  our  fingers.  Boswell  was 
very  angry,  and  reproached  him  with  his  impro- 
per parsimony  ;  I  did  not  much  reflect  upon  the 
conduct  of  a  man  with  whom  I  was  not  likely  to 
:onverse  as  long  at  any  other  time. 


LETTERS. 


509 


You  will  now  expect  that  I  should  give  you 
account  of  the  isle  of  Skie,  of  which, 
though  I  have  been  twelve  days  upon  it,  I  have 
little  to  say.  It  is  an  island  perhaps  fifty  miles 
long,  so  much  indented  by  inlets  of  the  sea,  that 
there  is  no  part  of  it  removed  from  the  water 
more  than  six  miles.  No  part  that  I  have  seen 
is  plain ;  you  are  always  climbing  or  descending, 
and  every  step  is  upon  rock  or  mire.  A  walk 
upon  ploughed  ground  in  England  is  a  dance 
upon  carpets  compared  to  the  toilsome  drudgery 
of  wandering  in  Skie.  There  is  neither  town 
nor  village  in  the  island,  nor  have  I  seen  any 
house  but  Macleod's,  that  is  not  much  below 
your  habitation  at  Brighthelmstone.  In  the 
mountains  there  are  stags  and  roebucks,  but  no 
hares,  and  few  rabbits  ;  nor  have  I  seen  any 
thing  that  interested  me  as  a  zoologist,  except  an 
otter,  bigger  than  I  thought  an  otter  could  have 
been. 

You  are  perhaps  imagining  that  I  am  with- 
drawing from  the  gay  and  the  busy  world  into 
regions  of  peace  and  pastoral  felicity,  and  am 
enjoying  the  reliques  of  the  golden  age ;  that  I  am 
surveying  nature's  magnificence  from  a  moun- 
tain, or  remarking  her  minuter  beauties  on  the 
flowery  bank  of  a  winding  rivulet ;  that  I  am 
invigorating  myself  in  the  sunshine,  or  delight- 
ing my  imagination  with  being  hidden  from  the 
invasion  of  human  evils  and  human  passions,  in 
the  darkness  of  a  thicket ;  that  I  am  busy  in 
gathering  shells  and  pebbles  on  the  shore,  or 
contemplative  on  a  rock,  from  which  I  look  upon 
the  water,  and  consider  how  many  waves  are 
rolling  between  me  and  Streatham. 

The  use  of  travelling  is  to  regulate  imagina- 
tion by  reality,  and  instead  of  thinking  how 
things  may  be,  to  see  them  as  they  are.  Here 
are  mountains  which  I  should  once  have  climbed ; 
but  to  climb  steeps  is  now  very  laborious,  and  to 
descend  them  dangerous ;  and  I  am  now  content 
with  knowing,  that  by  scrambling  up  a  rock, 
I  shall  only  see  other  rocks,  and  a  wider  circuit 
of  barren  desolation.  Of  streams,  we  have  here 
a  sufficient  number;  but  they  murmur  not  upon 
pebbles,  but  upon  rocks.  Of  flowers,  if  Chloris 
herself  were  here,  I  could  present  her  only  with 
the  bloom  of  heath.  Of  lawns  and  thickets,  he 
must  read  that  would  know  them,  for  here  is 
little  sun  and  no  shade.  On  the  sea  I  look  from 
my  window,  but  am  not  much  tempted  to  the 
shore ;  for  since  I  came  to  this  island,  almost 
every  breath  of  air  has  been  a  storm,  and  what 
is  worse,  a  storm  with  all  its  severity,  but.  with- 
out its  magnificence,  for  the  sea  is  here  so 
broken  into  channels  that  there  is  not  a  sufficient 
volume  of  water  either  for  lofty  surges  or  a  loud 
roar. 

On  Sept.  6th,  we  left to  visit  Raarsa, 

the  island  which  I  have  already  mentioned.  We 
were  to  cross  part  of  Skie  on  horseback  ;  a  mode 
of  travelling  very  uncomfortable,  for  the  road 
is  so  narrow,  where  any  road  can  be  found,  that 
only  one  can  go,  and  so  craggy,  that  the  atten- 
tion can  never  be  remitted  ;  it  allows,  therefore, 
neither  the  gayety  of  conversation,  nor  the  laxity 
of  solitude :  nor  has  it  in  itself  the  amusement 
of  much  variety,  as  it  affords  only  all  the  possible 
transpositions  of  bog,  rock,  and  rivulet.  Twelve 
miles,  by  computation,  make  a  reasonable  jour- 
ney for  a  day. 

At  night  we  came  to  a  tenant's  house,  of  the 


first  rank  of  tenants,  where  we  were  entertained 
better  than  at  the  landlord's.  There  were  books 
both  English  and  Latin.  Company  gathered 
about  us,  and  we  heard  some  talk  of  the  second 
sight,  and  some  talk  of  the  events  of  forty- five ; 
a  year  which  will  not  soon  be  forgotten  among 
the  islanders.  The  next  day  we  were  confined 
by  a  storm.  The  company,  I  think,  increased, 
and  our  entertainment  was  not  only  hospitable, 
but  elegant  At  night  a  minister's  sister,  in  very 
fine  brocade,  sung  Erse  songs ;  I  wished  to  know 
the  meaning;  but  the  Highlanders  are  not  much 
used  to  scholastic  questions,  and  no  translations 
could  be  obtained. 

Next  day,  Sept.  8th,  the  weather  allowed  us 
to  depart  ;  a  good  boat  was  provided  us,  and  we 
went  to  Raarsa  under  the  conduct  of  Mr.  Mal- 
colm Macleod,  a  gentleman  who  conducted 
Prince  Charles  through  the  mountains  in  his 
distresses.  The  Prince,  he  says,  was  more 
active  than  himself;  they  were,  at  least,  one 
night  without  any  shelter. 

The  wind  blew  enough  to  give  the  boat  a  kind 
of  dancing  agitation,  and  in  aboat  three  or  four 
hours  we  arrived  at  Raarsa,  where  we  were  met 
by  the  laird  and  his  friends  upon  the  shore. 
Raarsa,  for  such  is  his  title,  is  master  of  two 
islands:  upon  the  smaller  of  which,  called  Rona, 
he  has  only  flocks  and  herds.  Rona  gives  title 
to  his  eldest  son.  The  money  which  he  raises 
annually  by  rent  from  all  his  dominions,  which 
contain  at  least  fifty  thousand  acres,  is  not 
believed  to  exceed  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  : 
but  as  he  keeps  a  large  farm  in  his  own  hands, 
he  sells  every  year  great  numbers  of  cattle, 
which  adds  to  his  revenue,  and  his  table  is  fur- 
nished from  the  farm  and  from  the  sea  with  very 
little  expense,  except  for  those  things  this  coun- 
try does  not  produce,  and  of  those  he  is  very 
liberal.  The  wine  circulates  vigorously ;  and 
the  tea,  chocolate,  and  coffee,  however  they  are 
got,  are  always  at  hand.  I  am,  &c. 

We  are  this  morning  trying  to  get  out  of  Skie. 


LETTER  XXin.— To  THE  SAME. 

Skie,  Sept.  24M,  1773. 
DEAR  MADAM, 
I  AM  still  in  Skie.    Do  you  remember  the  song? 

Every  island  is  a  prison, 
Strongly  guarded  by  the  sea. 

We  have  at  one  time  no  boat,  and  at  another 
may  have  too  much  wind  ;  but  of  our  reception 
here  we  have  no  reason  to  complain.  We  are 
now  with  Colonel  Macleod,  in  a  more  pleasant 
place  than  I  thought  Skie  could  afford.  Now  to 
the  narrative. 

We  were  received  at  Raarsa  on  the  sea-side, 
and  after  clambering  with  some  difficulty  over 
the  rocks,  a  labour  which  the  traveller,  wherever 
he  reposes  himself  on  land,  must  in  these  islands 
be  contented  to  endure ;  we  were  introduced 
into  the  house  which  one  of  the  company  called 
the  Court  of  Raarsa,  with  politeness  which  not 
the  Court  of  Versailles  could  have  thought 
defective.  The  house  is  not  large,  though  we 
were  told  in  our  passage  that  it  had  eleven  fine 
rooms,  nor  magnificently  furnished,  but  our 
utensils  were  most  commonly  of  silver.  We 
went  up  into  a  dining  room,  about  as  large  as 


510 


LETTERS. 


your  blue  room,  where  we  had  something  given 
us  to  eat,  and  tea  and  coffee. 

Raarsa  himself  is  a  man  of  no  inelegant 
appearance,  and  of  manners  uncommonly  refined. 
Lady  Raarsa  makes  no  very  sublime  appearance 
for  a  sovereign,  but  is  a  good  housewife,  and  a 
very  prudent  and  diligent  conductress  of  her 
family.  Miss  Flora  Macleod  is  a  celebrated 
beauty ;  has  been  admired  at  Edinburgh ;  dresses 
her  head  very  high  ;  and  has  manners  so  lady- 
like, that  I  wish  her  head-dress  was  lower. 
The  rest  of  the  nine  girls  are  all  pretty ;  the 
youngest  is  between  Glueeney  and  Lucy.  The 
youngest  boy,  of  four  years  old,  runs  barefoot, 
and  wandered  with  us  over  the  rocks  to  see  a 
mill:  I  believe  he  would  walk  on  that  rough 
ground,  without  shoes,  ten  miles  in  a  day. 

The  Laird  of  Raarsa  has  sometimes  disputed 
the  chieftainry  of  the  clan  with  Macleod  of 
Skie,  but  being  much  inferior  in  extent  of  pos- 
sessions, has,  1  suppose,  been  forced  to  desist 
Raarsa  and  its  provinces  have  descended  to  its 
present  possessor  through  a  succession  of  four 
hundred  years,  without  any  increase  or  diminu- 
tion. It  was  indeed  lately  in  danger  of  forfeiture, 
but  the  old  laird  joined  some  prudence  with  his 
zeal,  and,  when  Prince  Charles  landed  in  Scot- 
land, made  over  his  estate  to  his  son,  the  present 
laird,  and  led  one  hundred  men  of  Raarsa  into 
the  field,  with  officers  of  his  own  family.  Eighty- 
six  only  came  back  after  the  last  battle.  The 
prince  was  hidden,  in  his  distress,  two  nights  at 
Raarsa,  and  the  king's  troops  burnt  the  whole 
country,  and  kil.ed  some  of  the  cattle. 

You  may  guess  at  the  opinions  that  prevail 
in  this  country ;  they  are,  however,  content 
with  fighting  for  their  king  ;  they  do  not  drink 
for  him.  We  had  no  foolish  healths.  At  night, 
unexpectedly  to  us  who  were  strangers,  the  car- 
pet was  taken  up  ;  the  fiddler  of  the  family  came 
up,  and  a  very  vigorous  and  general  dance  was 
begun.  As  I  told  you,  we  were  two- and- thirty 
at  supper;  there  were  full  as  many  dancers ;  for, 
though  all  who  supped  did  not  dance,  some 
danced  of  the  young  people  who  did  not  sup. 
Raarsa  himself  danced  with  his  children,  and  old 
Malcolm,  in  his  philibeg,  was  as  nimble  as  when 
he  led  the  Prince  over  the  mountains.  When 
they  had  danced  themselves  weary,  two  tables 
were  spread,  and  I  suppose  at  least  twenty  dishes 
were  upon  them.  In  this  country  some  prepa- 
rations of  milk  are  always  served  up  at  supper, 
and  sometimes  in  the  place  of  tarts  at  dinner. 
The  table  was  not  coarsely  heaped,  but  at  once 
plentiful  and  elegant  They  do  not  pretend  to 
make  a  loaf;  there  are  only  cakes,  commonly  of 
oats  or  barley,  but  they  made  me  very  nice  cakes 
of  wheat  flour.  I  always  sat  at  the  left  hand  of 
Lady  Raarsa  ;  and  young  Macleod  of  Skie,  the 
chieftain  of  the  clan,  sat  on  the  right. 

After  supper  a  young  lady,  who  was  visiting, 
sung  Erse  songs,  in  which  Lady  Raarsa  joined 
prettily  enough,  but  not  gracefully ;  the'  young 
ladies  sustained  the  chorus  better.  They  are 
very  little  used  to  be  asked  questions,  and  not 
well  prepared  with  answers.  When  one  of  the 
songs  was  over,  1  asked  the  princess  that  sat 
next  to  me,  What  is  that  about  ?  I  question  if 
she  conceived  that  I  did  not  understand  it.  For 
the  entertainment  of  the  company,  said  she. 
But.  Madam,  what  is  the  meaning  of  it  ?  It  is 
a  love  song.  This  was  all  the  intelligence  that 


I  could  obtain  ;  nor  have  I  been  able  to  procure 
the  translation  of  a  single  line  of  Erse. 

At  twelve  it  was  bed-time.  I  had  a  chamber 
to  myself,  which,  in  eleven  rooms  to  forty  people, 
was  more  than  my  share.  How  the  company 
and  the  family  were  distributed  is  not  easy  to 
tell.  Macleod  the  chieftain,  and  Boswell,  and  I, 
had  all  single  chambers  on  the  first  floor.  There 
remained  eight  rooms  only  for  at  least  seven  and 
thirty  lodgers.  I  suppose  they  put  up  temporary 
beds  in  the  dining  room,  where  they  stowed  all 
the  young  ladies.  There  was  a  room  above 
stairs  with  six  beds,  in  which  they  put  ten  men. 
The  rest  in  my  next. 


LETTER  XXIV.— To  THE  SAME. 

Ostieh  in  Skie,  Sept  30th,  1773. 
DEAREST  MADAM, 

I  AM  still  confined  in  Skie.  We  were  unskilful 
travellers,  and  imagined  that  the  sea  was  an 
open  road,  which  we  could  pass  at  pleasure  ;  but 
we  have  now  learned,  with  some  pain,  that  we 
may  still  wait  for  a  long  time  the  caprices  of  the 
equinoctial  winds,  and  sit  reading  or  writing,  as 
I  now  do,  while  the  tempest  is  rolling  the  sea,  or 
roaring  in  the  mountains.  I  am  now  no  longer 
pleased  with  the  delay ;  you  can  hear  from  me 
but  seldom,  and  I  cannot  at  all  hear  from  you. 
It  comes  into  my  mind  that  some  evil  may  hap- 
pen, or  that  I  might  be  of  use  while  I  am  away. 
But  these  thoughts  are  vain ;  the  wind  is  violent 
and  adverse,  and  our  boat  cannot  yet  come.  I 
must  content  myself  with  writing  to  you,  and 
hoping  that  you  will  some  time  receive  my  letter. 
Now  to  my  narrative. 

Sept  9th.  Having  passed  the  night  as  is 
usual,  I  rose,  and  found  the  dining-room  full  of 
company ;  we  feasted  and  talked,  and  when  the 
evening  came  it  brought  music  and  dancing. 
Young  Macleod,  the  great  proprietor  of  Skie 
and  head  of  his  clan,  was  very  distinguishable; 
a  young  man  of  nineteen ;  bred  awhile  at  St. 
Andrew's  and  afterwards  at  Oxford,  a  pupil  of 
G.  Strahan.  He  is  a  young  man  of  a  mind  as 
much  advanced  as  I  have  ever  known ;  very 
elegant  of  manners,  and  very  graceful  in  his  per- 
son. He  has  the  full  spirit  of  a  feudal  chief; 
and  I  was  very  ready  to  accept  his  invitation  to 
Dunvegan.  All  Raarsa's  children  are  beautiful. 
The  ladies  all,  except  the  eldest,  are  in  the 
morning  dressed  in  their  hair.  The  true  High- 
lander never  wears  rnor«  than  a  ribband  on  her 
head  till  she  is  married. 

On  the  third  day,  Boswell  went  out  with  old 
Malcolm  to  see  a  ruined  castle,  which  he  found 
less  entire  than  was  promised,  but  he  saw  the 
country.  I  did  not  go,  for  the  castle  was  perhaps 
ten  miles  off,  and  there  is  no  riding  at  Raarsa, 
the  whole  island  being  rock  or  mountain,  from 
which  the  cattle  often  fall  and  are  destroyed.  It 
is  very  barren,  and  maintains,  as  near  as  I  could 
collect,  about  seven  hundred  inhabitants,  per- 
haps ten  to  a  square  mile.  In  these  countries 
you  are  not  to  suppose  that  you  shall  find  villages 
or  inclosures.  The  traveller  wanders  through  a 
naked  desert,  gratified  sometimes,  but  rarely, 
with  the  sight  of  cows,  and  now  and  then  finds 
a  heap  of  loose  stones  and  turf  in  a  cavity 
between  rocks,  where  a  being  born  with  all  those 


LETTERS. 


511 


powers  which  education  expands,  and  all  those 
sensations  which  culture  refines,  is  condemned 
to  shelter  itself  from  the  wind  and  rain.  Philoso- 
phers there  are,  who  try  to  make  themselves 
believe  that  this  life  is  happy,  but  they  believe  it 
only  while  they  are  saying  it,  and  never  yet 
produced  conviction  in  a  single  mind  ;  he,  whom 
want  of  words  or  images  sunk  into  silence,  still 
thought,  as  he  thought  before,  that  privation  of 
pleasure  can  never  please,  and  that  content  is 
not  to  be  much  envied,  when  it  has  no  other 
principle  than  ignorance  of  good. 

This  gloomy  tranquillity,  which  some  may 
call  fortitude,  and  others  wisdom,  was,  I  belu  »e, 
for  a  long  time  to  be  very  frequently  found  in 
these  dens  of  poverty :  every  man  was  content 
to  live  like  his  neighbours,  and  never  wandering 
from  home,  saw  no  mode  of  life  preferable  to  his 
own,  except  at  the  house  of  the  laird,  or  the 
laird's  nearest  relations,  whom  he  considered  as 
a  superior  order  of  beings,  to  whose  luxuries  or 
honours  he  had  no  pretensions.  But  the  end 
of  this  reverence  and  submission  seems  now 
approaching ;  the  Highlanders  have  learned  that 
there  are  countries  less  bleak  and  barren  than 
their  own,  where,  instead  of  working  for  the 
laird,  every  man  will  till  his  own  ground,  and 
eat  the  produce  of  his  own  labour.  Great  num- 
bers have  been  induced  by  this  discovery  to  go 
every  year,  for  some  time  past,  to  America. 
Macdonald  and  Macleod  of  Skie  have  lost  many 
tenatits  and  many  labourers,  but  Raarsa  has  not 
yet  L«ien  forsaken  by  a  single  inhabitant. 

Rona  is  yet  more  rocky  and  barren  than 
Raarsa,  and  though  it  contains  perhaps  four 
thousand  acres,  is  possessed  only  by  a  herd  of 
cattle  and  the  keepers. 

I  find  myself  not  very  able  to  walk  upon  the 
mountains,  but  one  day  I  went  out  to  see  the 
walls  yet  standing  of  an  ancient  chapel.  In 
almost  every  island  the  superstitious  votaries  of 
the  Romish  church  erected  places  of  worship, 
in  which  the  drones  of  convents  or  cathedrals 
performed  the  holy  offices  ;  but  by  the  active 
:eal  of  Protestant  devotion,  almost  all  of  them 
jiave  sunk  into  ruin.  The  chapel  at  Raarsa  is 
now  only  considered  as  theburying-place  of  the 
family,  and  I  suppose  of  the  whole  island. 

We  would  now  have  gone  away  and  left  room 
for  others  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  this  little 
court;  but  the  wind  detained  us  till  the  12th, 
when,  though  it  Was  Sunday,  we  thought  it 
proper  to  snatch  the  opportunity  of  a  calm  day. 
Raarsa  accompanied  us  in  a  six-oared  boat, 
which  he  said  was  his  coach  and  six.  It  is 
indeed  the  vehicle  in  which  the  ladies  take  the 
air  and  pay  their  visits,  but  they  have  taken  very 
little  care  for  accommodations.  There  is  no 
way  in  or  out  of  the  boat  for  a  woman,  but  by 
being  carried  ;  and  in  the  boat  thus  dignified  with 
a  pompous  name,  there  is  no  seat  but  an  occa- 
sional bundle  of  straw.  Thus  we  left  Raarsa; 
the  seat  of  plenty,  civility,  and  cheerfulness. 

We  dined  at  a  public  house  at  Port  Re ;  so 
called  because  one  of  the  Scottish  kings  landed 
there  in  a  progress  through  the  Western  isles. 
Raarsa  paid  the  reckoning  privately.  We  then 
got  on  horseback,  and  by  a  short  but  very  tedious 
journey  came  to  Kingsburgh,  at  which  the  same 
king  lodged  after  he  landed.  Here  I  had  the 
honour  of  saluting  the  far-famed  Miss  Flora 
Macdonald,  who  conducted  th^  Prince  dressed 


as  her  maid,  through  the  English  forces  from  the 
island  of  Lewes ;  and,  when  she  came  to  Skie, 
dined  with  the  English  officers,  and  left  her  maid 
below.  She  must  then  have  been  a  very  young 
lady ;  she  is  now  not  old :  of  a  pleasing  person 
and  elegant  behaviour.  She  told  me  that  she 
thought  herself  honoured  by  my  visit ;  and  I  am 
sure  that  whatever  regard  she  bestowed  on 
me  was  liberally  repaid.  "If  thou  likest  her 
opinions,  thou  wilt  praise  her  virtue."  She  was 
carried  to  London,  but  dismissed  without  a  trial, 
and  came  down  with  Malcolm  Macleod,  against 
whom  sufficient  evidence  could  n5t  be  procured. 
She  and  her  husband  are  poor,  and  are  going  to 
try  their  fortune  in  America. 

Sic  rerum  volvkur  orbis. 

At  Kingsbnrgh  we  were  very  liberally  feasted, 
and  I  slept  in  the  bed  in  which  the  Prince 
reposed  in  his  distress ;  the  sheets  which  he  used 
were  never  put  to  any  meaner  offices,  but  were 
wrapped  up  by  the  lady  of  the  house,  and  at  last, 
according  to  her  desire,  were  laid  round  her  in 
her  grave.  These  are  not  Whigs. 

On  the  1 3th,  travelling  partly  on  horseback 
where  we  could  not  row,  and  partly  on  foot 
where  we  could  not  ride,  we  came  to  Dunvegan, 
which  I  have  described  already.  Here,  though 
poor  Macleod  had  been  left  by  his  grandfather 
overwhelmed  with  debts,  we  had  another  exhibi- 
tion of  feudal  hospitality.  There  were  two  stags 
in  the  house,  and  venison  came  to  the  table 
every  day  in  its  various  forms.  Macleod,  besides 
his  estate  in  Skie,  larger  I  suppose  than  some 
English  counties,  is  proprietor  of  nine  inhabited 
isles :  and  of  his  islands  uninhabited  I  doubt  it' 
he  very  exactly  knows  the  number.  I  told  him 
that  he  was  a  mighty  monarch.  Such  dominions 
fill  an  Englishman  with  envious  wonder;  but 
when  he  surveys  the  naked  mountains,  and 
treads  the  quaking  moor,  and  wanders  over  the 
wild  regions  of  gloomy  barrenness,  his  wonder 
may  continue,  but  his  envy  ceases.  The  unpro- 
fitableness of  these  vast  domains  can  be  conceived 
only  by  the  means  of  positive  instances.  The 
heir  of  Col,  an  island  not  far  distant,  has  lately 
told  me  how  wealthy  he  should  be  if  he  could  let 
Rum,  another  of  his  islands,  for  two-pence  half- 
penny an  acre;  and  Macleod  has  an  estate, 
which  the  surveyor  reports  to  contain  eighty 
thousand  acres,  rented  at  six  hundred  pounds 
a-year. 

While  we  were  at  Dunvegan,  the  wind  was 
high,  and  the  rain  violent,  so  that  we  were  not 
able  to  put  forth  a  boat  to  fish  in  the  sea,  or  to 
visit  the  adjacent  islands,  which  may  be  seen 
from  the  house ;  but  we  filled  up  the  time  as  we 
could,  sometimes  by  talk,  sometimes  by  reading. 
I  have  never  wanted  books  in  the  Isle  of  Skie. 

We  were  invited  one  day  by  the  Laird  and 
Lady  of  Muck,  one  of  the  Western  islands,  two 
miles  long  and  three  quarters  of  a  mile  high. 
He  has  half  his  island  in  his  own  culture,  and 
upon  the  other  half  live  one  hundred  and  fifty 
dependants,  who  not  only  live  upon  the  product, 
but  export  corn  sufficient  for  the  payment  of 
their  rent. 

Lady  Macleod  has  a  son  and  four  daughters ; 
they  have  lived  long  in  England,  and  have  the 
language  and  manners  of  English  ladies.  We 
lived  with  them  very  easily.  The  hospitality  ot 
this  remote  region  is  like  that  of  the  golden  age. 


5i2 


LETTERS. 


We  have  found  ourselves  treated  at  every  house 
as  if  we  came  to  confer  a  benefit. 

We  won-  eight  days  at  Dunvegan,  but  we 
took  the  first  opportunity  which  the  weather 
afforded,  after  the  first  days,  of  going  away,  and, 
on  the  21st,  went  to  Ulinish,  where  we  were 
well  entertained,  and  wandered  a  little  after 
curiosities.  In  the  afternoon  an  interval  of  calm 
sunshine  courted  us  out  to  see  a  cave  on  the 
shore  famous  for  its  echo.  When  we  went  into 
the  boat,  one  of  our  companions  was  asked  in 
Erse,  by  the  boatmen,  who  they  were  that  came 
with  him?  fle  gave  us  characters,  I  suppose, 
to  our  advantage,  and  was  asked,  in  the  spirit  of 
the  Highlands,  whether  I  could  recite  a  loag 
series  of  ancestors?  The  boatmen  said,  as  I 
perceived  afterwards,  that  they  heard  the  cry  of 
an  English  ghost.  This,  Boswell  says,  disturbed 
him.  We  came  to  the  cave,  and  clambering  up 
the  rocks,  came  to  an  arch,  open  at  one  end,  one 
hundred  and  eighty  feet  long,  thirty  broad  in  the 
broadest  part,  and  about  thirty  high.  There  was 
no  echo :  such  is  the  fidelity  of  report ;  but  I  saw 
what  1  never  saw  before,  muscles  and  whilks  in 
their  natural  state.  There  was  another  arch  in 
the  rock  open  at  both  ends. 

Sept.  23d.  We  removed  to  Talisker,  a  house 
occupied  by  Mr.  Macleod  a  lieutenant-colonel 
in  the  Dutch  service.  Talisker  has  been  long 
in  the  possession  of  gentlemen,  and  therefore  has 
a  garden  well  cultivated :  and,  what  is  here  very 
rare,  is  shaded  by  trees :  a  place  where  the 
imagination  is  more  amused  cannot  easily  be 
found.  The  mountains  about  it  are  of  great 
height,  with  waterfalls  succeeding  one  another 
so  fast,  that  as  one  ceases  to  be  heard  another 
begins.  Between  the  mountains  there  is  a  small 
valley  extending  to  the  sea,  which  is  not  far  oflT, 
beating  upon  a  coast  very  difficult  of  access. 

Two  nights  before  our  arrival  two  boats  were 
driven  upon  this  coast  by  the  tempest,  one  of 
them  had  a  pilot  that  knew  the  passage,  the 
second  followed  but  a  third  missed  the  true 
course,  and  was  driven  forward  with  great 
danger  of  being  forced  into  the  vast  ocean,  but 
however  gained  at  last  some  other  island.  The 
crews  crept  to  Talisker,  almost  lifeless  with  wet, 
cold,  fatigue,  and  terror,  but  the  lady  took  care 
of  them.  She  is  a  woman  of  more  than  common 
qualifications ;  having  travelled  with  her  hus- 
band, she  speaks  four  languages. 

You  find  that  all  the  islanders,  even  in  these 
recesses  of  life,  are  not  barbarous.  One  of  the 
ministers  who  has  adhered  to  us  almost  all  the 
time  is  an  excellent  scholar.  We  have  now  with 
us  the  young  laird  of  Col,  who  is  heir,  perhaps, 
to  two  hundred  square  miles  of  land.  He  has 
first  studied  at  Aberdeen,  and  afterwards  gone 
to  Hertfordshire  to  learn  agriculture,  being  much 
impressed  with  desire  of  improvement :  he  like- 
wise has  the  notions  of  a  chief,  and  keeps  a 
piper.  At  Macleod's  the  bagpipe  always  played 
while  we  were  dining. 

Col  has  undertaken,  by  permission  of  the 
waves  and  wind,  to  carry  us  about  several  of  the 
islands,  with  which  he  is  acquainted  enough  to 
show  us  whatever  curious  is  given  by  nature  or 
left  by  antiquity;  but  we  grew  afraid  of  deviating 
from  our  way  home,  lest  we  should  be  shut  up 
for  months  upon  some  little  protuberance  of  rock, 
that  just  appears  above  the  sea,  and  perhaps  is 
scarcelv  marked  upon  a  map. 


You  remember  the  Doge  of  Genoa,  who  being 
asked  what  struck  him  most  at  the  French  court? 
answered,  "Myself."  I  cannot  think  many 
things  here  more  likely  to  affect  the  fancy  than 
to  see  Johnson  ending  his  sixty-fourth  year  in 
the  wilderness  of  the  Hebrides.  But  now  I  am 
here,  it  will  gratify  me  very  little  to  return  with- 
out seeing,  or  doing  my  best  to  see  what  those 
places  afford.  I  have  a  desire  to  instruct  myseli 
in  the  whole  system  of  pastoral  life  ;  but  I  know 
not  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  perfect  t'he  idea. 
However,  I  have  many  pictures  in  my  mind, 
which  I  could  not  have  had  without  this  journey, 
and  should  have  passed  it  with  great  pleasure 
had  you,  and  Master,  and  dueeney,  been  in  the 
party.  We  should  have  excited  the  attention 
and  enlarged  the  observation  of  each  other,  and 
obtained  many  pleasing  topics  of  future  conver- 
sation. As  it  is,  I  travel  with  my  mind  too  much 
at  home,  and  perhaps  miss  many  things  worthy 
of  observation,  or  pass  them  with  transient 
notice ;  so  that  the  images,  for  want  of  that  re-im- 
pression which  discussion  and  comparison  pro- 
duce, easily  fade  away ;  but  I  keep  a  book  ot 
remarks,  and  Boswell  writes  a  regular  journal  of 
our  travels,  which,  I  think,  contains  as  much  of 
what  I  say  and  do,  as  of  all  other  occurrences 
together ;  "  for  such  a  faithful  chronicler  as 
Griffith." 

I  hope,  dearest  Madam,  you  are  equally  care- 
ful to  reposit  proper  memorials  of  all  that  hap- 
pens to  you  and  your  family,  and  then  when  we 
meet  we  shall  tell  our  stones.  I  wish  you  had 
gone  this  summer  in  your  usual  splendour  to 
Brighthelmstone. 

Mr.  Thrale  probably  wonders  how  I  live  all 
this  time  without  sending  to  him  for  money. 
Travelling  in  Scotland  is  dear  enough,  dearer  m 
proportion  to  what  the  country  affords  than  in 
England,  but  residence  in  the  isles  is  unexpen 
sive.  Company  is,  I  think,  considered  as  a  sup 
ply  of  pleasure,  and  a  relief  of  that  tedioueness 
of  life  which  is  felt  in  every  place,  elegant  or 
rude.  Of  wine  and  punch  they  are  very  liberal, 
for  they,  get  them  cheap ;  but  as  there  is  no  cus- 
tom-house on  the  island,  they  can  hardly  be 
considered  as  smugglers.  Their  punch  is  made 
without  lemons  or  any  substitute. 

Their  tables  are  very  plentiful ;  but  a  very  nice 
man  would  not  be  pampered.  As  they  have  no 
meat,  but  as  they  kill  it,  they  are  obliged  to  live 
while  it  lasts  upon  the  same  flesh.  They  kill  a 
sheep,  and  set  mutton  boiled  and  roast  on  the 
table  together.  They  have  fish  both  of  the  sea 
and  of  the  brooks :  but  they  can  hardly  conceive 
that  it.  requires  any  sauce.  To  sauce  m  general 
they  are  strangers :  now  and  then  butter  is 
melted,  but  I  dare  not  always  take  lest  I  should 
offend  by  disliking  it.  Barley-broth  is  a  constant 
dish,  and  is  made  well  in  every  house.  A 
stranger,  if  he  is  prudent,  will  secure  his  share, 
for  it  is  not  certain  that  he  will  be  able  to  eat  any 
thing  else. 

Their  meat,  being  often  newly  killed,  is  very 
tough,  and,  as  nothing  is  sufficiently  subdued  by 
the  fire,  is  not  easily  to  be  eaten.  Carving  is 
here  a  very  laborious  employment,  for  the  kmves 
are  never  whetted.  Table-knives  are  not  of  long 
subsistence  in  the  Highlands ;  every  man,  while 
arms  were  a  regular  part  of  dress,  had  his  knife 
and  fork  appendant  to  his  dirk.  Knives  they 
now  lay  upon  the  table,  but  the  handles  are  apt 


LETTERS. 


513 


to  show  that  they  have  been  in  other  hands,  and 
the  bU.des  have  never  brightness  nor  edge. 

Of  silver  there  is  no  want,  and  it  will  last  long, 
for  it  is  never  cleaned.  They  are  a  nation  just 
rising  from  barbarity:  long  contented  with  neces- 
saries, now  somewhat  studious  of  convenience, 
but  not  yet  arrived  at  delicate  discriminations. 
Their  linen  is,  however,  both  clean  and  fine. 
Bread,  such  as  we  mean  by  that  name,  I  have 
never  seen  in  the  Isle  of  Skie.  They  have  ovens, 
for  they  bake  their  pies ;  but  they  never  ferment 
their  meal,  nor  mould  a  loaf.  Cakes  of  oats  and 
barley  are  brought  to  the  table,  but  I  believe 
wheat  is  reserved  for  strangers.  They  are  com- 
monly too  hard  for  me,  and  therefore  I  take  pota- 
toes to  my  meat,  and  am  sure  to  find  them  on 
almost  every  table. 

They  retain  so  much  of  the  pastoral  life,  that 
sonic  preparation  of  milk  is  commonly  one  of 
the  dishes  both  at  dinner  and  supper.  Tea  is 
always  drank  at  the  usual  times  ;  but  in  the 
morning  the  table  is  polluted  with  a  plate  of 
slices  of  strong  cheese.  This  is  peculiar  to  the 
Highlands ;  at  Edinburgh  there  are  always  honey 
and  sweetmeats  on  the  morning  tea-table. 

Strong  liquors  they  seem  to  love.  Every  man, 
perhaps  woman,  begins  the  day  with  a  dram ;  and 
the  punch  is  made  both  at  dinner  and  supper. 

They  have  neither  wood  nor  coal  for  fuel,  but 
burn  peat  or  turf  in  their  chimneys.  It  is  dug 
out  of  the  moors  or  mosses,  and  makes  a  strong 
and  lasting  fire,  not  always  very  sweet,  and 
somewhat  apt  to  smoke  the  pot. 

The  houses  of  inferior  gentlemen  are  very 
small,  and  every  room  serves  many  purposes. 
In  the  bed-rooms,  perhaps,  are  laid  up  stores  of 
different  kinds ;  and  the  parlour  of  the  day  is  a 
bed-room  at  night.  In  the  room  which  I  inhabited 
last,  about  fourteen  feet  square,  there  were  three 
chests  of  drawers,  a  long  chest  for  larger  clothes, 
two  closet  cupboards,  and  the  bed.  Their  rooms 
are  commonly  dirty,  of  which  they  seem  to  have 
little  sensibility,  and  if  they  had  more,  clean 
floors  would  be  difficultly  kept,  where  the  first 
step  from  the  door  is  into  the  dirt.  They  are 
very  much  inclined  to  carpets,  and  seldom  fail  to 
lay  down  something  under  their  feet,  better  or 
worse,  as  they  happen  to  be  furnished. 

The  Highland  dress,  being  forbidden  by  law, 
is  very  little  used  ;  sometimes  it  may  be  seen,  but 
the  English  traveller  is  struck  with  nothing  so 
much  as  the  nudite  des  pieds  of  the  common 
peo.pl  e. 

Skie  is  the  greatest  island,  or  the  greatest  but 
one,  among  the  Hebrides.  Of  the  soil  I  have 
already  given  some  account:  it  is  generally  bar- 
ren, but  some  spots  are  not  wholly  unfruitful. 
The  gardens  have  apples  and  pears,  cherries, 
strawberries,  raspberries,  currants,  and  goose- 
berries, but  all  the  fruit  that  I  have  seen  is 
small.  They  attempt  to  sow  nothing  but  oats 
and  barley.  Oats  constitute  the  bread  corn  of 
the  place.  Their  harvest  is  about  the  beginning 
of  October ;  and  being  so  late,  is  very  much 
subject  to  disappointments  from  the  rains  that 
follow  the  equinox.  This  year  has  been  particu- 
larly disastrous.  Their  rainy  season  lasts  from 
Autumn  to  Spring.  They  have  seldom  very 
hard  frosts ;  nor  was  it  ever  known  that  a  lake 
was  covered  with  ice  strong  enough  to  bear  a 
skaiter.  The  sea  round  them  is  always  open. 
The  snow  falls  but  soon  melts;  only  m  1771, 
3  P 


they  had  a  cold  spring,  in  which  the  island  was 
so  long  covered  with  it,  that  many  beasts,  both 
wild  and  domestic,  perished,  and  the  whole 
country  was  reduced  to  distress,  from  which  I 
know  not  if  it  is  even  yet  recovered. 

The  animals  here  are  not  remarkably  small ; 
perhaps  they  recruit  their  breed  from  the  main 
land.  The  cows  are  sometimes  without  horns. 
The  horned  and  unhorned  cattle  are  not  acci- 
dental variations,  but  different  species :  they  will, 
however,  breed  together. 

October  3d.  The  wind  is  now  changed,  and 
if  we  snatch  the  moment  of  opportunity,  an 
escape  from  this  island  is  become  practicable ;  1 
have  no  reason  to  complain  of  my  reception,  yet 
I  long  to  be  again  at  home. 

You  and  my  master  may  perhaps  expect,  after 
this  description  of  Skie,  some  account  of  myself. 
My  eye  is,  I  am  afraid,  not  fully  recovered  ;  my 
ears  are  not  mended  ;  my  nerves  seem  to  grow 
weaker,  and  I  have  been  otherwise  not  as  well 
as  I  sometimes  am,  but  think  myself  lately  bet- 
ter. This  climate,  perhaps,  is  not  within  my 
degree  of  healthy  latitude. 

Thus  I  have  given  my  most  honoured  mistress 
the  story  of  me  and  my  little  ramble.  We  are 
now  going  to  some  other  isle,  to  what  we  know 
not ;  the  wind  will  tells  us.  I  am,  &c." 


LETTER  XXV.— To  THE  SAME. 

Mull,  Oct.  15th,  1773 
DEAR  MADAM, 

THOUGH  I  have  written  to  Mr.  Thrale,  yet 
having  a  little  more  time  than  was  promised  me, 
I  would  not  suffer  the  messenger  to  go  without 
some  token  of  my  duty  to  my  mistress,  who,  I 
suppose,  expects  the  usual  tribute  of  intelligence, 
a  tribute  which  I  am  not  now  very  able  to  pay. 

October  3d.  After  having  been  detained  by 
storms  many  days  in  Skie,  we  left  it,  as  we 
thought,  with  a  fair  wind ;  but  a  violent  gust, 
which  Bos.  had  a  great  mind  to  call  a  tempest, 
forced  us  into  Col,  an  obscure  island ;  on  which 


nulla  campis 


Arbor  cestiva  recreatur  aura. 
There  is  literally  no  tree  upon  the  island,  part 
of  it  is  a  sandy  waste,  over  which  it  would  be 
really  dangerous  to  travel  in  dry  weather  and 
with  a  high  wind.  It  seems  to  be  little  more 
than  one  continued  rock,  covered  from  space  to 
space  with  a  thin  layer  of  earth.  It  is,  however, 
according  to  the  Highland  notion,  very  popu- 
lous, and  life  is  improved  beyond  the  manners  of 
Skie;  for  the  huts  are  collected  into  little  vil- 
lages, and  every  one  has  a  small  garden  of  roots 
and  cabbage.  The  laird  has  a  new  house  built 
by  his  uncle,  and  an  old  castle  inhabited  by  his 
ancestors.  The  young  laird  entertained  us  very 
liberally ;  he  is  heir,  perhaps,  to  three  hundred 
square  miles  of  land,  which  at  ten  shillings  an 
acre,  would  bring  him  ninety-six  thousand 
pounds  a  year.  He  is  desirous  of  improving  the 
agriculture  of  his  country ;  and  in  imitation  of 
the  Czar,  travelled  for  improvement,  and  worked 
with  his  own  hands  upon  a  farm  in  Hertfordshire 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  your  uncle  Sir  Thomas 
Salusbury.  He  talks  of  doing  useful  things,  and 
has  introduced  turnips  for  winter  fodder.  He 
has  made  a  small  essay  towards  a  road. 


514 


LETTERS. 


Col  is  but  a  barren  place.  Description  has 
here  few  opportunities  of  spreading  her  colours. 
The  difference  of  day  and  night  is  the  only  vicis- 
situde. The  succession  of  sunshine  to  rain,  or 
of  calms  to  tempests,  we  have  not  known  ;  wind 
and  rain  have  been  our  only  weather. 

At  last,  after  about  nine  days,  we  hired  a 
sloop ;  and  having  lain  in  it  all  night,  with  such 
accommodations  as  these  miserable  vessels  can 
afford,  were  landed  yesterday  on  the  Isle  of 
Mull ;  from  which  we  expect  an  easy  passage 
into  Scotland.  I  am  sick  in  a  ship,  but  recover 
by  lying  down. 

I  have  not  good  health ;  I  do  not  find  that 
travelling  much  helps  me.  My  nights  are  flatu- 
lent, though  not  in  the  utmost  degree,  and  I  have 
a  weakness  in  my  knees,  which  makes  me  very 
unable  to  walk. 

Pray,  dear  Madam,  let  me  have  a  long  letter. 
I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXVI.— To  THE  SAME. 

Inverary,  Oct.  21th,  1773. 

HONOURED  MISTRESS, 

MT  last  letters  to  you  and  my  dear  master  were 
written  from  Mull,  the  third  island  of  the 
Hebrides  in  extent.  There  is  no  post,  and  I 
took  the  opportunity  of  a  gentleman's  passage  to 
the  main  land. 

In  Mull  we  were  confined  two  days  by  the 
weather ;  on  the  third  we  got  on  horseback,  and 
after  a  journey  difficult  and  tedious,  over  rocks 
naked  and  valleys  untracked,  through  a  country 
of  barrenness  and  solitude,  we  came,  almost  in 
the  dark,  to  the  sea-side,  weary  and  dejected, 
having  met  with  nothing  but  water  falling  from 
the  mountains  that  could  raise  any  image  of 
delight.  Our  company  was  the  young  Laird  of 
Col  and  his  servant.  Col  made  every  Maclean 
open  his  house  where  he  came,  and  supply  us 
with  horses  when  we  departed ;  but  the  horses  of 
this  country  are  small,  and  I  was  not  mounted 
to  my  wish. 

At  the  sea-side  we  found  the  ferry-boat 
departed ;  if  it  had  been  where  it  was  expected, 
the  wind  was  against  us,  and  the  hour  was  late, 
nor  was  it  very  desirable  to  cross  the  sea  in 
darkness  with  a  small  boat.  The  captain  of  a 
sloop  that  had  been  driven  thither  by  the  storm, 
saw  our  distress,  and  as  we  were  hesitating  and 
deliberating,  sent  his  boat,  which,  by  Col's 
order,  transported  us  to  the  Isle  of  Ulva.  We 
were  introduced  to  Mr.  Macquarry,  the  head  of 
a  small  clan,  whose  ancestors  have  reigned  in 
Ulva  beyond  memory,  but  who  has  reduced  him- 
self by  his  negligence  and  folly,  to  the  necessity 
of  selling  this  venerable  patrimony. 

On  the  next  morning  we  passed  the  strait  of 
Inch  Kenneth,  an  island  about  a  mile  in  length, 
and  less  than  half  a  mile  broad  ;  in  which  Ken- 
neth, a  Scottish  saint,  established  a  small  clerical 
college,  of  which  the  chapel  walls  are  still  stand- 
ing. At  this  place  I  beheld  a  scene  which  I 
wish  you  and  my  master  and  dueeney  had 
partaken. 

The  only  family  on  the  island  is  that  of  Sir 
Allan,  the  chief  of  the  ancient  and  numerous 
clan  of  Maclean ;  the  clan  which  claims  the 
second  place,  yielding  only  to  Macdonald  in  the 
line  of  battle.  Sir  Allan,  a  chieftain,  a  haronet,. 


and  a  soldier,  inhabits  in  this  insulated  desert  a 
thatched  hut  with  no  chambers.  Young  Col, 
who  owns  him  as  his  chief,  and  whose  cousin 
was  his  lady,  had,  I  believe,  given  him  some 
notice  of  our  visit ;  he  received  us  with  a  soldier's 
frankness  and  the  gentleman's  elegance,  and 
introduced  us  to  his  daughters,  two  young  ladies 
who  have  not  wanted  education  suitable  to  their 
birth,  and  who,  in  their  cottage,  neither  forgot 
their  dignity,  nor  affected  to  remember  it.  Do 
not  you  wish  to  have  been  with  us  ? 

Sir  Allan's  affairs  are  in  disorder  by  the  fault 
of  his  ancestors :  and  while  he  forms  some 
scheme  for  retrieving  them,  he  has  retreated 
hither. 

When  our  salutations  were  over,  he  showed 
us  the  island.  We  walked  uncovered  into  the 
chapel,  and  saw  in  the  reverend  ruin  the  effects 
of  precipitate  reformation.  The  floor  is  covered 
with  ancient  grave-stones  of  which  the  inscrip- 
tions are  not  now  legible ;  and  without,  some 
of  the  chief  families  still  continue  the  right  of 
sepulture.  The  altar  is  not  yet  quite  demolished ; 
beside  it,  on  the  right  side,  is  a  bas-relief  of  the 
Virgin  with  her  child,  and  an  angel  hovering 
over  her.  On  the  other  side  still  stands  a  hand- 
bell, which,  though  it  has  no  clapper,  neither 
Presbyterian  bigotry,  nor  barbarian  wantonness 
has  yet  taken  away.  The  chapel  is  thirty-eight 
feet  long,  and  eighteen  broad.  Boswell,  who  is 
very  pious,  went  into  it  at  night,  to  perform  his 
devotions,  but  came  back  in  haste  for  fear  of 
spectres.  Near  the  chapel  is  a  fountain,  to 
which  the  water,  remarkably  pure,  is  conveyed 
from  a  distant  hill,  through  pipes  laid  by  the 
Romish  clergy,  which  still  perform  the  office  of 
conveyance,  though  they  have  never  been  repaired 
since  Popery  was  suppressed. 

We  soon  after  went  in  to  dinner,  and  wanted 
neither  the  comforts  nor  the  elegancies  of  life. 
There  were  several  dishes,  and  variety  of  liquors. 
The  servants  live  in  another  cottage,  in  which,  I 
suppose,  the  meat  is  dressed. 

Towards  evening,  Sir  Allan  told  us,  that 
Sunday  never  passed  over  him  like  another  day. 
One  of  the  ladies  read,  and  read  very  well,  the 
evening  service ; — and  Paradise  was  opened  in 
the  wild. 

Next  day,  18th,  we  went  and  wandered  among 
the  rocks  on  the  shore,  while  the  boat  was  busy 
in  catching  oysters,  of  which  there  is  a  great  becl. 
Oysters  lie  upon  the  sand,  one,  I  think,  sticking 
to  another,  and  cockles  are  found  a  few  inches 
under  the  sand. 

We  then  went  in  the  boat  to  Spndiland,  a  lit- 
tle island  very  near.  We  found  it  a  wild  rock, 
of  about  ten  acres ;  part  naked,  part  covered 
with  sand,  out  of  which  we  picked  shells  ;  and 
part  clothed  with  a  thin  layer  of  mould,  on  the 
grass  of  which  a  few  sheep  are  sometimes  fed. 
We  then  came  back  and  dined.  I  passed  part 
of  the  afternoon  in  reading,  and  in  the  evening 
one  of  the  ladies  played  on  her  harpsichord,  and 
Boswell  and  Col  danced  a  reel  with  the  other. 

On  the  19th,  we  persuaded  Sir  Allan  to  launch 
his  boat  again,  and  go  with  us  to  Icolmkill, 
where  the  first  great  preacher  of  Christianity  to 
the  Scots  built  a  church  and  settled  a  monastery. 
In  our  way  we  stopped  to  examine  a  very  uncom- 
mon cave  on  the  coast  of  Mull.  We  had  some 
difficulty  to  make  our  way  over  the  vast  masses 
of  broken  rocks  that  lie  before  the  entrance, 


LETTERS. 


515 


and  at  the  mouth  were  embarrassed  with  stones, 
which  the  sea  had  accumulated,  as  at  Bright- 
helmstone  ;  but  as  we  advanced,  we  reached  a 
floor  of  soft  sand,  and  as  we  left  the  light  behind 
us,  walked  along  a  very  spacious  cavity,  vaulted 
over  head  with  an  arch  almost  regular,  by  which 
a  mountain  was  sustained,  at  least  a  very  lofty 
rock.  From  this  magnificent  cavern  went  a 
narrow  passage  to  the  right  hand,  which  we 
entered  with  a  candle,  and  though  it  was 
obstructed  with  great  stones,  clambered  over 
them  to  a  second  expansion  of  the  cave,  in  which 
there  lies  a  great  square  stone,  which  might 
serve  as  a  table.  The  air  here  was  very  warm, 
but  not  oppressive,  and  the  flame  of  the  candle 
continued  pyramidal.  The  cave  goes  onward 
to  an  unknown  extent,  but  we  were  now  one 
hundred  and  sixty  yards  under  ground  ;  we  had 
but  one  candle,  and  had  never  heard  of  any  that 
went  farther  and  came  back ;  we  therefore 
thought  it  prudent  to  return. 

Going  forward  in  our  boat,  we  came  to  a 
cluster  of  rocks,  black  and  horrid,  which  Sir 
Allan  chose  for  the  place  where  he  would  eat 
his  dinner.  We  climbed  till  we  got  seats.  The 
stores  were  opened,  and  the  repast  taken. 

We  then  entered  the  boat  again ;  the  night 
came  upon  us  ;  the  wind  rose  ;  the  sea  swelled  ; 
and  Boswell  desired  to  be  set  on  dry  ground : 
we,  however,  pursued  our  navigation,  and  passed 
by  several  little  islands  in  the  silent  solemnity  of 
faint  moonshine,  seeing  little,  and  hearing  only 
the  wind  and  the  water.  At  last  we  reached 
the  island,  the  venerable  seat  of  ancient  sanctity ; 
where  secret  piety  reposed,  and  where  fallen 
greatness  was  reposited.  The  island  has  no 
house  of  entertainment,  and  we  manfully  made 
our  bed  in  a  farmer's  barn.  The  description  I 
hope  to  give  you  another  time.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXVII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Edinburgh,  Nov.  12tt,  1773. 
DEAREST  MADAM, 

AMONG  the  possibilities  of  evil  which  my  imagi- 
nation suggested  at  this  distance,  I  missed  that 
which  has  really  happened.  I  never  had  much 
hope  of  a  will  in  your  favour,  but  was  willing 
to  believe  that  no  will  would  have  been  made. 
The  event  is  now  irrevocable :  it  remains  only 
to  bear  it.  Not  to  wish  it  had  been  different  is 
impossible ;  but  as  the  wish  is  painful  without 
use,  it  is  not  prudent,  perhaps  not  lawful  to 
indulge  it.  As  life,  and  vigour  of  mind,  and 
sprightliness  of  imagination,  and  flexibility  of 
attention  are  given  us  for  valuable  and  useful 
purposes,  we  must  not  think  ourselves  at  liberty 
to  squander  life,  to  enervate  intellectual  strength, 
to  cloud  our  thoughts,  or  fix  our  attention,  when 
by  all  this  expense  we  know  that  no  good  can 
be  produced.  Be  alone  as  little  as  you  can  ; 
when  you  are  alone,  do  not  suffer  your  thoughts 
to  dwell  on  what  you  might  have  done  to  pre- 
vent this  disappointment.  You  perhaps  could 
not  have  done  what  you  imagine,  or  might  have 
done  it  without  effect.  But  even  to  think  in 
the  most  reasonable  manner,  is  for  the  present 
not  so  useful  as  not  to  think.  Remit  yourself 
solemnly  into  the  hands  of  God,  and  th'en  turn 
your  mind  upon  the  business  and  amusements 


which  lie  before  you.  "All  is  best,"  says 
Chene,  "as  it  has  been,  excepting  the  errors 
of  our  own  free  will."  Burton  concludes  his 
long  book  upon  Melancholy  with  this  important 
precept :  "  Be  not  solitary  ;  be  not  idle."  Re- 
member Chene's  position,  and  observe  Burton's 
precept. 

We  came  hither  on  the  9th  of  this  month.  I 
long  to  come  under  your  care,  but  for  some  days 
cannot  decently  get  away.  They  congratulate 
our  return  as  if  we  had  been  with  Phipps  or 
Banks ;  I  am  ashamed  of  their  salutations. 

I  have  been  able  to  collect  very  little  for 
Q.ueeney's  cabinet ;  but  she  will  not  want  toys 
now,  she  is  so  well  employed.  I  wish  her  suc- 
cess ;  and  am  not  without  some  thought  of 
becoming  her  schoolfellow.  I  have  got  an 
Italian  Rasselas. 

Surely  my  dear  Lucy  will  recover ;  I  wish  1 
could  do  her  good.  I  love  her  very  much ;  and 
should  love  another  godchild,  if  I  might  have 
the  honour  of  standing  to  the  next  baby.  I  am, 
&c. 


LETTER  XXVIII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Edinburgh,  Nov.  IS/A,  1773. 

MY  DEAREST  MISTRESS, 

THIS  is  the  last  letter  that  I  shall  write  ;  while 
you  are  reading  it,  I  shall  be  coming  home. 

I  congratulate  you  upon  your  boy ;  but  you 
must  not  think  that  I  will  love  him  all  at  once  as 
well  as  I  love  Harry,  for  Harry  you  know  is  so 
rational.  I  shall  love  him  by  degrees. 

Poor,  pretty,  dear  Lucy!  Can  nothing  do  her 
good  ?  I  am  sorry  to  lose  her.  But  if  she  must 
be  taken  from  us,  let  us  resign  her  with  confi- 
dence into  the  hands  of  Him  who  knows,  and 
who  only  knows,  what  is  best  both  for  us  and 
her. 

Do  not  suffer  yourself  to  be  dejected.  Reso 
lution  and  diligence  will  supply  all  that  is 
wanting,  and  all  that  is  lost  But  if  your 
health  should  be  impaired,  I  know  not  where  to 
find  a  substitute.  I  shall  have  no  mistress ;  Mr. 
Thrale  will  have  no  wife ,  and  the  little  flock 
will  have  no  mother. 

I  long  to  be  home,  and  have  taken  a  place  in 
the  coach  for  Monday ;  I  hope,  therefore,  to  be 
in  London  on  Friday  the  26th,  in  the  evening. 
Please  to  let  Mrs.  Williams  know.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXIX.— To  THE  SAME. 

Litchfield,  June  2Sd,  1775. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

Now  I  hope  you  are  thinking,  shall  I  have  a 
letter  to-day  from  Litchfield  ?  Something  of  a 
letter  you  will  have ;  how  else  can  I  expect  that 
you  should  write  ?  and  the  morning  on  which  I 
should  miss  a  letter  would  be  a  morning  of  unea- 
siness, notwithstanding  all  that  would  be  said 
or  done  by  the  sisters  of  Stowhill,  who  do  and 
say  whatever  good  they  can.  They  give  me 
good  words,  and  cherries,  and  strawberries. 
Lady  *  *  *  *  and  her  mother  and  sister  were 
visiting  there  yesterday,  and  Lady  *  *  *  *  took 
her  tea  before  her  mother. 


516 


LETTERS. 


Mrs.  Cobb  is  to  come  to  Miss  Porter's  this 

afternoon.  Miss  A comes  little  near  me. 

Mr.  Langley,  of  Ashbourne,  was  here  to-day,  in 
his  way  to  Birmingham,  and  every  body  talks  of 
you. 

The  ladies  of  the  Amicable  Society  are  to 
walk  in  a  few  days,  from  the  town-hall  to  the 
cathedral  in  procession,  to  hear  a  sermon.  They 
walk  in  linen  gowns,  and  each  has  a  stick  with 
an  acorn,  but  for  the  acorn  they  could  give  no 
reason,  till  I  told  them  of  the  civic  crown. 

I  have  just  had  your  sweet  letter,  and  am 
glad  that  you  are  to  be  at  the  Regatta.  You 
know  how  little  I  love  to  have  you  left  out  of 
any  shining  part  of  life.  You  have  every  right 
to  distinction,  and  should  therefore  be  distin- 
guished. You  will  see  a  show  with  philosophic 
superiority,  and  therefore  may  see  it  safely.  It 
is  easy  to  talk  of  sitting  at  home  contented  when 
others  are  seeing  or  making  shows.  But  not  to 
have  been  where  it  is  supposed,  and  seldom  sup- 
posed falsely,  that  all  would  go  if  they  could ;  to 
be  able  to  say  nothing  when  every  one  is  talk- 
ing; to  have  no  opinion  when  every  one  is 
judging ;  to  hear  exclamations  of  rapture,  with- 
out power  to  depress;  to  listen  to  falsehoods 
without  right  to  contradict,  is,  after  all,  a  state 
of  temporary  inferiority,  in  which  the  mind  is 
rather  hardened  by  stubbornness,  than  supported 
by  fortitude.  If  the  world  be  worth  winning, 
let  us  enjoy  it;  if  it  is  to  be  despised,  let  us 
despise  it  by  conviction.  But  the  world  is  not 
to  be  despised,  but  as  it  is  compared  with  some- 
thing better.  Company  is  in  itself  better  than 
solitude,  and  pleasure  better  than  indolence. 
Ex  nlhilo  nihilfit,  says  the  moral  as  well  as  the 
natural  philosopher.  By  doing  nothing,  and  by 
knowing  nothing,  no  power  of  doing  good  can 
be  obtained.  He  must  mingle  with  the  world 
that  desires  to  be  useful.  Every  new  scene 
impresses  new  ideas,  enriches  the  imagination, 
and  enlarges  the  power  of  reason,  by  new  topics 
of  comparison.  You  that  have  seen  the  Regatta 
will  have  images  which  we  who  miss  it  must 
want,  and  no  intellectual  images  are  without 
use.  But  when  you  are  in  this  scene  of  splen- 
dour and  gayety,  do  not  let  one  of  your  fits  of 
negligence  steal  upon  you.  Hoc  age,  is  the  great 
rule,  whether  you  are  serious  or  merry :  whether 
you  are  stating  the  expenses  of  your  family, 
learning  science  or  duty  from  a  folio,  or  floating 
on  the  Thames  in  a  fancied  dress,  Of  the  whole 
entertainment  let  me  not  hear  so  copious  nor  so 
true  an  account  from  any  body  as  from  you.  I 
am,  dearest  Madam,  your,  &c. 


LETTER  XXX.— To  THE  SAME. 

Jlshbourne. 
DEAREST  MADAM, 

1  AM  sure  I  write  and  write,  and  every  letter  that 
comes  from  you  charges  me  with  not  writing. 
Since  I  wrote  to  dueeney  I  have  written  twice 
to  you,  on  the  6th  and  the  9th:  be  pleased  to  let 
me  know  whether  you  have  them  or  have  them 
not.  That  of  the  6th  you  should  regularly  have 
had  on  the  8th,  yet  your  letter  of  the  9th  seems 
not  to  mention  it ;  all  this  puzzles  me. 

Poor  dear  *  *  *  *  !  He  only  grows  dull  because 
he  is  sickly ;  age  has  not  yet  begun  to  impair 
him;  nor  is  he  such  a  chameleon  as  to  take 


immediately  the  colour  of  his  company.  When 
you  see  him  again,  you  will  find  him  reanimated. 
Most  men  have  their  bright  and  their  cloudy 
days ;  at  least  they  have  days  when  they  put 
their  powers  into  action,  and  days  when  they 
suffer  them  to  repose. 

Fourteen  thousand  pounds  make  a  sum  suffi- 
cient for  the  establishment  of  a  family,  and 
which,  in  whatever  flow  of  riches  or  confidence 
of  prosperity,  deserves  to  be  very  seriously  con- 
sidered. I  hope  a  great  part  of  it  has  paid  debts, 
and  no  small  part  bought  land.  As  for  gravel- 
ling and  •walling  and  digging,  though  I  am  not 
much  delighted  with  them,  yet  something,  indeed 
much,  must  be  allowed  to  every  man's  taste. 
He  that  is  growing  rich  has  a  right  to  enjoy  part 
of  the  growth  his  own  way.  I  hope  to  range  in 
the  walk,  and  row  upon  the  water,  and  devour 
fruit  from  the  wall. 

Dr.  Taylor  wants  to  be  gardening.  He  means 
to  buy  a  piece  of  ground  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  surround  it  with  a  wall,  and  build  a  garden- 
er's  house  upon  it,  and  have  fruit,  and  be  happy. 
Much  happiness  it  will  not  bring  him  ;  but  what 
can  he  do  better?  If  I  had  money  enough,  what 
would  I  do  ?  Perhaps,  if  you  and  master  did  not 
hold  me,  I  might  go  to  Cairo,  and  down  the 
Red  Sea  to  Bengal,  and  take  a  ramble  in  India. 
Would  this  be  better  than  building  and  plant- 
ing? It  would  surely  give  more  variety  to  the 
eye,  and  more  amplitude  to  the  mind.  Half 
fourteen  thousand  would  send  me  out  to  see 
other  forms  of  existence,  and  bring  me  back  to 
describe  them. 

I  answer  this  the  day  on  which  I  had  yours  ot 
the  9th,  that  is  on  the  lith.  Let  me  know  when 
it  comes.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXXI.— To  THE  SAME. 

Litchjield,  Aug.  2d,  1775 
MADAM, 

I  DINED  to-day  at  Stowhill,  and  am  come  away 
to  write  my  letter.  Never  surely  was  I  such  a 
writer  before.  Do  you  keep  my  letters  ?  I  am 
not  of  your  opinion  that  I  shall  not  like  to  read 
them  hereafter ;  for  though  there  is  in  them  not 
much  history  of  mind,  or  any  thing  else,  they 
will,  I  hope,  always  be  in  some  degree  the  records 
of  a  pure  and  blameless  friendship,  and,  in  some 
hours  of  languor  and  sadness,  may  revive  the 
memory  of  more  cheerful  times. 

Why  you  should  suppose  yourself  not  desirous 
hereafter  to  read  the  history  of  your  own  mind, 
I  do  not  see.  Twelve  years,  on  which  you  now 
look  as  on  a  vast  expanse  of  life,  will  probably 
be  passed  over  uniformly  and  smoothly,  with 
very  little  perception  of  your  progress,  and  with 
very  few  remarks  upon  the  way.  The  accumu- 
lation of  knowledge  which  you  promise  to  your- 
self, by  which  the  future  is  to  look  back  upon 
the  present,  with  the  superiority  of  manhood  to 
infancy,  will  perhaps  never  be  attempted,  or 
never  will  be  made  ;  and  you  will  find,  as  mil- 
lions have  found  before  you,  that  forty-five  has 
made  little  sensible  addition  to  thirty-three. 

As  the  body  after  a  certain  time  gains  no 
increase  of  height,  and  little  of  strength,  there  is 
likewise  a  period,  though  more  variable  by  exter 
nal  causes,  when  the  mind  commonly  attains 
its  stationary  point,  and  very  little  advances  its 


LETTERS. 


517 


powers  of  reflection,  judgment,  and  ratiocina- 
tion. The  body  may  acquire  new  modes  of 
motion,  or  new  dexterities  of  mechanic  opera- 
tions, but  its  original  strength  receives  not 
improvement:  the  mind  may  be  stored  with  new 
languages,  or  new  sciences,  but  its  power  of 
thinking  remains  nearly  the  same,  and  unless  it 
attains  new  subjects  of  meditation,  it  commonly 
produces  thoughts  of  the  same  force  and  the 
same  extent,  at  very  distant  intervals  of  life ;  as 
the  tree,  unless  a  foreign  fruit  be  ingrafted,  gives 
year  after  year  productions  of  the  same  form  and 
the  same  flavour. 

By  intellectual  force  or  strength  of  thought  is 
meant  the  degree  of  power  which  the  mind  pos- 
sesses of  surveying  the  subject  of  meditation, 
with  its  circuit  of  concomitants,  and  its  train  of 
dependence. 

Of  this  power,  which  all  observe  to  be  very 
different  in  different  minds,  part  seems  the  gift 
of  nature,  and  part  the  acquisition  of  experience. 
When  the  powers  of  nature  have  attained  their 
intended  energy,  they  can  be  no  more  advanced. 
The  shrub  can  never  become  a  tree.  And  it  is 
not  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  they  are  before 
the  middle  of  life  in  their  full  vigour. 

Nothing  then  remains  but  practice  and  expe- 
rience ;  and  perhaps  why  they  do  so  little,  may 
be  worth  inquiry. 

But  I  have  just  now  looked,  and  find  it  so 
late,  that  1  will  inquire  against  the  next  post- 
night.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXXII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Litchfield,  Aug.  5th,  1775. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

INSTEAD  of  forty  reasons  for  my  return,  one  is 
sufficient, — that  you  wish  for  my  company.     I 

Eurpose  to  write  no  more  till  you  see  me.  The 
idies  at  Stowhill  and  Greenhill  are  unanimously 
of  opinion,  that  it  will  be  best  to  take  a  post- 
chaise,  and  not  to  be  troubled  with  the  vexations 
of  a  common  carriage.  I  will  venture  to  suppose 
the  ladies  at  Streatham  to  be  of  the  same  mind. 

You  will  now  expect  to  be  told  why  you  will 
not  be  so  much  wiser  as  you  expect,  when  you 
have  lived  twelve  years  longer. 

It  is  said,  and  said  truly,  that  experience  is  the 
best  teacher ;  and  it  is  supposed,  that  as  life  is 
lengthened  experience  is  increased.  But  a  closer 
inspection  of  human  life  will  discover  that  time 
often  passes  without  any  incident  which  can 
much  enlarge  knowledge  or  ratify  judgment. 
When  we  are  young  we  learn  much,  because  we 
are  universally  ignorant ;  we  observe  everything, 
because  every  thing  is  new.  But  after  some 
years,  the  occurrences  of  daily  life  are  exhausted ; 
one  day  passes  like  another,  in  the  same  scene 
of  appearances,  in  the  same  course  of  transac- 
tions ;  we  have  to  do  what  we  have  often  done, 
and  what  we  do  not  try,  because  we  do  not  wish 
to  do  much  better ;  we  are  told  what  we  already 
know,  and  therefore  what  repetition  cannot  make 
us  know  with  greater  certainty. 

He  that  has  early  learned  much  perhaps  sel- 
dom makes,  with  regard  to  life  and  manners, 
much  addition  to  his  knowledge :  not  only 
because  as  more  is  known  there  is  less  to  learn, 
but  because  a  mind  stored  with  images  and  prin- 


ciples turns  inwards  for  its  own  entertainment, 
and  is  employed  in  settling  those  ideas  which  run 
into  confusion,  and  in  recollecting  those  which 
are  stealing  away ;  practices  by  which  wisdom 
may  be  kept,  but  not  gained.  The  merchant 
who  was  at  first  busy  in  acquiring  money,  ceases 
to  grow  richer,  from  the  time  when  he  makes  it 
his  business  only  to  count  it. 

Those  who  have  families  or  employments  are 
engaged  in  business  of  little  difficulty,  but  ot 
great  importance,  requiring  rather  assiduity  of 
practice  than  subtilty  of  speculation,  occupying 
the  attention  with  images  too  bulky  for  refine- 
ment, and  too  obvious  for  research.  The  right 
is  already  known  :  what  remains  is  only  to  fol- 
low it.  Daily  business  adds  no  more  to  wisdom, 
than  daily  lesson  to  the  learning  of  the  teacher. 
But  of  how  few  lives  does  not  stated  duty  claim 
the  greater  part  ? 

Far  the  greater  part  of  human  minds  never 
endeavour  their  own  improvement  Opinions 
once  received  from  instruction,  or  settled  by 
whatever  accident,  are  seldom  recalled  to  exa- 
mination ;  having  been  once  supposed  to  be  right, 
they  are  never  discovered  to  be  erroneous,  for  no 
application  is  made  of  any  thing  that  time  may 
present,  either  to  shake  or  to  confirm  them. 
From  this  acquiescence  in  preconceptions  none 
are  wholly  free ;  between  fear  of  uncertainty,  and 
dislike  of  labour,  everyone  rests  while  he  might 
yet  go  forward ;  and  they  that  were  wise  at 
thirty-three,  are  very  little  wiser  at  forty-five. 

Of  this  speculation  you  are  perhaps  tired,  and 
would  rather  hear  of  Sophy.  I  hope  before  this 
comes,  that  her  head  will  be  easier,  and  your 
head  less  filled  with  fears  and  troubles,  which 
you  know  are  to  be  indulged  only  to  prevent 
evil,  not  to  increase  it. 

Your  uneasiness  about  Sophy  is  probably 
unnecessary,  and  at  worst  your  own  children  are 
healthful,  and  your  affairs  prosperous.  Unmin- 
gled  good  cannot  be  expected ;  but  as  we  may 
lawfully  gather  all  the  good  within  our  reach, 
we  may  be  allowed  to  lament  after  that  which 
we  lose.  I  hope  your  losses  are  at  an  end,  and 
that  as  far  as  the  condition  of  our  present  exist- 
ence permits,  your  remaining  life  will  be  happy. 
I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXXIII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Lilchfield,  March  2oth,  1778. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

THIS  letter  will  not,  I  hope,  reach  you  many 
days  before  me ;  in  a  distress  which  can  be  so 
little  relieved,  nothing  remains  for  a  friend  but 
to  come  and  partake  it. 

Poor  dear  sweet  little  boy !  When  I  read  the 
letter  this  day  to  Mre.  Aston,  she  said,  "Such 
a  death  is  the  next  to  translation."  Yet  how- 
ever I  may  convince  myself  of  this,  the  tears  are 
in  my  eyes,  and  yet  I  could  not  loye  him  as  you 
loved  him,  nor  reckon  upon  him  for  a  future  con> 
fort  as  you  and  his  father  reckoned  upon  him. 

He  is  gone,  and  we  are  going!  We  could 
not  have  enjoyed  him  long,  and  shall  not  long  be 
separated  from  him.  He  has  probably  escaped, 
many  such  pangs  as  you  are  now  feeling. 

Nothing  remains,  but  that  with  humble  con 
fidence  we  resign  ourselves  to  Almighty  Good 


518 


LETTERS. 


ness,  and  fall  down,  without  irreverent  mur- 
murs, before  the  Sovereign  Distributor  of  good 
and  evil,  with  hope  that  though  sorrow  endureth 
for  a  night,  yet  joy  may  come  in  the  morning. 

1  have  known  you,  Madam,  too  long  to  think 
that  you  want  any  arguments  for  submission  to 
the  Supreme  Will ;  nor  can  my  consolation  have 
any  effect  but  that  of  showing  that  I  wish  to 
comfort  you.  What  can  be  done  you  must  do 
for  yourself.  Remember  first,  that  your  child  is 
happy ;  and  then,  that  he  is  safe,  not  only  from 
the  ills  of  this  world,  but  from  those  more  formi- 
dable dangers  which  extend  their  mischief  to 
eternity.  You  have  brought  into  the  world  a 
rational  being ;  have  seen  him  happy  during  the 
little  life  that  has  been  granted  him;  ana  can 
have  no  doubt  but  that  his  happiness  is  now  per- 
manent and  immutable. 

When  you  have  obtained  by  prayer  such  tran- 
quillity as  nature  will  admit,  force  your  attention, 
as  you  can,  upon  your  accustomed  duties  and 
accustomed  entertainments.  You  can  do  no 
more  for  our  dear  boy,  but  you  must  not  there- 
fore think  less  on  those  whom  your  attention 
may  make  fitter  for  the  place  to  which  he  is  gone. 
I  am,  dearest,  dearest  Madam,  your  most  affec- 
tionate humble  servant. 


LETTER  XXXIV.— To  THE  SAME. 

Sept.  6lh,  1777. 

DEAREST  LADY, 

IT  is  true  that  I  have  loitered,  and  what  is 
worse,  loitered  with  very  little  pleasure.  The 
time  has  run  away,  as  most  time  runs,  without 
account,  without  use,  and  without  memorial. 
But  to  say  this  of  a  few  weeks,  though  not 
pleasing,  might  be  borne,  but  what  ought  to  be 
the  regret  of  him  who,  in  a  few  days,  will  have 
so  nearly  the  same  to  say  o(  sixty-eight  years  ? 
But  complaint  is  vain. 

If  you  have  nothing  to  say  from  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  metropolis,  what  can  occur  to  me  in 
little  cities  and  petty  towns ;  in  places  which  we 
have  both  seen,  and  of  which  no  description  is 
wanted  ?  I  have  left  part  of  the  company  with 
which  you  dined  here,  to  come  and  write  this 
letter ;  in  which  I  have  nothing  to  tell,  but  that 
my  nights  are  very  tedious.  I  cannot  persuade 
myself  to  forbear  trying  something. 

As  you  have  now  little  to  do,  I  suppose  you 
are  pretty  diligent  at  the  Thraliana ;  and  a  very 
curious  collection  posterity  will  find  it.  Do  not 
remit  the  practice  of  writing  down  occurrences 
as  they  arise,  of  whatever  kind,  and  be  very 
punctual  in  annexing  the  dates.  Chronology, 
you  know,  is  the  eye  of  history ;  and  every  man's 
life  is  of  importance  to  himself.  Do  not  omit 
painful  casualties,  or  unpleasing  passages ;  they 
make  the  variegation  of  existence;  and  there  are 
many  transactions,  of  which  I  will  not  promise 
with  ./Eneas,  et  hcec  olim  memininse  juvabit.  Yet 
that  remembrance  which  is  not  pleasant  may 
be  useful.  There  is  however  an  intemperate 
attention  to  slight  circumstances  which  is  to 
be  avoided,  lest  a  great  part  of  life  be  spent  in 
writing  the  history  of  the  rest  Every  day  per- 
haps has  something  to  be  noted,  but  in  a  settled 
and  uniform  course  few  days  can  have  much. 

Whv  do  I  write  all  this,  which  I  had  no 


thought  of  when  I  began  ?  The  Thraliana  drove 
it  all  into  my  head.  It  deserves  however  an 
hour's  reflection,  to  consider  how,  with  the  least 
loss  of  time,  the  loss  of  what  we  wish  to  retain 
may  be  prevented. 

Do  not  neglect  to  write  to  me,  for  when  a  post 
comes  empty,  I  am  really  disappointed. 

Boswell,  I  believe,  will  meet  me  here.  I  am, 
dearest  lady,  your,  &.c. 


LETTER  XXXV.— To  THE  SAME. 

Litchfield,  Oct.  3d,  1777 
DEAR  MADAM, 

THIS  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall  write,  in  this 
excursion,  from  this  place.  To-morrow  I  shall 
be,  I  hope,  at  Birmingham ;  from  which  place 
I  shall  do  my  best  to  find  the  nearest  way  home. 
I  come  home,  I  think,  worse  than  I  went ;  and 
do  not  like  the  state  of  my  health.  But,  vive 
hodie,  make  the  most  of  life.  I  hope  to  get  bet- 
ter, and — sweep  the  cobwebs.  But  I  have  sad 
nights.  Mrs.  Aston  has  sent  me  to  Mr.  Greene 
to  be  cured. 

Did  you  see  Foote  at  Brighthelmstone  ? — Did 
you  think  he  would  so  soon  be  gone? — Life, 
says  FalstafT,  is  a  shuttle.  He  was  a  fine  fellow 
in  his  way ;  and  the  world  is  really  impoverished 
by  his  sinking  glories.  Murphy  ought  to  write 
his  life,  at  least  to  give  the  world  a  Footeana. 
Now,  will  any  of  his  contemporaries  bewail  him? 
Will  genius  change  his  sex  to  weep?  I  would 
really  have  his  life  written  with  diligence. 

It  will  be  proper  for  me  to  work  pretty  dili- 
gently now  for  some  time.  I  hope  to  get  through, 
though  so  many  weeks  have  passed.  Little  lives 
and  little  criticisms  may  serve. 

Having  been  in  the  country  so  long,  with  very 
little  to  detain  me,  I  am  rather  glad  to  look  homo 
wards.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXXVI.— To  THE  SAME. 

Oct.  13lh,  1777 

DEAR  MADAM, 

YET  I  do  love  to  hear  from  you.  Such  pretty 
kind  letters  as  you  send.  But  it  gives  me  great 
delight  to  find  that  my  master  misses  me.  I  begin 
to  wish  myself  with  you  more  than  I  should  do, 
if  I  were  wanted  less.  It  is  a  good  thing  to  stay 
away  till  one's  company  is  desired,  but  not  so 
good  to  stay  after  it  is  desired. 

You  know  I  have  some  work  to  do.  I  did 
not  set  to  it  very  soon  ;  and  if  I  should  go  up  to 
London  with  nothing  done,  what  would  be  said, 

but  that  I  was  who  can  tell  what?     I 

therefore  stay  till  I  can  bring  up  something  to 
stop  their  mouths,  and  then 

Though  I  am  still  at  Ashboiirne,  I  receive 
your  dear  letters  that  come  to  Lichfield,  and  you 
may  continue  that  direction,  for  I  think  to  get 
thither  as  soon  as  I  can. 

One  of  the  does  died  yesterday,  and  I  am 
afraid  her  fawn  will  be  starved;  I  wish  Miss 
Thrale  had  it  to  nurse ;  but  the  doctor  is  now  all 
for  cattle,  and  minds  very  little  either  does  01 
hens. 

How  did  you  and  your  aunt  part?  Did  you 
turn  her  out  of  doors  to  begin  your  journey?  01 


LETTERS. 


519 


did  she  leave  you  by  her  usual  shortness  of  visits. 
I  love  to  know  how  you  go  on. 

I  cannot  but  think  on  your  kindness  and  my 
master's.  Life  has,  upon  the  whole,  fallen  short, 
very  short,  of  my  early  expectation ;  but  the 
acquisition  of  such  a  friendship,  at  an  age  when 
new  friendships  are  seldom  required,  is  some- 
thing better  than  the  general  course  of  things 
gives  man  a  right  to  expect.  I  think  on  it  with 
great  delight ;  I  am  not  very  apt  to  be  delighted. 
I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXXVII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Litchfield,  Oct.  Tlth,  1777. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

You  talk  of  writing  and  writing,  as  if  you  had 
all  the  writing  to  yourself.  If  our  correspond- 
once  were  printed,  I  am  sure  posterity,  for  pos- 
terity is  always  the  author's  favourite,  would  say 
that  I  am  a  good  writer  too. — Jlnch?  io  sono 
piltore.  To  sit  down  so  often  with  nothing  to 
say  ;  to  say  something  so  often,  almost  without 
consciousness  of  saying,  and  without  any  remem- 
brance of  having  said,  is  a  power  of  which  I  will 
not  violate  my  modesty  by  boasting,  but  I  do  not 
believe  that  every  body  has  it. 

Some,  when  they  write  to  their  friends,  are  all 
affection  ;  some  are  wise  and  sententious ;  some 
strain  their  powers  for  efforts  of  gayety ;  some 
write  news,  and  some  write  secrets ;  but  to  make 
a  letter  without  affection,  without  wisdom,  with- 
out gayety,  without  news,  and  without  a  secret, 
is,  doubtless,  the  great  epistolic  art. 

In  a  man's  letters,  you  know,  Madam,  his 
soul  lies  naked,  his  letters  are  only  the  mirror  of 
his  breast ;  whatever  passes  within  him  is  shown 
undisguised  in  its  natural  process ;  nothing  is 
inverted,  nothing  distorted :  you  see  systems  in 
their  elements  ;  you  discover  actions  in  their 
motives. 

Of  this  great  truth,  sounded  by  the  knowing 
to  the  ignorant,  and  so  echoed  by  the  ignorant 
to  the  knowing,  what  evidence  have  you  now 
before  you  ?  Is  not  my  soul  laid  open  in  these 
veracious  pages  ?  Do  not  you  see  me  reduced 
to  my  first  principles  ?  This  is  the  pleasure  of 
corresponding  with  a  friend,  where  doubt  and 
distrust  have  no  place,  and  every  thing  is  said  as 
it  is  thought.  The  original  idea  is  laid  down  in 
its  simple  purity,  and  all  the  supervenient  con- 
ceptions are  spread  over  it,  stratum  super  stratum, 
as  they  happen  to  be  formed.  These  are  the 
letters  by  which  souls  are  united,  and  by  which 
minds  naturally  in  unison  move  each  other  as 
they  are  moved  themselves.  I  know,  dearest 
lady,  that  in  the  perusal  of  this,  such  is  the  con- 
sanguinity of  our  intellects,  you  will  be  touched 
as  I  am  touched.  I  have  indeed  concealed 
nothing  from  you,  nor  do  I  expect  ever  to  repent 
of  having  th'is  opened  my  heart.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XXXVIII.— To  THE  SAME. 

Nov.  10th,  1777. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

AND  so,  supposing  that  I  might  come  to  town 
and  neglect  to  give  you  notice,  or  thinking  some 
other  strange  thought,  but  certainly  thinking 


wrong,  you  fall  to  writing  about  me  to  Tom 
Davies,  as  if  he  could  tell  you  any  thing  that  I 
would  not  have  you  know.  As  soon  as  I  came 
hither,  I  let  you  know  of  my  arrival ;  and  the 
consequence  is,  that  I  am  summoned  to  Bright- 
helmstone  through  storms,  and  cold,  and  dirt, 
and  all  the  hardships  of  wintry  journeys.  You 
know  my  natural  dread  of  all  those  evils ;  yet 
to  show  my  master  an  example  of  compliance, 
and  to  let  you  know  how  much  I  long  to  see  you, 
and  to  boast  how  little  I  give  way  to  disease,  my 
purpose  is  to  be  with  you  on  Friday. 

I  am  sorry  for  poor  Nezzy,  and  hope  she  will 
in  time  be  better ;  I  hope  the  same  for  myself. 
The  rejuvenescency  of  Mr.  Scrase  gives  us  both 
reason  to  hope,  and  therefore  both  of  us  rejoice 
in  his  recovery.  I  wish  him  well  besides  as  a 
friend  to  my  master. 

I  am  just  come  home  from  not  seeing  my  Lord 
Mayor's  show,  but  I  might  have  seen  at  least 
part  of  it.  But  I  saw  Miss  Wesley  and  her 
brothers ;  she  sends  her  compliments.  Mrs. 
Williams  is  come  home  I  think  a  very  little 
better. 

Every  body  was  an  enemy  to  that  wig. — We 
will  burn  it,  and  get  drunk  ;  for  what  is  joy  with- 
out drink  ?  Wagers  are  laid  in  the  city  about 
our  success,  which  is  yet,  as  the  French  call  it, 
problematical.  Well,  but  seriously,  I  think  1 
shall  be  glad  to  see  you  in  your  own  hair ;  but  do 
not  take  too  much  time  in  combing,  and  twist- 
ing, and  papering,  and  unpapering,  and  curling, 
and  frizzing,  and  powdering,  and  getting  out  the 
powder,  with  all  the  other  operations  required  in 
the  cultivation  of  a  head  of  hair ;  yet  let  it  be 
combed  at  least  once  in  three  months,  on  the 
quarter-day — I  could  wish  it  might  be  combed 
once  at  least  in  six  weeks ;  if  I  were  to  indulge 
my  wishes,  but  what  are  wishes  without  hopes, 
I  should  fancy  the  operation  performed — one 
knows  not  when  one  lias  enough — perhaps 
every  morning.  I  am,  dearest  lady,  your,  &c. 


LETTER  XXXIX.— To  THE  SAME. 

Jlshboume,  June  14M,  1779 
DEAR  MADAM, 

YOUR  account  of  Mr.  Thrale's  illness  is  very 
terrible ;  but  when  I  remember  that  he  seems  to 
have  it  peculiar  to  his  constitution,  that  what- 
ever distemper  he  has,  he  always  has  his  head 
affected,  I  am  less  frighted.  The  seizure  was,  1 
think,  not  apoplectical,  but  hysterical,  and  there- 
fore not  dangerous  to  life.  I  would  have  you 
however  consult  such  physicians  as  you  think 
you  can  best  trust.  Bromfield  seems  to  have 
done  well,  and  by  his  practice  appears  not  to 
suspect  any  apoplexy.  This  is  a  solid  and  fun- 
damental comfort.  I  remember  Dr.  Marsigli,  an 
Italian  physician,  whose  secure  was  more  vio- 
lent than  Mr.  Thrale's,  for  he  fell  down  helpless, 
but  his  case  was  not  considered  as  of  much 
danger,  and  he  went  6afe  home,  and  is  now  a 
professor  at  Padua.  His  fit  was  considered  as 
only  hysterical. 

I  hope  Sir  Philip,  who  franked  your  letter, 
comforts  you  as  well  as  Mr.  Seward.  If  I  can 
comfort  you,  I  will  come  to  you ;  but  I  hope  you 
are  now  no  longer  in  want  of  and  help  to  be 
happy.  I  am,  &c. 

The  Doctor  sends  his  compliments ;  he  is  one 
of  the  people  that  are  growing  old. 


520 


LETTERS. 


LETTER  XL.— To  THE  SAME. 

Ashbourne,  June  Hth,  1779. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

How  near  we  are  all  to  extreme  danger.  We 
are  merry  or  sad,  or  busy  or  idle,  and  forget  that 
death  is  hovering  over  us.  You  are  a  dear  lady 
for  writing  again.  The  case,  as  you  now  describe 
it,  is  worse  than  I  conceived  it  when  I  read  your 
first  letter.  It  is  still  however  not  apoplectic,  but 
seems  to  have  something  worse  than  hysterical, 
a  tendency  to  a  palsy,  which  I  hope  however  is 
now  over.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  Heberden, 
and  hope  we  are  all  safer.  I  am  the  more  alarmed 
by  this  violent  seizure,  as  I  can  impute  it  to  no 
wrong  practices,  or  intemperance  of  any  kind, 
and  therefore  know  not  how  any  defence  or  pre- 
servative can  be  obtained.  Mr.  Thrale  has  cer- 
tainly less  exercise  than  when  he  followed  the 
foxes  ;  but  he  is  very  far  from  unwieldiness  or 
inactivity,  and  further  still  from  any  vicious  or 
dangerous  excess.  I  fancy,  however,  he  will  do 
well  to  ride  more. 

Do,  dear  Madam,  let  me  know  every  post  how 
he  goes  on.  Such  sudden  violence  is  very  dread- 
ful ;  we  know  not  by  what  it  is  let  loose  upon  us, 
nor  by  what  its  effects  are  limited. 

If  my  coming  can  either  assist  or  divert,  or  be 
useful  to  any  purpose,  let  me  but  know.  I  will 
soon  be  with  you. 

Mrs.  Kennedy,  dueeney's  Baucis,  ended  last 
week  a  long  life  of  disease  and  poverty.  She 
had  been  married  about  fifty  years. 

Dr.  Taylor  is  not  much  amiss,  but  always 
complaining.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XLL— To  MR.  THRALE. 

Litchfield,  June  23d,  1779. 
DEAR  SIR, 

To  show  you  how  well  I  think  of  your  health, 
I  have  sent  you  a  hundred  pounds  to  keep  for 
me.  It  will  come  within  one  day  of  quarter-day, 
and  that  day  you  must  give  me.  I  came  by  it  in 
a  very  uncommon  manner,  and  would  not  con- 
found it  with  the  rest. 

My  wicked  mistress  talks  as  if  she  thought  it 
possible  for  me  to  be  indifferent  or  negligent 
about  your  health  or  hers.  If  I  could  have  done 
any  good,  I  had  not  delayed  an  hour  to  come  to 
you ;  and  I  will  come  very  soon  to  try  if  my 
advice  can  be  of  any  use,  or  my  company  of  any 
entertainment. 

What  can  be  done  you  must  do  for  yourself; 
do  not  let  any  uneasy  thought  settle  in  your 
mind.  Cheerfulness  and  exercise  are  your  great 
remedies.  Nothing  is  for  the  present  worth 
your  anxiety.  Vivite  lati  is  one  of  the  great 
rules  of  health.  I  believe  it  will  be  good  to  ride 
often,  but  never  to  weariness,  for  weariness  is 
itself  a  temporary  resolution  of  the  nerves,  and 
is  therefore  to  be  avoided.  Labour  is  exercise 
continued  to  fatigue — exercise  is  labour  used 
only  while  it  produces  pleasure. 

Above  all,  keep  your  mind  quiet:  do  not 
think  with  earnestness  even  of  your  health ;  but 
think  on  such  things  as  may  please  without  too 
much  agitation ;  among  which  I  hope  is,  dear 
Sir,  yonr,  &c. 


LETTER  XLII.— To  MRS.  THRALE. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

ON  Sunday  I  dined  with  poor  Lawrence,  who 
is  deafer  than  ever.  When  he  was  told  that 
Dr.  Moisy  visited  Mr.  Thrale,  he  inquired  for 
what?  and  said  there  was  nothing  to  be  done, 
which  Nature  would  not  do  for  herself.  On 
Sunday  evening  I  was  at  Mrs.  Vesey's,  and 
there  was  inquiry  about  my  master,  but  I  told 
them  all  good.  There  was  Dr.  Bernard  of  Eton, 
and  we  made  a  noise  all  the  evening ;  and  there 
was  Pepys,  and  Wraxal  till  I  drove  him  away. 
And  I  have  no  loss  of  my  mistress,  who  laughs, 
and  frisks,  and  frolicks  it  all  the  long  day,  and 
never  thinks  of  poor  Colin. 

If  Mr.  Thrale  will  but  continue  to  mend,  we 
shall,  I  hope,  come  together  again,  and  do  as 
good  things  as  ever  we  did ;  but  perhaps  you 
will  be  made  too  proud  to  heed  me,  and  yet  as  1 
have  often  told  you,  it  will  not  be  easy  for  you  to 
find  such  another. 

CLueeney  has  been  a  good  girl,  and  wrote  me 
a  letter ;  if  Burney  said  she  would  write,  she 
told  you  a  fib.  She  writes  nothing  to  me.  She 
can  write  home  fast  enough.  I  have  a  good 
mind  not  to  let  her  know  that  Dr.  Bernard,  to 
whom  I  had  recommended  her  novel,  speaks  of 
it  with  great  commendation,  and  that  the  copy 
which  she  lent  me,  has  been  read  by  Dr.  Law- 
rence three  times  over.  And  yet  what  a  gipsy 
it  is.  She  no  more  minds  me  than  if  I  were  a 
Brangton.  Pray  speak  to  dueeney  to  write 
again. 

I  have  had  a  cold  and  a  cough,  and  taken 
opium,  and  think  I  am  better.  We  have  had 
very  cold  weather ;  bad  riding  weather  for  my 
master,  but  he  will  surmount  it  all.  Did  Mrs. 
Browne  make  any  reply  to  your  comparison  of 
business  with  solitude,  or  did  you  quite  down 
her  ?  I  am  much  pleased  to  think  that  Mrs. 
Cotton  thinks  me  worth  a  frame,  and  a  place 
upon  her  wall ;  her  kindness  was  hardly  within 
my  hope,  but  time  does  wonderful  things.  All 
my  fear  is,  that  if  I  should  come  again,  my  print 
would  be  taken  down.  I  fear  I  shall  never 
hold  it. 

Who  dines  with  you?  Do  you  seek  Dr. 
Woodward  or  Dr.  Harrington  ?  Do  you  go  to 
the  house  where  they  write  for  the  myrtle  ?  You 
are  at  all  places  of  high  resort,  and  bring  home 
hearts  by  dozens ;  while  I  am  seeking  for  some- 
thing to  say  about  men  of  whom  I  know  nothing 
but  their  verses,  and  sometimes  very  little  of 
them.  Now  I  have  begun,  however,  I  do  not 
despair  of  making  an  end.  Mr.  Nichols  holds 
that  Addison  is  the  most  taking  of  all  that  I  have 
done.  I  doubt  they  will  not  be  done  before  you 
come  away. 

Now  you  think  yourself  the  first  writer  in  the 
world  for  a  letter  about  nothing.  Can  you  write 
such  a  letter  as  this?  So  miscellaneous,  with 
such  noble  disdain  of  regularity,  like  Shak- 
speare's  works ;  such  graceful  negligence  of 
transition,  like  the  ancient  enthusiasts  ?  The 
pure  voice  of  nature  and  of  friendship.  Now  of 
whom  shall  I  proceed  to  speak?  Of  whom  but 
Mrs.  Montague?  Having  mentioned  Shakspeare 
and  Nature,  does  not  the  name  of  Montague 
force  itself  upon  me  ?  Such  were  the  transitions 
of  the  ancients,  which  now  seem  abrupt,  because 
the  intermediate  idea  is  lost  to  modem  under- 
standings. I  wish  her  name  had  connected 


LETTERS. 


521 


itself  with  friendship  ;  but,  all  Colin,  thy  hopes 
are  in  vain !  One  thing  however  is  left  me,  ] 
have  still  to  complain ;  but  I  hope  I  shall  noi 
complain  much  while  you  have  any  .kindness 
for  me.  I  am,  dearest  and  dearest  Madam, 
pur,  Sec.  London,  April  lllh,  17SO. 


LETTER  XLIII.— To  THE  SAME. 
DEAREST  MADAM, 
MR.  Thrale  never  will  live  abstinently,  till  he 
can  persuade  himself  to  abstain  by  rule.  I  lived 
on  potatoes  on  Friday,  and  on  spinach  to-day  ; 
but  I  have  had,  I  am  afraid,  too  many  dinners  oi 
late,  I  took  physic  too  both  days,  and  hope  to 
fast  to-morrow.  When  he  comes  home,  we  will 
shame  him,  and  Jebb  shall  scold  him  into  regu- 
larity. I  am  glad,  however,  that  he  is  alway 
one  of  the  company,  and  that  my  dear  dueeney 
is  again  another.  Encourage,  as  you  can,  the 
musical  girl. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  mutual  dislike 
where  mutual  approbation  is  particularly  ex- 
pected. There  is  often  on  both  sides  a  vigilance, 
not  over  benevolent ;  and  as  attention  is  strongly 
excited,  so  that  nothing  drops  unheeded,  any 
difference  in  taste  or  opinion,  and  some  difference 
where  there  is  no  restraint  will  commonly  appear, 
immediately  generates  dislike. 

Never  let  criticisms  operate  upon  your  face  or 
your  mind ;  it  is  very  rarely  that  an  author  is 
hurt  by  his  critics.  The  blaze  of  reputation 
cannot  be  blown  out,  but  it  often  dies  in  the 
socket ;  a  very  few  names  may  be  considered  as 
perpetual  lamps  that  shine  unconsumed.  From 
the  author  of  Fitzosborrie's  Letters  I  cannot 
think  myself  in  much  danger.  I  met  him  only 
once  about  thirty  years  ago,  and  in  some  small 
dispute  reduced  him  to  whistle ;  having  not  seen 
him  since,  that  is  the  last  impression.  Poor 
Moore  the  Fabulist  was  one  of  the  company. 

Mrs.  Montague's  long  stay  against  her  own 
inclination,  is  very  convenient.  You  would,  by 
your  own  confession,  want  a  companion ;  and 
she  is  par  pluribus,  conversing  with  her  you  may 
find  variety  in  one. 

At  Airs.  Ord's  I  met  one  Mrs.  B ,  a 

travelled  lady,  of  great  spirit,  and  some  con- 
sciousness of  her  own  abilities.  We  had  a  con- 
test of  gallantry,  an  hour  long,  so  much  to  the 
diversion  of  the  company,  that  at  Ramsay's  last 
night,  in  a  crowded  room,  they  would  have 
pitted  us  again.  There  were  Smelt,  and  the 
Bishop  of  St.  Asaph,  who  comes  to  every  place ; 
and  Lord  Monboddo,  and  Sir  Joshua,  and  ladies 
out  of  tale. 

The  Exhibition,  how  will  you  do  either  to 
see  or  not  to  see !  The  Exhibition  is  eminently 
splendid.  There  is  contour,  and  keeping,  and 
grace,  and  expression,  and  all  the  varieties  of 
artificial  excellence.  The  apartments  were  truly 
very  noble.  The  pictures,  for  the  sake  of  a.  sky- 
light, are  at  the  top  of  the  house  ;  there  we  dined, 
and  I  sat  over  against  the  Archbishop  of  York. 
See  how  I  live  when  I  am  not  under  petticoat 
government.  I  am,  &c. 
London,  May  1,  1780. 

LETTER  XLIV.— To  THE  SAME. 

London,  June  9,  1780. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

To  the  question,  Who  was  impressed  with  con- 
sternation ?  it  may  with  great  truth  be  answered 
3Q 


that  every  body  was  impressed,  for  nobody  wan 
sure  of  his  safety. 

On  Friday  the  good  Protestants  met  in  St. 
George's  Fields,  at  the  summons  of  Lord 
George  Gordon,  and  marching  to  Westminster, 
insulted  the  Lords  and  Commons,  who  all  bore 
it  with  great  lameness.  At  night  the  outrages 
began  by  the  demolition  of  the  mass-house  by 
Lincoln's  Inn. 

An  exact  journal  of  a  week's  defiance  ot 
government  I  cannot  give  you.  On  Monday,  Mr. 
Strahan,  who  had  been  insulted,  spoke  to  Lord 
Mansfield,  who  had,  I  think,  been  insulted,  too, 
of  the  licentiousness  of  the  populace ;  and  his 
Lordship  treated  it  as  a  very  slight  irregularity. 
On  Tuesday  night  they  pulled  down  Fielding's 
house,  and  burnt  his  goods  in  the  street.  They 
had  gutted  on  Monday  Sir  George  Savile's 
house,  but  the  building  was  saved.  On  Tuesday 
evening,  leaving  Fielding's  ruins,  they  went  to 
Newgate  to  demand  their  companions  who  had 
been  seized  demolishing  the  chapel.  The  keeper 
could  not  release  them  but  by  the  Mayor's  per- 
mission, which  he  went  to  ask ;  at  his  return  he 
found  all  the  prisoners  released,  and  Newgate  in 
a  blaze.  They  then  went  to  Bloomsbury,  and 
fastened  upon  Lord  Mansfield's  house,  which 
they  pulled  down ;  and  as  for  his  goods,  they 
totally  burnt  them.  They  have  since  gone  to 
Cane-wood,  but  a  guard  was  there  before  them. 
They  plundered  some  Papists,  I  think,  and  burnt 
a  mass-house  in  Moorfields  the  same  night. 

On  Wednesday  I  walked  with  Dr.  Scott  to 
look  at  Newgate,  and  found  it  in  ruins,  with 
the  fire  yet  glowing.  As  I  went  by,  the  Pro- 
testants were  plundering  the  Session-house  at 
the  Old  Bailey.  There  were  not,  I  believe,  a 
hundred ;  but  they  did  their  work  at  leisure,  in 
full  security,  without  sentinels,  without  trepida 
tion,  as  men  lawfully  employed,  in  full  day. 
Such  is  the  cowardice  of  a  commercial  place. 
On  Wednesday  they  broke  open  the  Fleet,  and 
the  King's  Bench,  and  the  Marshalsea,  and 
Wood -street  Counter,  and  Clerkenwell  Bridewell, 
and  released  all  the  prisoners. 

At  night  they  set  fire  to  the  Fleet  and  to  the 
King's  Bench,  and  I  know  not  how  many  other 
places  ;  and  one  might  see  the  glare  of  confla- 
ration  fill  the  sky  from  many  parts.  The  sight 
was  dreadful.  Some  people  were  threatened ; 
Mr.  Strahan  advised  me  to  take  care  of  myself. 
Such  a  time  of  terror  you  have  been  happy  in  not 
seeing. 

The  King  said  in  council,  that  the  magistrates 
bad  not  done  their  duty,  but  that  he  would  do 
his  own ;  and  a  proclamation  was  published, 
directing  us  to  keep  our  servants  within  doors, 
as  the  peace  was  now  to  be  preserved  by  force. 
The  soldiers  were  sent  out  to  different  parts,  and 
;he  town  is  now  quiet.  « 

What  has  happened  at  your  house  you  will 
tnow,  the  harm  is  only  a  few  butts  of  beer ; 
and  I  think  you  may  be  sure  that  the  danger  is 
over.  There  is  a  body  of  soldiers  at  St.  Marga- 
ret's Hill. 

Of  Mr.  Tyson  I  know  nothing,  nor  can  guess 
to  what  he  can  allude ;  but  I  know  that  a  young 
ellow,  of  little  more  than  seventy,  is  naturally 
an  unresisted  conqueror  of  hearts. 

Pray  tell  Mr.  Thrale  that  I  live  here  and  have 
no  fruit,  and,  if  he  does  not  interpose,  am  noi 
ikely  to  have  much ;  but  I  think  he  might 


522 


LETTERS. 


as  well  gire  me  a  little  as  give  all  to  the  gar- 
dener. 

Pray  make  my  compliments  to  dueeney  and 
Burney.     I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XLV.— To  THE  SAME. 

June  10th,  1790. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

Yoo  have  ere  now  heard  and  read  enough  to 
convince  you  that  we  have  had  something  to 
fluffer,  and  something  to  fear,  and  therefore  I 
think  it  necessary  to  quiet  the  solicitude  which 
you  undoubtedly  feel,  by  telling  you  that  our 
calamities  and  terrors  are  now  at  an  end.  The 
Soldiers  are  stationed  so  as  to  be  every  where 
•within  call;  there  is  no  longer  any  body  of 
rioters,  and  the  individuals  are  hunted  to  their 
holes,  and  led  to  prison ;  the  streets  are  safe  and 
quiet :  Lord  George  was  last  night  sent  to  the 
Tower.  Mr.  John  Wilkes  was  this  day  with  a 
party  of  soldiers  in  my  neighbourhood,  to  seize 
the  publisher  of  a  seditious  paper.  Every  body 
•walks,  and  eats,  and  sleeps  in  security.  But  the 
history  of  the  last  week  would  fill  you  with 
amazement :  it  is  without  any  modern  example. 

Several  chapels  have  been  destroyed,  and 
several  inoffensive  Papists  have  been  plundered, 
but  the  high  sport  was  to  burn  the  jails.  This 
•was  a  good  rabble  trick.  The  debtors  and  the 
criminals  were  all  set  at  liberty  ;  but  of  the  cri- 
minals, as  has  always  happened,  many  are 
already  retaken,  and  two  pirates  have  surren- 
dered themselves,  and  it  is  expected  that  they 
will  be  pardoned. 

Government  now  acts  again  with  its  proper 
force  ;  and  we  are  all  again  under  the  protection 
of  the  king  and  the  law.  I  thought  that  it 
would  be  agreeable  to  you  and  my  master  to 
have  my  testimony  to  the  public  security ;  and 
that  you  would  sleep  more  quietly  when  I  told 
you  that  you  are  safe.  I  am,  dearest  lady, 
your,  &.C. 


LETTER  XL VI.— To  THE  SAME. 

London,  April  5th,  1781 
DEAREST  MADAM, 
OF  your  injunctions,  to  pray  for  you,  and  write 
to  you,  I  hope  to  leave  neither  unobserved ;  and 
I  hope  to  find  you  willing  in  a  short  time  to  alle- 
viate your  trouble  by  some  other  exercise  of  the 
mind.  I  am  not  without  my  part  of  the  cala- 
mity. No  death  since  that  of  my  wife  has  ever 
oppressed  me  like  this.  But  let  us  remember, 
that  we  are  in  the  hands  of  Him  who  knows 
when  to  give  and  when  to  take  away  ;  who  wil 
look  upon  us  with  mercy  through  all  our  varia- 
tions of  existence,  and  who  invites  us  to  call  on 
him  in  the  day  of  trouble.  Call  upon  him  in 
this  great  revolution  of  life,  and  call  with  confi- 
dence. You  will  then  find  comfort  for  the  past 
and  support  for  the  future.  He  that  has  given 
you  happiness  in  marriage,  to  a  degree  of  which 
without  personal  knowledge,  I  should  havi 
thought  trie  description  fabulous,  can  give  you 
another  mode  of  happiness  as  a  mother ;  and  a 
last  the  happiness  of  losing  all  temporal  cares  in 
the  thoughts  of  an  eternity  in  Heaven 


I  do  not  exhort  you  to  reason  yourself  into 
ranquillity.  We  must  first  pray,  and  then 
abour ;  first  implore  the  blessing  of  God,  and 

se  those  means  which  he  puts  into  our  hands. 
Cultivated  ground  has  few  weeds;  a  mind  occu- 

ied  by  lawful  business,  has  little  room  for  use- 
ess  regret 
We  read  the  will  to-day ;  but  I  will  not  fill 

iy  first  letter  with  any  other  account  than  that, 
vith  all  my  zeal  for  your  advantage,  I  am  sutis- 

:ed  ;  that  the  other  executors,  more  used  to  con- 

ider  property  than  I,  commended  it  for  wisdom 

nd  equity.  Yet  why  should  I  not  tell  you  that 
•ou  have  five  hundred  pounds  for  your  immediate 

xpenses,  and  two  thousand  pounds  a  year,  with 
)oth  the  houses,  and  all  the  goods. 
Let  us  pray  for  one  another,  that  the  time, 

whether  long  or  short,  that  shall  yet  be  granted 
us,  may  be  well  spent ;  and  that  when  this  life, 
vhich  at  the  longest  is  very  short,  shall  come  to 
an  end,  a  better  may  begin  which  shall  never 

nd.    I  am,  dearest  Madam,  your,  &c. 


LETTER  XLVIL— To  THE  SAME. 

April  1th,  1781. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

HOPE  you  begin  to  find  your  mind  grow  clearer. 
My  part  of  the  loss  hangs  upon  me.  I  have  lost 

friend  of  boundless  kindness,  at  an  age  when  it 
s  very  unlikely  that  I  should  find  another. 

If  you  think  change  of  place  likely  to  relieve 
TOM,  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  go 
,o  Bath ;  the  distances  are  unequal,  but  with 
•egard  to  practice  and  business  they  are  the 
same.  It  is  a  day's  journey  from  either  place  ; 
and  the  post  is  more  expeditious  and  certain  to 
Bath.  Consult  only  your  inclination,  for  there 
s  really  no  other  principle  of  choice.  God  direct 
ind  bless  you. 

Mr.  C has  offered  Mr.  P money, 

jut  it  was  not  wanted.  I  hope  we  shall  all  do 
all  we  can  to  make  you  less  unhappy,  and  you 
must  do  all  you  can  for  yourself.  What  we,  or 
what  you  can  do,  will  for  a  time  be  but  little ; 
yet  certainly  that  calamity,  which  may  be  consi 
dered  as  doomed  to  fall  inevitably  on  half  man 
kind,  is  not  finally  without  alleviation. 

It  is  something  for  me,  that,  as  I  have  not  the 
decrepitude,  I  have  not  the  callousness  of  old 
age.  I  hope  in  time  to  be  less  afflicted.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XLVTIL— To  THE  SAME. 

London,  April  9th,  178J. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

THAT  you  are  gradually  recovering  your  tran 
quillity  is  the  effect  to  be  humbly  expected  from 
trust  in  God.  Do  not  represent  life  as  darker 
than  it  is.  Your  loss  has  been  very  great,  but 
you  retain  more  than  almost  any  other  can  hope 
to  possess.  You  are  high  in  the  opinion  of  man- 
kind ;  you  have  children  from  whom  much 
pleasure  may  be  expected ;  and  that  you  will 
find  many  friends,  you  have  no  reason  to  doubt. 
Of  my  friendship,  be  it  worth  more  or  less,  I 
hope  you  think  yourself  certain,  without  much 
art  or  care.  It  will  not  be  easy  for  me  to  repay 
the  benefits  that  I  have  received  :  but  I  hope  to 
be  always  ready  at  your  call.  Our  sorrow  has 


LETTERS. 


528 


different  effects;  you  are  withdrawn  into  soli- 
tude, and  I  am  driven  into  company.  I  am 
afraid  of  thinking  what  I  have  lost.  I  never  had 
such  a  friend  before.  Let  me  have  your  prayers 
and  those  of  my  dear  Glueeney. 

The  prudence  and  resolution  of  your  design 
to  return  so  soon  to  your  business  and  your  duty 
deserves  great  praise ;  I  shall  communicate  it  on 
Wednesday  to  the  other  executors.  Be  pleased 
to  let  me  know  whether  you  would  have  me  come 
to  Streatham  to  receive  you,  or  stay  here  till  the 
next  day.  I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  XLIX.— To  THE  SAME. 

Bolt-court,  Fleet-street,  June  19th,  1783. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

I  AM  sitting  down  in  no  cheerful  solitude  to  write 
a  narrative  which  would  once  have  affected  you 
•with  tenderness  and  sorrow,  but  which  you  will 
perhaps  pass  over  now  with  a  careless  glance  of 
frigid  indifference.  For  this  diminution  of  regard, 
however,  I  know  not  whether  I  ought  to  blame 
you,  who  may  have  reasons  which  I  cannot  know; 
and  I  do  not  blame  myself,  who  have  for  a  great 
part  of  human  life  done  you  what  good  I  could, 
and  have  never  done  you  evil. 

I  have  been  disordered  in  the  usual  way,  and 
have  been  relieved  by  the  usual  methods,  by 
opium  and  cathartics,  but  had  rather  lessened  my 
dose  of  opium. 

On  Monday  the  16th  I  sat  for  my  picture,  and 
walked  a  considerable  way  with  little  inconve- 
nience. In  the  afternoon  and  evening  I  felt 
myself  light  and  easy,  and  began  to  plan  schemes 
of  life.  Thus  I  went  to  bed,  and  in  a  short  time 
waked  and  sat  up,  as  has  been  long  my  custom, 
when  I  felt  a  confusion  and  indistinctness  in  my 
head,  which  lasted  I  suppose  about  half  a  minute ; 
I  was  alarmed,  and  prayed  God,  that  however  he 
might  afflict  my  body,  he  would  spare  my  under- 
standing. This  prayer,  that  I  might  try  the 
integrity  of  my  faculties,  I  made  in  Latin  verse. 
The  lines  were  not  very  good,  but  I  knew  them 
not  to  be  very  good  :  I  made  them  easily,  and 
concluded  myself  to  be  unimpaired  in  my  facul- 
ties. 

Soon  after  I  perceived  that  I  had  suffered  a 
paralytic  stroke,  and  that  my  speech  was  taken 
from  me.  I  had  no  pain,  and  so  little  dejection 
in  this  dreadful  state,  that  I  wondered  at  my 
own  apathy,  and  considered  that  perhaps  death 
itself,  when  it  should  come,  would  excite  less 
horror  than  seems  now  to  attend  it. 

In  order  to  rouse  the  vocal  organs,  I  took  two 
drams.  Wine  has  been  celebrated  for  the  pro- 
duction of  eloquence.  I  put  myself  into  violent 
motion,  and  I  think  repeated  it ;  but  all  was  vain. 
I  then  went  to  bed,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
I  think,  slept.  When  1  saw  light,  it  was  time  to 
contrive  what  I  should  do.  Though  God  stopped 
my  speech,  he  left  me  my  hand:  I  enjoyed  a 
mercy  which  was  not  granted  to  my  dear  friend 
Lawrence,  who  now  perhaps  overlooks  me  as  I 
am  writing,  and  rejoices  that  I  have  what  he 
wanted.  My  first  note  was  necessarily  to  my 
servant,  who  came  in  talking,  and  could  not 
immediately  comprehend  why  he  should  read 
wh.it  I  put  into  his  hands. 

I  then  wrote  a  card  to  Mr.  Allen,  that  I  might 


have  a  discreet  friend  at  hand  to  act  as  occasion 
should  require.  In  penning  this  note  I  had  some 
difficulty;  my  hand,  I  knew  not  how  nor  why, 
made  wrong  letters.  I  then  wrote  to  Dr.  Taylor 
to  come  to  me,  and  bring  Dr.  Heberden,  and  I 
sent  to  Dr.  Brocklesby,  who  is  my  neighbour. 
My  physicians  are  very  friendly  and  very  disin- 
terested, and  give  me  great  hopes,  but  you  may 
imagine  my  situation.  I  have  so  far  recovered 
my  vocal  powers,  as  to  repeat  the  Lord's  prayer 
with  no  very  imperfect  articulation.  My  memory, 
I  hope,  yet  remains  as  it  was ;  but  such  an 
attack  produces  solicitude  for  the  safety  of  every 
faculty. 

How  this  will  be  received  by  you  I  know  not. 
I  hope  you  will  sympathise  with  me ;  but  per- 
haps 

My  mistress,  gracious,  mild,  and  good, 
Cries,  Is  he  dumb  ?    'Tig  time  he  should. 

But  can  this  be  possible  ?  I  hope  it  cannot.  I 
hope  that  what,  when  I  could  speak,  I  spoke  of 
you,  and  to  you,  will  be  in  a  sober  and  serious 
hour  remembered  by  you ;  and  surely  it  cannot 
be  remembered  but  with  some  degree  of  kind* 
ness.  I  have  loved  you  with  virtuous  affection ; 
I  have  honoured  you  with  sincere  esteem.  Let 
not  all  our  endearments  be  forgotten,  but  let  me 
have  in  this  great  distress  your  pity  and  your 
prayers.  You  see  I  yet  turn  to  you  with  my 
complaints,  as  a  settled  and  unalienable  friend ; 
do  not,  do  not  drive  me  from  you,  for  I  have  not 
deserved  either  neglect  or  hatred. 

To  the  girls,  who  do  not  write  often,  for  Susy 
has  written  only  once,  and  Miss  Thrale  owes 
me  a  letter,  1  earnestly  recommend,  as  their 
guardian  and  friend,  that  they  remember  their 
Creator  in  the  days  of  their  youth. 

I  suppose  you  may  wish  to  know  how  my 
disease  is  treated  by  the  physicians.  They  put 
a  blister  upon  my  back,  and  two  from  my  ear 
to  my  throat,  one  on  a  side.  The  blister  on  the 
back  has  done  little,  and  those  on  the  throat 
have  not  risen.  I  bullied  and  bounced,  (it  sticks 
to  our  last  sand,)  and  compelled  the  apothecary 
to  make  his  salve  according  to  the  Edinburgh 
Dispensatory,  that  it  might  adhere  better.  I 
have  two  on  now  of  my  own  prescription.  They 
likewise  give  me  salt  of  hartshorn,  which  I  take 
with  no  great  confidence,  but  I  arn  satisfied  that 
what  can  be  done  is  done  for  me. 

0  God !    give  me  comfort  and  confidence  in 
Thee ;  forgive  my  sins ;  and  if  it  be  thy  good 
pleasure,  relieve  my  diseases  for  Jesus  Christ's 
sake.     Amen. 

1  am  almost  ashamed  of  this  querulous  letter ; 
but  now  it  is  written,  let  it  go.    I  am,  &c. 


LETTER  L.— To  THE  SAME. 
DEAR  MADAM, 

AMONG  those  that  have  inquired  after  me,  Sir 
Philip  is  one ;  and  Dr.  Bumey  was  one  of  those 
who  came  to  see  me.    I  have  had  no  reason  to 
complain  of  indifference  or  neglect     Dick  Bur 
ney  is  come  home  five  inches  taller. 

Yesterday,  in  the  evening,  I  went  to  church, 
and  have  been  to-day  to  see  the  great  burning- 
glass,  which  does  more  than  was  ever  done  before 
by  the  transmission  of  the  rays,  but  is  not  equal 


524 


LETTERS. 


iu  power  to  those  which  reflect  them.  It  wastes 
a  diamond  placed  in  the  focus,  but  causes  no 
diminution  of  pure  gold.  Of  the  rubies  exposed 
to  its  action,  one  was  made  more  vivid,  the  other 
paler.  To  see  the  glass,  I  climbed  up  stairs  to 
the  garret,  and  then  up  a  ladder  to  the  leads,  and 
talked  to  the  artist  rather  too  long ;  for  my  voice, 
though  clear  and  distinct  for  a  little  while,  soon 
tires  and  falters.  The  organs  of  speech  are  yet 
very  feeble,  but  will,  I  hope,  be  by  the  mercy  of 
God  finally  restored :  at  present,  like  any  other 
weak  limb,  they  can  endure  but  little  labour  at 
once.  Would  you  not  have  been  very  sorry  for 
me  when  I  could  scarcely  speak  ? 

Fresh  cantharides  were  this  morning  applied 
to  my  head,  and  are  to  be  continued  some  time 
longer.  If  they  play  me  no  treacherous  tricks, 
they  give  me  very  little  pain. 

Let  me  have  your  kindness  and  your  prayers ; 
and  think  on  me  as  on  a  man,  who,  for  a  very 
great  portion  of  your  life,  has  done  you  all  the 
good  he  could,  and  desires  still  to  be  considered, 
Madam,  your,  &c. 


LETTER  LI.— To  THE  SAME. 

London,  July,  1,  1783. 

DEAREST  MADAM, 

THIS  morning  I  took  the  air  by  a  ride  to  Hamp- 
stead,  and  this  afternoon  I  dined  with  the  club. 
But  fresh  cantharides  were  this  day  applied  to 
my  head. 

Mr.  Cator  called  on  me  to-day,  and  told  me 
that  he  had  invited  you  back  to  Streatham.  I 
showed  the  unfitness  of  your  return  thither,  till 
the  neighbourhood  should  have  lost  its  habits  of 
depredation,  and  he  seemed  to  be  satisfied.  He 
invited  me  very  kindly  and  cordially  to  try  the 
air  of  Beckenham,  and  pleased  me  very  much  by 
his  affectionate  attention  to  Miss  Vezy.  There 
is  much  good  in  his  character,  and  much  useful- 
ness in  his  knowledge. 

dueeney  seems  now  to  have  forgotten  me.  Of 
the  different  appearance  of  the  hills  and  valleys 
an  account  may  perhaps  be  given,  without  the 
supposition  of  any  prodigy.  If  she  had  been  out 
and  the  evening  was  breezy,  the  exhalations 
would  rise  from  the  low  grounds  very  copiously ; 
and  the  wind  that  swept  and  cleared  the  hills, 
would  only  by  its  cold  condense  the  vapours  of 
the  sheltered  valleys. 

Murphy  is  just  gone  from  me ;  he  visits  me 
very  kindly,  and  I  have  no  unkindness  to  com- 
plain of. 

I  am  sorry  that  Sir  Philip's  request  was  not 
treated  with  more  respect,  nor  can  I  imagine 
what  has  put  them  so  much  out  of  humour ;  I 
hope  their  business  is  prosperous. 

I  hope  that  I  recover  by  degrees,  but  my  nights 
are  restless ;  and  you  will  suppose  the  nervous 
system  to  be  somewhat  enfeebled.  I  am,  Madam, 
your,  &c. 


LETTER  LII. — To  THE  SAME. 

London,  Oct.  9th,  1783. 

Two  nights  ago  Mr.  Burke  sat  with  me  a  long 
time ;  he  seems  much  pleased  with  his  journey. 
We  had  both  seen  Stonehenge  this  summer  for 
the  first  time.  I  told  him  ~that  the  view  had 


enabled  me  to  confute  two  opinions  which  have 
been  advanced  about  it.  One  that  the  materials 
are  not  natural  stones,  but  an  artificial  composi- 
tion hardened  by  time.  This  notion  is  as  old  as 
Camden's  time ;  and  has  this  strong  argument  to 
support  it,  that  stone  of  that  species  is  no  where 
to  be  found.  The  other  opinion,  advanced  by 
Dr.  Charlton,  is,  that  it  was  erected  by  the  Danes. 

Mr.  Bowles  made  me  observe,  that  the  trans- 
verse stones  were  fixed  on  the  perpendicular 
supporters  by  a  knob  formed  on  the  top  of  the 
upright  stone,  which  entered  into  a  hollow  cut  in 
the  crossing  stone.  This  is  a  proof  that  the 
enormous  edifice  was  raised  by  a  people  who  had 
not  yet  the  knowledge  of  mortar ;  which  cannot 
be  supposed  of  the  Danes,  who  came  hither  in 
ships,  and  were  not  ignorant  certainly  of  the  arts 
of  life.  This  proves  likewise  the  stones  not  to 
be  factitious  ;  for  they  that  could  mould  such 
durable  masses  could  do  much  more  than  make 
mortar,  and  could  have  continued  the  transverse 
from  the  upright  part  with  the  same  paste. 

You  have  doubtless  seen  Stonehenge ;  and  if 
you  have  not,  I  should  think  it  a  hard  task  to 
make  an  adequate  description. 

It  is,  in  my  opinion,  to  be  referred  to  the  earliest 
habitation  of  the  island,  as  adruidical  monument 
of  at  least  two  thousand  years  ;  probably  the 
most  ancient  work  of  man  upon  the  island. 
Salisbury  cathedral  and  its  neighbour  Stone- 
henge, are  two  eminent  monuments  of  art  and 
rudeness,  and  may  show  the  first  essay,  and  the 
last  perfection  in  architecture. 

I  have  not  yet  settled  rny  thoughts  about  the 
generation  of  light  air,  which  I  indeed  once  saw 
produced,  but  I  was  at  the  height  of  my  great 
complaint  I  have  made  inquiry,  and  shall  soon 
be  able  to  tell  you  how  to  fill  a  balloon.  I  am, 
Madam,  your,  &c. 


LETTER  LI1L— To  THE  SAME. 

London,  Dec.  21th,  1783. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

THE  wearisome  solitude  of  the  long  evenings 
did  indeed  suggest  to  me  the  convenience  of  a 
club  in  my  neighbourhood,  but  I  have  been  hin- 
dered from  attending  it  by  want  of  breath.  If 
I  can  complete  the  scheme,  you  shall  have  the 
names  and  the  regulations. 

The  time  of  the  year,  for  I  hope  the  fault  is 
rather  in  the  weather  than  in  me,  has  been  very 
hard  upon  me.  The  muscles  of  my  breast  are 
much  convulsed.  Dr.  Heberden  recommends 
opiates,  of  which  I  have  such  horror  that  I  do 
not  think  of  them  but  in  extremis.  I  was,  how- 
ever, driven  to  them  last  night  for  refuge,  and 
having  taken  the  usual  quantity,  durst  not  go  to 
bed,  for  fear  of  that  uneasiness  to  which  a  supine 
posture  exposes  me,  but  rested  all  night  in  a 
chair  with  much  relief,  and  have  been  to-day 
more  warm,  active,  and  cheerful. 

You  have  more  than  once  wondered  at  my 
complaint  of  solitude  when  you  hear  that  I  am 
crowded  with  visits.  Inopein  me  copia  fecit. 
Visiters  are  no  proper  companions  in  the  cham- 
ber of  sickness.  They  come  when  I  could  sleep 
or  read,  they  stay  till  I  am  weary,  they  force  me 
to  attend  when  my  mind  calls  for  relaxation,  and 
to  speak  when  my  powers  will  hardly  actualo 
my  tongue.  The  amusements  and  consolations 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


525 


of  languor  and  depression  are  conferred  by  fami- 
liar and  domestic  companions,  which  can  be 
visited  or  called  at  will,  and  can  occasionally  be 
quieted  or  dismissed,  who  do  not  obstruct  accom- 
modation by  ceremony,  or  destroy  indolence  by 
awakening  effort. 

Such  society  I  had  with  Level  and  Williams ; 
such  I  had  where — I  am  never  likely  to  have  it 
more. 

I  wish,  dear  lady,  to  you  and  my  dear  girls, 
many  a  cheerful  and  pious  Christmas.  I  am, 
your,  &c. 


LETTER  LIV.— To  MRS.  PIOZZI. 

London,  July  8lh,  1784. 

DEAK  MADAM, 

WHAT  you  have  done,  however  I  may  lament 
it,  1  have  no  pretence  to  resent,  as  it  has  not 
been  injurious  to  me;  I  therefore  breathe  out 
one  sigh  mo^e  of  tenderness,  perhaps  useless, 
but  at  least  sincere. 

I  wish  that  God  may  grant  you  every  blessing, 
that  you  may  be  happy  in  this  world  for  its  short 
continuance,  and  eternally  happy  in  a  better 
state ;  and  whatever  I  can  contribute  to  your 
happiness  I  am  very  ready  to  repay,  for  that 


kindness  which  soothed  twenty  years  of  a  life 
radically  wretched. 

Do  not  think  slightly  of  the  advice  which  I 
now  presume  to  offer.  Prevail  upon  Mr.  Piozzi 
to  settle  in  England :  you  may  live  here  with 
more  dignity  than  in  Italy,  and  with  more  secu- 
rity ;  your  rank  will  be  higher,  and  your  fortune 
more  under  your  own  eye.  I  desire  not  to  detail 
all  my  reasons ;  but  every  argument  of  prudence 
and  interest  is  for  England,  and  only  some  phan- 
toms of  imagination  seduce  you  to  Italy. 

I  am  afraid,  however,  that  my  counsel  is  vain, 
yet  I  have  eased  my  heart  by  giving  it. 

When  Glueen  Mary  took  the  resolution  of 
sheltering  herself  in  England,  the  Archbishop 
of  St.  Andrews,  attempting  to  dissuade  her, 
attended  on  her  journey ;  and  when  they  came 
to  the  irremeable  stream  that  separated  the  two 
kingdoms,  walked  by  her  side  into  the  water,  in 
the  middle  of  which  he  seized  her  brible,  and 
with  earnestness  proportioned  to  her  danger  and 
his  own  affection  pressed  her  to  return.  The 
queen  went  forward. — If  the  parallel  reaches 
thus  far,  may  it  go  no  farther. — The  tears  stand 
in  my  eyes. 

I  am  going  into  Derbyshire,  and  hope  to  be 
followed  by  your  good  wishes,  for  I  am,  with 
great  affection,  your,  &c. 


IRENE: 

A   TRAGEDY, 

IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


MAHOMBT,  Emperor  of  the  Turks, 
CALI  BASSA,  First  Vizier,  .  .  . 
Mustapha,  a  Turkish  Aga,  .  . 
ABDALLA,  an  Officer,  •  .  .  .  . 

Turkish  Captains,      . 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

.     Mr.  Barry.  DEMETRIUS,  >   r-..=»v  ivrni>i«m»n  5  Mr-  Garrick. 

.    Mr.  Berry.  LEONTIUS,      \  Greek  Noblemen'         [  Mr.  Blakes. 

.    Mr.  Sotcden.  MURZA,  an  Eunuch, Mr.  King. 

.     Mr.  Havard.  ASPASIA,  )   prppk  Ladies  $  Mrs'  Cibber- 

( Mr.  Usher.  IRENE,       $  Greek  Ladle8)    '    '    -'      I  Mrs.  Pritchard. 
'  I  Mr.  Burton.  Attendants  on  IRENE. 


PROLOGUE. 

YE  glittering  train,  whom  lace  and  velvet  bless, 
Suspend  the  soft  solicitudes  of  dress! 
From  grovelling  business  and  superfluous  care, 
Ye  sons  of  Avarice,  a  moment  spare! 
Votaries  of  Fame,  and  worshippers  of  Power, 
Dismiss  the  pleasing  phantoms  for  an  hour! 
Our  daring  bard,  with  spirit  unconfined, 
Spreads  wide  the  mighty  moral  for  mankind. 
Learn  here  how  Heaven  supports  the  virtuous 

mind, 
Daring,  though  calm,  and  vigorous,  though  re- 

sign'd. 

Learn  here  what  anguish  racks  the  guilty  breast, 
In  power  dependent,  in  success  deprest. 
Learn  here  that  Peace  fromlnnocence  mustflow; 
All  else  is  empty  sound,  and  idle  show. 
If  truths  like  these  with  pleasing  language  join; 


Ennobled,  yet  unchanged,  if  Nature  shine; 
If  no  wild  draught  depart  from  Reason's  rules, 
Nor  gods  his  heroes,  nor  his  lovers  fools ; 
Intriguing  Wits !  his  artless  plot  forgive ; 
And  spare  him,  Beauties,  though  his  lovers  live. 

Be  this  at  least  his  praise,  be  this  his  pride; 
To  force  applause  no  modern  arts  are  try'd. 
Should  partial  catcalls  all  his  hopes  confound, 
He  bids  no  trumpet  quell  the  fatal  sound. 
Should  welcome  sleep  relieve  the  weary  wit, 
He  rolls  no  thunders  o'er  the  drowsy  pit. 
No  snares  to  captivate  the  judgment  spreads, 
Nor  bribes  your  eyes  to  prejudice  your  heads. 
Unmoved  though  Witlings  sneer  and  Rivals  rail, 
Studious  to  please,  yet  not  ashamed  to  fail. 
He  scorns  the  meek  address,  the  suppliant  strain 
With  merit  needless,  and  without  it  vain. 
In  Reason,  Nature,  Truth,  he  dares  to  trust : 
Ye  Fops,  be  silent :  and  ye  Wits,  be  just 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


[Acr.  I. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE    I. — DEMETRIUS    and   LEONTIUS,    in 
Turkish  Habits. 

Leon.  And  is  it  thus  Demetrius  meets  his  friend, 
Hid  in  the  mean  disguise  of  Turkish  robes, 
With  servile  secrecy  to  lurk  in  shades, 
And  vent  our  sufferings  in  clandestine  groans? 
Dem.  Till  breathless  fury  rested  from  destruc- 
tion, 

These  groans  were  fatal,  these  disguises  vain  ; 
But  now  our  Turkish  conquerors  have  quench'd 
Their  rage,  and  pall'd  their  appetite  of  murder; 
No  more  the  glutted  sabre  thirsts  for  blood, 
And  weary  cruelty  remits  her  tortures. 

Leon.  Yet  Greece  enjoys  no  gleam  of  transient 

hope, 

No  soothing  interval  of  peaceful  sorrow ; 
The  lust  of  gold  succeeds  the  rage  of  conquest, 
The  lust  of  gold,  unfeeling  and  remorseless, 
The  last  corruption  of  degenerate  man! 
Urged  by  the  imperious  soldier's  fierce  command, 
The  groaning  Greeks  break   up  their  golden 

caverns 
Pregnant  with  stores  that  India's  mines  might 

envy, 
Th'  accumulated  wealth  of  toiling  ages. 

Dem.  That  wealth  too  sacred  for  their  coun- 
try's use ! 

That  wealth,  too  pleasing  to  be  lost  for  freedom ! 
That  wealth,  which,  granted  to  their  weeping 

prince, 

Had  ranged  embattled  nations  at  our  gates! 
But,  thus  reserved  to  lure  the  wolves  of  Turkey, 
Adds  shame  to  grief,  and  infamy  to  ruin. 
Lamenting  Avarice  now  too  late  discovers 
Her  own  neglected  in  the  public  safety. 
Leon.    Reproach  not  misery. — The    sons  of 

Greece, 

Ill-fated  race !  so  oft  besieged  in  vain, 
With  false  security  beheld  invasion. 
Why  should  they  fear  ? — That  power  that  kindly 

spreads 

The  clouds,  a  signal  of  impending  showers, 
To  warn  the  wandering  linnet  to  the  shade, 
Beheld  without  concern  expiring  Greece, 
And  not  one  prodigy  foretold  our  fate. 

Dem,  A  thousand  horrid  prodigies  foretold  it. 
A  feeble  government,  eluded  laws, 
A  factious  populous,  luxurious  nobles, 
And  all  the  maladies  of  sinking  states. 
When  public  Villainy,  too  strong  for  justice, 
Shows  his  bold  front,  the  harbinger  of  ruin, 
Can  brave  Leontius  call  for  airy  wonders, 
Which  cheats  interpret,  and  which  fools  regard? 
When  some  neglected  fabric  nods  beneath 
The  weight  of  years,  and  totters  to  the  tempest, 
Must  Heaven  despatch  the  messengers  of  light, 
Or  wake  the  dead,  to  warn  us  of  its  fall  ? 

Leon.  Well  might  the  weakness  of  our  empire 

sink 

Before  such  foes  of  more  than  human  force  • 
Some  power  invisible,  from  heaven  or  hell, 
Conducts  their  armies,  and  asserts  their  cause. 
Dem.   And    yet,   my   friend,   what   miracles 

were  wrought 

Beyond  the  power  of  constancy  and  courage  ? 
Did  unresisted  lightning  aid  their  cannon? 
Dili  roaring  whirlwinds  sweep  us  from  the  ram- 
parts • 

'Twas  vice  that  shook  our  nerves,  'twas  vice, 
Leontius, 


That  froze   our   veins,   and    wither'd    all   our 

powers. 
Leon.  Whate'er  our  crimes,  our  woes  demand 

compassion. 

Each  night,  protected  by  the  friendly  darkness, 
duitting  my  close  retreat,  I  range  the  city, 
And,  weeping,  kiss  the  venerable  ruins : 
With  silent  pangs  I  view  the  towering  domes, 
Sacred  to  prayer,  and  wander  through  the  streets, 
Where  commerce  lavish'd  unexhausted  plenty, 
And  jollity  maintain'd  eternal  revels. 
Dem.   How    changed,    alas ! — Now  ghastly 

Desolation 

In  triumph  sits  upon  our  shatter'd  spires ; 
Now  superstition,  ignorance,  and  error, 
Usurp  our  temples,  and  profane  our  altars. 
Leon.  From  every  palace  bursts  a  mingled 

clamour, 

The  dreadful  dissonance  of  barbarous  triumph, 
Shrieks  of  affright  and  wailings  of  distress. 
Oft  when  the  cries  of  violated  beauty 
Arose  to  Heaven,  and  pierced  my  bleeding  breast, 
I  felt  thy  pains,  and  trembled  for  Aspasia. 
Dem.  Aspasia !  spare  that  loved,  that  mourn- 
ful name : 

Dear,  hapless  maid — tempestuous  grief  o'erbears 
My  reasoning  powers — Dear,  hapless,  lost  As- 
pasia ! 

Leon.  Suspend  the  thought. 
Dem.  All  thought  on  her  is  madness ; 
Yet  let  me  think — I  see  the  helpless  maid, 
Behold  the  monsters  gaze  with  savage  rapture, 
Behold  how  lust  and  rapine  struggle  round  her  : 
Leon.  Awake,  Demetrius,  from  this  dismal 
Sink  not  beneath  imaginary  sorrows ;      [dream, 
Call  to  your  age,  your  courage  and  your  wisdom; 
Think  on  the  sudden  change  of  human  scenes  ; 
Think  on  the  various  accidents  of  war  ; 
Think  on  the  mighty  power  of  awful  virtue  ; 
Think  on  that  Providence  that  guards  the  good. 

Dem.  O  Providence !  extend  thy  care  to  me, 
For  Courage  droops  unequal  to  the  combat, 
And  weak  Philosophy  denies  her  succours. 
Sure  some  kind  sabre  in  the  heat  of  battle, 
Ere  yet  the  foe  found  leisure  to  be  cruel, 
Dismissed  her  to  the  sky. 

Leon.  Some  virgin  martyr, 
Perhaps,  enamour'd  of  resembling  virtue, 
With  gentle  hand  restrain'd  the  streams  of  life, 
And  snatch'd  her  timely  from  her  country's  fate. 
Dem.  From  those  bright  regions  of  eternal 
day,  [saints, 

Where  now  thou    shin'st    among  thy  fellow 
Array'd  in  purer  light,  look  down  on  me: 
In  pleasing  visions  and  assuasive  dreams, 

0  !  soothe  my  soul,  and  teach  me  how  to  lose 

thee. 
Leon.  Enough  of  unavailing  tears,  Demetrius: 

1  come  obedient  to  thy  friendly  summons, 

And  hoped  to  share  thy  councils,  not  thy  sor- 
rows : 

While  thus  we  mourn  the  fortune  of  Aspasia, 
To  what  are  we  reserved  ? 

Dem.  To  what  I  know  not : 
But  hope,  yet  hope,  to  happiness  and  honour; 
If  happiness  can  be  without  Aspasia. 

Leon.  But  whence  this  new-sprung  hope  ? 

Dem.  From  Cali  Bassa,  [counsels. 

The  chief,  whose  wisdom  guides  the  Turkish 
He,  tired  of  slavery,  though  the  highest  slave, 
Projects  at  once  our  freedom  and  his  own  ; 
And  bids  us  thus  disguised  await  him  here. 


SCENE  II.] 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


52T 


Leon.  Can  he  restore  the  state  he  could  not 

save  ? 

In  vain,  when  Turkey's  troops  assail'd  our  walls, 
His  kind  intelligence  betray'd  their  measures; 
Their  arms  prevailed,  though  Cali  was  our  friend. 

Dem.  When  the  tenth  sun  had  set  upon  our 

sorrows, 

At  midnight's  private  hour,  a  voice  unknown 
Sounds  in  my  sleeping  ear,  "Awake,  Demetrius, 
Awake,  and  follow  me  to  better  fortune." 
Surprised  I  start,  and  bless  the  happy  dream  ; 
Then,  rousing,  know  the  fiery  chief  Abdalla, 
Whose  quick   impatience   seized  my  doubtful 

hand, 

And  led  me  to  the  shore  where  Cali  stood, 
Pensive  and  list'ning  to  the  beating  surge. 
There,  in  soft  hints  and  in  ambiguous  phrase, 
With  all  the  diffidence  of  long  experience, 
That  oft  had  practised  fraud,  and  oft  detected, 
The  veteran  courtier  half  revealed  his  project. 
By  his  command,  equipp'd  for  speedy  flight, 
Deep  in  a  winding  creek  a  galley  lies, 
Mann'd  with  the  bravest  of  our  fellow-captives, 
Selected  by  my  care,  a  hardy  band, 
That  long  to  hail  thee  chief. 

Leon.  But  what  avails 
So  small  a  force?  or  why  should  Cali  fly? 
Or  how  can  Call's  flight  restore  our  country? 

Dem.  Reserve  these  questions  for  a  safer  hour ; 
Or  hear  himself,  for  see  the  Bassa  comes. 

SCENE  II. 
~  DEMETRIUS,  LEONTIUS,  and  CALI  BASSA. 

Cali.  Now  summon  all  thy  soul,  illustrious 

Christian ! 

Awake  each  faculty  that  sleeps  within  thee, 
The  courtier's  policy,  the  sage's  firmness, 
The  warrior's  ardour,  and  the  patriot's  zeal: 
If,  chasing  past  events  with  vain  pursuit, 
'Or  wandering  in  the  wilds  of  future  being, 
\  single  thought  now  rove,  recall  it  home. 
Jut  can  thy  friend  sustain  the  glorious  cause, 
The  cause  of  liberty,  the  cause  of  nations? 

Dem.  Observe  him  closely  with  a  statesman's 

eye,  [Nature, 

Thou   that  hast  long  perused  the  draughts  of 

And  knows't  the  characters  of  Vice  and  Virtue, 

Left  by  the  hand  of  Heaven  on  human  clay. 

Cali.  His  mien  is  lofty,  his  demeanour  great, 
Nor  sprightly  folly  wantons  in  his  air, 
Nor  dull  serenity  becalms  his  eyes. 
Such  had  I  trusted  once  as  soon  as  seen, 
But  cautious  age  suspects  the  flattering  form, 
And  only  credits  what  experience  tells. 
Has  silence  press'd  her  seal  upon  his  lips  ? 
Does  adamantine  faith  invest  his  heart? 
Will  he  not  bend  beneath  a  tyrant's  frown  ? 
Will  he  not  melt  before  ambition's  fire  ? 
Will  he  not  soften  in  a  friend's  embrace? 
Or  flow  dissolving  in  a  woman's  tears? 

Dem.  Sooner  the  trembling  leaves  shall  find 

a  voice, 

And  tell  the  secrets  of  their  conscious  walks ; 
Sooner  the  breeze  shall  catch  the  flying  sounds, 
And  shock  the  tyrant  with  a  tale  of  treason. 
Your  slaughter'd  multitudes  that  swell  the  shore 
With  monuments  of  death,  proclaim  his  courage ; 
Virtue  and  liberty  engross  his  soul, 
And  leave  no  place  for  perfidy  or  fear. 

Leon.  I  scorn  a  trust  unwillingly  reposed ; 
Demetrius  will  not  lead  m?to  dishonour ; 


Consult  in  private,  call  me  when  your  sr'neme 
Is  ripe  for  action,  and  demands  the  sword. 

[Got'nf 

Dem.  Leontius,  stay. 
Cali.,  Forgive  an  old  man's  weakness 
And  share  the  deepest  secrets  of  my  soul, 
My  wrongs,  my  fears,  my  motives,  my  designs. 
When  unsuccessful  wars  and  civil  factions, 
Embroil'd  the  Turkish  state,  our  Sultan's  father 
Great  Amurath,  at  my  request  forsook, 
The  cloister's  ease,  resumed  the  tottering  throne, 
And  snatch'd  the  reins  of  abdicated  power, 
From  giddy  Mahomet's  unskilful  hand. 
This  fired  the  youthful  king's  ambitious  breast , 
He  murmurs  vengeance  at  the  name  of  Cali, 
And  dooms  my  rash  fidelity  to  ruin. 

Dem.  Unhappy  lot  of  all  that  shine  in  courts, 
For  forced  compliance,  or  for  zealous  virtue, 
Still  odious  to  the  monarch  or  the  people. 

Cali.  Such  are  the  woes  when  arbitrary  power, 
And  lawless  passion  hold  the  sword  of  justice. 
If  there  be  any  land,  as  fame  reports, 
Where  common  laws  restrain  the  prince  and 

subject, 

A  happy  land,  where  circulating  power 
Flows  through  each  member  of  th'  embodied 

state ; 

Sure,  not  unconscious  of  the  mighty  blessing, 
Her  grateful  sons  shine  bright  with  every  virtue; 
Untainted  with  the  lust  of  innovation, 
Sure  all  unite  to  hold  her  league  of  rule 
Unbroken  as  the  sacred  chain  of  nature, 
That  links  the  jarring  elements  in  peace. 

Leon.  But  say,  great  Bassa,  why  the  Sultan's 

anger, 

Burning  in  vain,  delays  the  stroke  of  death? 
Cali.  Young  and  unsettled  in  his  father's  king- 
doms, 

Fierce  as  he  was,  he  dreaded  to  destroy 
The  empire's  darling  and  the  soldier's  boast; 
But  now  confirm'd,  and  swelling  with  his  con- 
quests, 

Secure  he  tramples  my  declining  fame,       [eyes. 
Frowns  unrestrain'd,  and  dooms  me  with  his 
Dem.  What  can  reverse  thy  doom  ? 
Cali.  The  tyrant's  death. 
Dem,  But  Greece  is  still  forgot. 
Cali.  On  Asia's  coast, 

Which  lately  bless'd  my  gentle  government, 
Soon  as  the  Sultan's  unexpected  fate 
Pills  all  th'  astonish'd  empire  with  confusion, 
My  policy  shall  raise  an  easy  throne ; 
The  Turkish  powers  from  Europe  shall  i  etreat, 
And  harass  Greece  no  more  with  wasteful  war. 
A  galley  mann'd  with  Greeks,  thy  charge,  Leon 

tius, 
Attends  to  waft  us  to  repose  and  safety. 

Dem.  That  vessel,  if  observed,  alarms   tho 

court, 

And  gives  a  thousand  fatal  questions  birth : 
Why  stored  for  flight?  and  why  prepared  by 

Cali? 

Cali.  This  hour  I'll  beg,  with  unsuspecting  face, 
Leave  to  perform  my  pilgrimage  to  Mecca : 
Which   granted,  hides   my  purpose    from  the 

world, 
And,  though  refused,  conceals  it  from  tin.  Sultan. 

Leon.  How  can  a  single  hand  attempt  a  life 
Which  armies  guard,  and  citadels  enclose? 
Cali.   Forgetful    of  command,  with   captive 

beauties, 
Far  from  his  troopi,  he  toys  his  hours  avv  ay. 


528 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


[Act  I 


A  rovi",g  soldier  seized,  in  Sophia's  temple, 
A  virgin  shining  with  distinguished  charms, 
And  brought  his  beauteous  plunder  to  the  Sul- 
tan. 

Df.m.  In  Sophia's  temple  ! — what  alarm  ! — 
Proceed.  [loved : 

Call.  The  Sultan  gazed,  he  wonder'd  and  he 
In  passion  lost,  he  bade  the  conquering  fair 
Renounce  her  faith,  and  be  the  dueen  of  Turkey. 
The  pious  maid,  with  modest  indignation, 
Threw  back  the  glittering  bribe. 

Dem.  Celestial  goodness! 
It  must,  it  must  be  she !  her  name  ? 

Call.  Aspasia.  [soul ! 

Dem.  What  hopes,  what  terrors  rush  upon  my 
0  lead  me  quickly  to  the  scene  of  fate ; 
Break  through  the  politician's  tedious  forms, 
Aspasia  calls  me,  let  me  fly  to  save  her. 

Leon.  Did  Mahomet  reproach  or  praise  her 
virtue? 

Cali.  His  offers  oft  repeated,  still  refused, 
At  length  rekindled  his  accustom'd  fury, 
And  changed  th'  endearing  smile  and  am'rous 

whisper 
To  threats  of  torture,  death,  and  violation. 

Dem.  These  tedious  narratives  of  frozen  age 
Distract  my  soul ;  despatch  thy  lingering  tale ; 
Say,  did  a  voice  from  heaven  restrain  the  tyrant? 
Did  interposing  angels  guard  her  from  him? 

Call.  Just  in  the  moment  of  impending  fate, 
Another  plunderer  brought  the  bright  Irene ; 
Of  equal  beauty,  but  of  softer  mien, 
Fear  in  her  eye,  submission  on  her  tongue, 
Her  mournful  charms  attracted  his  regards, 
Disarm'd  his  rage,  and  in  repeated  visits 
Gain'd  all  his  heart ;  at  length  his  eager  love 
To  her  transferr'd  the  offer  of  a  crown. 

Leon.  Nor  found  again  the  bright  temptation 
fail? 

Cali.  Trembling  to  grant,  nor  daring  to  refuse, 
While  Heaven  and  Mahomet  divide  her  fears, 
With  coy  caresses  and  with  pleasing  wiles 
She  feeds  his  hopes,  and  soothes  him  to  delay. 
For  her,  repose  is  banish'd  from  the  night, 
And  business  from  the  day.     In  her  apartments 
He  lives 

Leon.  And  there  must  fall. 

Cali.  But  yet  th'  attempt 
Is  hazardous. 

Leon.  Forbear  to  speak  of  hazards ; 
What    has  the  wretch  that  has  survived  his 
His  friends,  his  liberty,  to  hazard  ?         [country, 

Cali.  Life. 

Dem.  Th'  inestimable  privilege  of  breathing ! 
Important  hazard !     What's  that  airy  bubble, 
When  weigh'd  with  Greece,  with  virtue,  with 

Aspasia  ? 

A  floating  atom,  dust  that  falls  unheeded 
Into  the  adverse  scale,  nor  shakes  the  balance. 

Cali.  At  least  this  day  be  calm — If  we  succeed, 
Aspasia's  thine,  and  all  thy  life  is  rapture. — 
See!  Mustapha,  the  tyrant's  minion  comes; 
Invest  Leontius  with  his  new  command  ; 
And  wait  Abdalla's  unsuspected  visits ; 
Remember  Freedom,  Glory,  Greece,  and  Love. 
[Exeunt  DEM.  and  LEON. 

SCENE  III. 
CALI,  and  MUSTAPHA. 
Jtfiw.  By  what  enchantment  does  this  lovely 

Greek 
Hold  in  her  chains  the  captivated  Sultan? 


He  tires  his  favourites  with  Irene's  praise, 
And  seeks  the  shades  to  muse  upon  Irene ; 
Irene  steals  unheeded  from  his  tongue, 
And  mingles  unperceived  with  every  thought. 

Cali.  Why  should  the  Sultan  shun  the  joys  of 

beauty, 

Or  arm  his  breast  against  the  force  of  love  ? 
Love,  that  with  sweet  vicissitude  relieves 
The  warrior's  labours,  and  the  monarch's  cares. 
But  will  she  yet  receive  the  faith  of  Mecca? 

Mus.  Those  powerful  tyrants  of  the  female 

breast, 

Fear  and  Ambition,  urge  her  to  compliance ; 
Dress'd  in  each  charm  of  gay  magnificence, 
Alluring  grandeur  courts  her  to  his  arms, 
Religion  calls  her  from  the  wish'd  embrace, 
Paints  future  joys,  and  points  to  distant  glories. 

Call.  Soon  will  th'  unequal  contest  be  decided; 
Prospects,  obscured  by  distance,  faintly  strike ; 
Each  pleasure  brightens  at  its  near  approach, 
And  every  danger  shocks  with  double  horror. 

Mus.  How  shall  I  scorn  the  beautiful  apostate, 
How  will  the  bright  Aspasia  shine  above  her! 

Cali.  Should  she,  for  proselytes  are  always 

zealous, 
With  pious  warmth  receive  our  prophet's  law — 

Mus.   Heaven  will    contemn  the  mercenary 

fervour, 
Which  love  of  greatness,  not  of  truth,  inflames. 

Cali.  Cease,  cease  thy  censures ;  for  the  Sultau 

comes 
Alone,  with  amorous  haste  to  seek  his  love. 

SCENE  IV. 
MAHOMET,  CALI  BASSA,  and  MUSTAPHA. 

Cali.   Hail!    terror  of  the  monarchs  of  the 

world, 

Unshaken  be  thy  throne  as  earth's  firm  base, 
Live  till  the  sun  forgets  to  dart  his  beams, 
And  weary  planets  loiter  in  their  courses ! 

Mah.  But,  Cali,  let  Irene  share  thy  prayers ; 
For  what  is  length  of  days  without  Irene? 
I  come  from  empty  noise,  and  tasteless  pomp, 
From  crowds  that  hide  a  monarch  from  himseli, 
To  prove  the  sweets  of  privacy  and  friendship, 
And  dwell  upon  the  beauties  of  Irene. 

Cali.  O  may  her  beauties  last  unchanged  by 

time, 
As  those  that  bless  the  mansions  of  the  good ! 

Mah.   Each  realm  where    beauty  turns   the 

graceful  shape, 

Swells  the  fair  breast,  or  animates  the  glance, 
Adorns  my  palace  with  its  brightest  virgins ; 
Yet,  unacquainted  with  these  soft  emotions, 
I  walk'd  superior  through  the  blaze  of  charms, 
Praised  without  rapture,  left  without  regret. 
Why  rove  I  now,  when  absent  from  my  fair, 
From  solitude  to  crowds,  from  crowds  to  solitude, 
Still  restless,  till  I  clasp  the  lovely  maid, 
And  ease  my  loaded  soul  upon  her  bosom? 

Mus.  Forgive,  great  Sultan,  that  intrusive  duty, 
Inquires  the  final  doom  of  Menodorus, 
The  Grecian  counsellor. 

Mah.  Go  see  him  die ; 

His  martial  rhetoric  taught  the  Greeks  resistance; 
Had  they  prevail'd,  I  ne'er  had  known  Irene. 

[Exit  MUSTAPHA. 
SCENE  V. 
MAHOMET,  and  CALL 

Mah.  Remote  from  tumult,  in  th'  adjoining 

palace, 
Thy  care  shall  guaru  this  treasure  of  my  soul : 


SCENB  II.] 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


529 


There  let  Aspasia,  since  my  fair  entreats  it, 
With  converse  chase  the  melancholy  moments. 
Sure,  chill'd  with  sixty  winter  camps,  thy  blood 
At  sight  of  female  charms  will  glow  no  more. 

Call.   These  years,   unconquer'd    Mahomet, 

demand 

Desires  more  pure,  and  other  cares  than  love. 
Long  have  I  vvish'd,  before  our  prophet's  tomb, 
To  pour  my  prayers  for  thy  successful  reign, 
To  quit  the  tumults  of  the  noisy  camp, 
And  sink  into  the  silent  grave  in  peace. 

Mah.  What!    think  of  peace  while  haughty 

Scanderbeg, 

Elate  with  conquest,  in  his  native  mountains, 
Prowls  o'er  the  wealthy  spoils  of  bleeding  Tur- 
key ! 

While  fair  Huna;aria's  unexhausted  valleys 
Pour  forth  their  legions,  and  the  roaring  Danube 
Rolls  half  his  floods  unheard  through  shouting 

camps ! 

Nor  couldst  thou  more  support  a  life  of  sloth 
Than  Amurath — 

Cali.  Still  full  of  Amurath.  [Aside. 

Mah.  Than  Amurath,  accustom'd  to  command, 
Could  bear  his  son  upon  the  Turkish  throne. 

Call.  This  pilgrimage  our  lawgiver  ordain'd — 

Mah.  For  those  who  could  not  please  by  nobler 

service. 

Our  warlike  Prophet  loves  an  active  faith. 
The  holy  flame  of  enterprizing  virjtue 
Mocks  the  dull  vows  of  solitude  and  penance, 
And  scorns  the  lazy  hermit's  cheap  devotion. 
Shine  thou,  distinguish'd  by  superior  merit, 
With  wonted  zeal  pursue  the  task  of  war, 
Till  every  nation  reverence  the  Koran, 
And  every  suppliant  lift  his  eyes  to  Mecca. 

Cali.  This  regal  confidence,  this  pious  ardour, 
Let  prudence  moderate,  though  not  suppress. 
Is  not  each  realm  that  smiles  with  kinder  suns, 
Or  boasts  a  happier  soil,  already  thine? 
Extended  empire,  like  expanded  gold, 
Exchanges  solid  strength  for  feeble  splendour. 

Mah.  Preach  thy  dull  politics  to  vulgar  kings, 
Thou  know'st  not  yet  thy  master's  future  great- 
ness, 

His  vast  designs,  his  plans  of  boundless  power. 
When  every  storm  in  my  domain  shall  roar, 
When  every  wave  shall  beat  a  Turkish  shore ; 
Then,  Cali,  shall  the  toils  of  battle  cease, 
Then   dream   of   prayer,   and   pilgrimage,   and 
neace.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

ASPASIA  and  IRENE. 

Irene.    Aspasia,  yet  pursue  the  sacred  theme; 
Exhaust  the  stores  of  pious  eloquence, 
And  teach  me  to  repel  the  Sultan's  passion. 
Still  at  Aspasia's  voice  a  sudden  rapture 
Exalts  my  soul,  and  fortifies  my  heart. 
The  glittering  vanities  of  empty  greatness, 
The  hopes  and  fears,  the  joys  and  pains  of  life, 
Dissolve  in  air,  and  vanish  into  nothing. 

Jlsp.  Let  nobler  hopes  and  juster  fears  succeed, 
And  bar  the  passes  of  Irene's  mind 
Against  returning  guilt. 

Irene.  When  thou  art  absent, 
Death  rises  to  my  view,  with  all  his  terrors : 
Then  visions,  horrid  as  a  murderer's  dreams, 
3R 


Chill  my  resolves,  and  blast  my  blooming  virtue : 
Stern  Torture  shakes  his  bloody  scourge  before 

me, 
And  Anguish  gnashes  on  the  fatal  wheel. 

Jlsp.  Since  fear  predominates  in  every  thought, 
And  sways  thy  breast  with  absolute  dominion, 
Think  on  the    insulting  scorn,  the  conscious 

pangs, 

The  future  miseries  that  wait  the  apostate ; 
So  shall  Timidity  assist  thy  reason, 
And  Wisdom  into  virtue  turn  thy  frailty. 
Irene.  Will  not  that  Power  that  form'd  the 

heart  of  woman, 

And  wove  the  feeble  texture  of  her  nerves, 
Forgive  those  fears  that  shake  the  tender  frame? 
Jlsp.    The  weakness    we    lament,   ourselves 

create ; 

Instructed  from  our  infant  years  to  court, 
With  counterfeited  fears,  the  aid  of  man, 
We  learn  to  shudder  at  the  rustling  breeze,* 
Start  at  the  light,  and  tremble  in  the  dark ; 
Till,  affectation  ripening  to  belief, 
And  Folly  frighted  at  her  own  phimeras, 
Habitual  cowardice  usurps  the  soul. 

Irene.  Not  all  like  thee  can  brave  the  shocks 

of  fate,  [ledge, 

Thy  soul,  by  nature  great,  enlarged  by  know- 
Soars  unencumber'd  with  our  idle  cares, 
And  all  Aspasia,  but  her  beauty's  man. 
Jlsp.  Each  generous  sentiment  is  thine,  Do- 

metrius, 

Whose  soul,  perhaps,  yet  mindful  of  Aspasia, 
Now  hovers  o'er  this  melancholy  shade, 
Well  pleased  to  find  thy  precepts  not  forgotten. 
O  !  could  the  grave  restore  the  pious  hero, 
Soon  would  his  art  or  valour  set  us  free, 
And  bear  us  far  from  servitude  and  crimes. 
Irene.  He  yet  may  live. 
Jlsp.  Alas !  delusive  dream ! 
Too  well  I  know  him ;  his  immoderate  courage, 
The  impetuous  sallies  of  excessive  virtue, 
Too  strong  for  love,  have  hurried  him  on  death. 

SCENE  II. 
ASPASIA,  IRENE.  CALI,  and  ABDALLA. 

Cali.  [To  ABD.  as  they  advance.]  Behold  our 

future  Sultaness,  Abdalla ; 
Let  artful  flattery  now,  to  lull  suspicion, 
Glide  through  Irene  to  the  Sultan's  ear. 
Would'st  thou  subdue  the  obdurate  cannibal 
To  tender  friendship,  praise  him  to  his  mistress. 

[To  IRENE. 
Well  may  those  eyes  that  view  these  heavenly 

charms 

Reject  the  daughters  of  contending  kings  ; 
For  what  are  pompous  titles,  proud  alliance, 
Empire  or  wealth,  Jo  excellence  like  thine  ? 

Jlbd.  Receive  the'impatient  Sultan  to  thy  arms ; 
And  may  a  long  posterity  of  monarchs, 
The  pride  and  terror  of  succeeding  days, 
Rise  from  the  happy  bed ;  and  future  queens 
Diffuse  Irene's  beauty  through  the  world ! 

Irene.  Can  Mahomet's  imperial  hand  descend 
To  clasp  a  slave  ?  or  can  a  soul  like  mine, 
Unused  to  power,  and  form'd  for  humbler  scenes, 
Support  the  splendid  miseries  of  greatness? 

Cali.  No  regal  pageant,  decked  with  casual 

honours, 

Scorn'd  by  his  subjects,  trampelled  by  his  foes, 
No  feeble  tyrant  of  a  petty  state, 
Courts  thee  to  shake  on  a  dependant  throne ; 


530 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


[Acr  II. 


Born  to  command,  as  thou  to  charm  mankind, 
The  Sultan  from  himself  derives  his  greatness. 
Observe  bright  maid,  as  his  resistless  voice 
Drives  on  the  tempest  of  destructive  war, 
How  nation  after  nation  falls  before  him. 

Jlbd.  At  his  dread  name  the  distant  mountains 

shake  [ness, 

Their  cloudy  summits,  and  the  sons  of  fierce- 
That  range  uncivilized  from  rock  to  rock, 
Distrust  the  eternal  fortresses  of  Nature, 
And  wish  their  gloomy  caverns  more  obscure. 
Jlsp.    Forbear  this   laviuh  pomp  of  dreadful 

praise ; 

The  horrid  images  of  war  and  slaughter 
Renew  our  sorrows  and  awake  our  fears. 

Jlbd.  Cali,  methinks  yon  waving  trees  afford 
A  doubtful  glimpse  of  our  approaching  friends  ; 
Just  as  I  mark'd  them,  they  forsook  the  shore, 
And  turn'd  their  hasty  steps  towards  the  garden. 
Cali.  Conduct  these  queens,  Abdalla,  to  the. 

palace : 

Such  heavenly  beauty,  form'd  for  adoration, 
The  pride  of  monarchs,  the  reward  of  conquests! 
Such  beauty  must  not  shine  to  vulgar  eyes. 

SCENE  III. 

CaR.   [Solus.]  How  Heaven,  in  scorn  of  hu- 
man arrogance, 

Commits  to  trivial  chance  the  fate  of  nations  ! 
While  with  incessant  thought  laborious  man 
Extends  his  mighty  schemes    of  wealth    and 

power, 

And  towers  and  triumphs  in  ideal  greatness ; 
Some  accidental  gust  of  opposition 
Blasts  all  the  beauties  of  his  new  creation. 
O'erturns  the  fabric  of  presumptuous  reason, 
And  whelms  the  swelling  architect  beneath  it. 
Had  not  the  breeze  untwined  the  meeting  boughs, 
And  through  the  parted  shade   disclosed   the 

Greeks, 

Th'  important  hour  had  pass'd  unheeded  by, 
In  all  the  sweet  oblivion  of  delight, 
In  all  the  fopperies  of  meeting  lovers : 
In  sighs  and  tears,  in  transports  and  embraces, 
In  soft  complaints,  and  idle  protestations. 

SCENE  IV. 
CALI,  DEMETRIUS,  and  LEONTIUS. 

Cali.  Could  omens  fright  the  resolute  and  wise, 
Well  might  we  fear  impending  disappointments. 

Leon.  Your  artful  suit,  your  monarch's  fierce 

denial, 
The  cruel  doom  of  hapless  Menodorus. — 

Dem.  And  your  new  charge,  that  dear  that 
heavenly  maid. — 

Leon.  All  this  we  know  already  from  Abdalla. 

Dem.  Such  slight  defeats  but  animate  the  brave 
To  stronger  efforts  and  maturer  counsels. 

Cali.  My  doom  confirmed  establishes  my  pur- 
pose. 

Calmly  he  heard,  till  Amurath's  resumption 
Rose  to  his  thought,  and  set  his  soul  on  fire : 
When  from  his  lips  the  fatal  name  burst  out, 
A  sudden  pause  th'  imperfect  sense  suspended, 
Like  the  dread  stillness  of  condensing  storms. 

Dem.  The  loudest  cries  of  Nature  urge  us 

forward ; 

Despotic  rage  pursues  the  life  of  Cali ; 
His  groaning  country  claims  Leontius'  aid  ; 
And  yet  another  voice,  forgive  me,  Greece, 


The  powerful  voice  of  Love  inflames  Demetrius, 
Each  lingering  hour  alarms  me  for  Aspasia. 

Cali.  What  passions  reign  among  thy  crew, 

Leontius  ? 

Does  cheerless  diffidence  oppress  their  hearts? 
Or  sprightly  hope  exalt  their  kindling  spirits? 
Do  they  with  pain  repress  the  struggling  shout, 
And  listen  eager  to  the  rising  wind  ? 

Leon.    All  there  is   hope,   and    gayety    and 

courage, 

No  cloudy  doubts,  or  languishing  delays, 
Ere  I  could  range  them  on  the  crowded  deck, 
At  once  a  hundred  voices  thunder'd  round  me, 
And  every  voice  was  Liberty  and  Greece. 

Dem.  Swift  let  us  rush  upon  the  careless  tyrant, 
Nor  give  him  leisure  for  another  crime. 

Leon.  Then  let  us  now  resolve,  nor  idly  waste 
Another  hour  in  dull  deliberation. 

Cali.  But  see,  where,  destined  to  protract  our 

counsels, 
Comes  Mustapha. — Your  Turkish  robes  con 

ceal  you. 

Retire  with  speed,  while  I  prepare  to  meet  him 
With  artificial  smiles  and  seeming  friendship. 

SCENE  V. 
CALI  and  MUSTAPHA. 

Cali.  I  see  the  gloom  that  low'rs  upon  thy 
brow :  [thee  ; 

These  days  of  love   and   pleasure  charm  not 
Too  slow  these  gentle  constellations  roll; 
Thou  long'st  for  stars  that  frown  on  human  kind, 
And  scatter  discord  from  their  baleful  beams. 
Jtftw.    How  blest  art  thou,  still  jocund   and 

serene, 

Beneath  the  load  of  business,  and  of  years ! 
Cali.   Sure  by  some  wondrous  sympathy  of 

souls, 

My  heart  still  beats  responsive  to  the  Sultan's  ; 
I  share,  by  secret  instinct,  all  his  joys, 
And  feel  no  sorrow  while  my  sovereign  smiles. 
Mus.    The  Sultan  comes,  impatient  for  his 

love ; 

Conduct  her  hither:  let  no  rude  intrusion 
Molest  these  private  walks,  or  care  invade 
These  hours  assign'd  to  pleasure  and  Irene. 

SCENE  VI. 
MAHOMET  and  MUSTAPHA. 

Mah.   Now,    Mustapha,  pursue   thy   tale  of 

horror. 

Has- treason's  dire  infection  reach'd  my  palace? 
Can  Cali  dare  the  stroke  of  heavenly  justice 
In  the  dark  precincts  of  a  gaping  grave, 
And  load  with  perjuries  his  parting  soul  ? 
Was  it  for  this  that  sickening  in  Epirus, 
My  father  call'd  me  to  his  couch  of  death, 
Jom'd  Call's  hand  to  mine,  and  faltering  cried, 
Restrain  the  fervour  of  impetuous  youth 
With  venerable  Call's  faithful  counsels? 
Are  these  the  counsels,  this  the  faith  of  Cali  ? 
Were  all  our  favours  lavish'd  on  a  villain? 
Confest  ? 

Mus.  Confest  by  dying  Menodorus. 
In  his  last  agonies  the  gasping  coward, 
Amidst  the  tortures  of  the  burning  steel, 
Still  fond  of  life,  groan'd  out  the  dreadful  secret, 
Held  forth  this  fatal  scroll,  then  sunk  to  nothing. 

Mah.  [Examining  the  Paper.]  His  correspond- 
ence with  our  foes  of  Greece ! 


SCENE  VII.] 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


531 


His  hand  !  his  seal !  The  secrets  of  my  soul 
Conceal'd  from  all  but  him !  All,  all  conspire 
To  banish  doubt,  and  brand  him  for  a  villain ! 
Our  schemes  for  ever  cross'd,  our  mines  dis- 

cover'd, 

Betray'd  some  traitor  lurking  near  my  bosom. 
Oft  have  I  raged,  when  their  wide  wasting  can- 
non 

Lay  pointed  at  our  batteries  yet  unforrn'd, 
And  broke  the  meditated  lines  of  war. 
Detested  Cali,  too,  with  artful  wonder, 
Would  shake  his  wily  head,  and  closely  whisper, 
Beware  of  Mustapha,  beware  of  treason. 

Mus.  The  faith  of  Mustapha  disdains  suspi- 
cion; 

But  yet,  great  emperor,  beware  of  treason  ; 
Th'  insidious  Bassa,  fired  by  disappointment — 

Mah.  Shall  feel  the  vengeance  of  an  injured 

king. 

Go,  seize  him,  load  him  with  reproachful  chains, 
Before  th'  assembled  troops  proclaim  his  crimes ; 
Then  leave  him  stretch'd  upon  the  lingering  rack, 
Amidst  the  camp  to  howl  his  life  away. 

Mus.  Should  we  before  the   troops  proclaim 

his  crimes ; 

I  dread  his  arts  of  seeming  innocence, 
His  bland  address,  and  sorcery  of  tongue ; 
And,  should  he  fall  unheard  by  sudden  justice, 
Th'  adoring  soldiers  would  revenge  their  idol. 

Mah.  Cali,  this  day,  with  hypocritic  zeal, 
Implored  my  leave  to  visit  Mecca's  temple ; 
Struck  with  the  wonder  of  a  statesman's  good- 
ness, 

I  raised  his  thoughts  to  more  sublime  devotion. 
Now  let  him  go,  pursued  by  silent  wrath, 
Meet  unexpected  daggers  in  his  way, 
And  in  some  distant  land  obscurely  die. 

Mus.  There  will  his  boundless  wealth,  the 
spoil  of  Asia,  [him, 

Heap'd  by  your  father's  ill-placed  bounties  on 
Disperse  rebellion  through  the  Eastern  world ; 
Bribe  to  his  cause,  and  list  beneath  his  banners, 
Arabia's  roving  troops,  the  sons  of  swiftness, 
And  arm  the  Persian  heretic  against  tliee ; 
There  shall  he  waste  thy  frontiers,  check  thy 
conquests,  [geance. 

And,  though  at  length  subdued,  elude  thy  ven- 

Mah.  Elude  my  vengeance!     No — my  troops 

shall  range 

Th'  eternal  snows  that  freeze  beyond  Moeotis, 
And  Afric's  torrid  sands,  in  search  of  Cali. 
Should  the  fierce  North  upon  his  frozen  wings 
Bear  him  aloft  above  the  wondering  clouds, 
And  seat  him  in  the  Pleiads'  golden  chariots, 
Thence  shall  my  fury  drag  him  down  to  tortures ; 
iVherever  guilt  can  fly,  revenge  can  follow. 

JUus.  Wilt  thou  dismiss  the  savage  from  the 

toils, 
•Only  to  hunt  him  round  the  ravaged  world  ? 

Mah.  Suspend  his  sentence — Empire  and  Irene 
Claim  my  divided  soul.     This  wretch,  unworthy 
To  mix  with  nobler  cares,  I'll  throw  aside 
For  idle  hours,  and  crush  him  at  my  leisure. 

Mus.  Let  not  th'  unbounded  greatness  of  his 

mind 

Betray  my  king  to  negligenee  of  danger. 
Perhaps  the  clouds  of  dark  conspiracy      [head. 
Now  roll   full   fraught  with  thunder  o'er  your 
Twice  since  the  morning  rose  I  saw  the  Bassa, 
Like  a  fell  adder  swelling  in  a  brake, 
Beneath  the  covert  of  this  verdant  arch 
In  private  conference;  beside  him  stood 


Two  men  unknown,  the  partners  of  his  bosom ; 
I  mark'd  them  well,  and  traced  in  either  face 
The  gloomy  resolution,  horrid  greatness, 
And  stern  composure,  of  despairing  heroes ; 
And,  to  confirm  my  thoughts,  at  sight  of  me, 
As  blasted  by  my  presence,  they  withdrew 
With  all  the  speed  of  terror  and  of  guilt. 

Mah.  The  strong  emotions  of  my  troubled  aoul 
Allow  no  pause  for  art  or  for  contrivance; 
And  dark  perplexity  distracts  my  counsels. 
Do  thou  resolve :  for  see  Irene  comes ! 
At  her  approach  each  ruder  gust  of  tnought 
Sinks  like  the  sighing  of  a  tempest  spent, 
And  gales  of  softer  passion  fan  my  bosom. 

[CALI   enters  with  IRENE,  and  exit  with 
MUSTAPHA. 

SCENE  VII. 
MAHOMET  *nd  IRENE. 

Mah.  Wilt  thou  descend,  fair  daughter  of  per- 
fection, 

To  hear  my  vows,  and  give  mankind  a  queen  ? 
Ah !  cease,  Irene,  cease  those  flowing  sorrows, 
That  melt  a  heart  impregnable  till  now, 
And  turn  thy  thoughts  henceforth  to  love  and 

empire. 

How  will  the  matchless  beauties  of  Irene, 
Thus  bright  in  tears,  thus  amiable  in  ruin, 
With  all  the  graceful  pride  of  greatness  height- 
ened, 

Amidst  the  blaze  of  jewels  and  of  gold, 
Adorn  a  throne,  and  dignify  dominion ! 

Irene.  Why  all  this  glare  of  splendid  eloquence, 
To  paint  the  pageantries  of  guilty  state  ? 
Must  I  for  these  renounce  the  hope  of  heaven, 
Immortal  crowns,  and  fulness  of  enjoyment? 

Mah.   Vain   raptures   all — For  your  inferior 

natures, 

Form'd  to  delight,  and  happy  by  delighting, 
Heaven  has  reserved  no  future  paradise, 
But  bids  you  rove  the  paths  of  bliss,  secure 
Of  total  death,  and  careless  of  hereafter ; 
While  Heaven's  high  minister,  whose   awful 
volume  [man, 

Records  each  act,  each  thought  of  sovereign 
Surveys  your  plays  with  inattentive  glance, 
And  leaves  the  lovely  trifler  unregarded. 

Irene.  Why  then  has  Nature's  vain  munificence 
Profusely  pour'd  her  bounties  upon  woman  ? 
Whence   then   those  charms   thy  tongue   has 

deign'd  to  flatter, 

That  air  resistless,  and  enchanting  blush, 
Unless  the  beauteous  fabric  was  design'd 
A  habitation  for  a  fairer  soul  ? 

Mah.  Too  high,  bright  maid,  thou  rat'st  exte- 
rior grace : 

Not  always  do  the  fairest  flowers  diffuse 
The  richest  odours,  nor  the  speckled  shells 
Conceal  the  gem ;  let  female  arrogance 
Observe  the  feather'd  wanderers  of  the  sky ; 
With  purple  varied  and  bedropp'd  with  gold, 
They  prune  the  wing,  and  spread  the  glossy 

plumes, 

Ordain'd,  like  you,  to  flutter  and  to  shine, 
And  cheer  the  weary  passenger  with  music. 

Irene.  Mean   as  we  are,   this  tyrant  of  the 

world 

Implores  our  smiles,  and  trembles  at  our  feet 
Whence  flow  the  hopes  and  fears,  despair  and 

rapture, 
Whence  all  the  bliss  and  agonies  of  love? 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


Mah.  Why,  when  the  balm  of  sleep  descends 

on  man, 

Do  gay  delusions,  wandering  o'er  the  brain, 
Soothe  the  delighted  soul  with  empty  bliss? 
To  want  give  affluence  ?  and  to  slavery  freedom  ? 
Such  are  love's  joys,  the  lenitives  of  life, 
A  fancy'd  treasure,  and  a  waking  dream. 

Irene.  Then  let  me  once,  in  honour  of  our  sex, 
Assume  the  boastful  arrogance  of  man. 
The  attractive  softness,  and  the  endearing  smile, 
And  powerful  glance,  'tis  granted  are  our  own ; 
Nor  has  impartial  Nature's  frugal  hand 
Exhausted  all  her  nobler  gifts  on  you. 
Do  not  we  share  the  comprehensive  thought, 
The  enlivening  wit,  the  penetrating  reason  ? 
Beats  not  the  female  breast  with  generous  pas- 
sions 
The  thirst  of  empire,  and  the  love  of  glory  ? 

Mah.  Illustrious  maid,  new  wonders  fix  me 

thine, 

Thy  soul  completes  the  triumphs  of  thy  face. 
I  thought  (forgive,  my  fair,)  the  noblest  aim, 
The  strongest  effort  of  a  female  soul, 
Was  but  to  choose  the  graces  of  the  day, 
To  tune  the  tongue,  to  teach  the  eyes  to  roll, 
Dispose  the  colour  of  the  flowing  robe, 
And  add  new  roses  to  the  faded  cheek. 
Will  it  not  charm  a  mind  like  thine  exalted, 
To  shine  the  goddess  of  applauding  nations, 
To  scatter  happiness  and  plenty  round  thee, 
To  bid  the  prostrate  captive  rise  and  live, 
To  see  new  cities  tower  at  thy  command, 
And  blasted  kingdoms  flourish  at  thy  smile  ? 

Irene.  Charm'd  with  the  thought  of  blessing 

human  kind, 
Too  calm  I  listen  to  the  flattering  sounds. 

Mah.  O  seize  the  power  to  bless — Irene's  nod 
Shall  break  the  fetters  of  the  groaning  Christian ; 
Greece,  in  her  lovely  patroness  secure. 
Shall  mourn  no  more  her  plunder'd  palaces. 

Irene.  Forbear — O  do  not  urge  me  to  my  ruin ! 

Mah.  To  state  and  power  I  court  tbee,  not  to 

ruin: 

Smile  on  my  wishes,  and  command  the  globe. 
Security  shall  spread  her  shield  before  thee, 
And  Love  enfold  thee  with  her  downy  wings. 

If  greatness  please  thee,  mount  the  imperial 
seat; 

If  pleasure  charm  thee,  view  this  soft  retreat ; 

Here  every  warbler  of  the  sky  shall  sing ; 

Here  every  fragrance  breathe  of  every  spring : 

To  deck  these  bowers  each  region  shall  com- 
bine, 

And  e'en  our  Prophet's  gardens  envy  thine : 

Empire  and  love  shall  share  the  blissful  day, 

And  varied  life  steal  unperceived  away. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 
SCENE  I. 

CALI  and  ABDALLA. — CALI  enters  with  a  discon- 
tented air;  to  him  enters  ABDALLA. 
Call,  la  this  the  fierce  conspirator,  Abdalla  ? 
Is  this  the  restless  diligence  of  treason  ? 
Where  hast  thou  linger'd  while  the  encumber'd 

hours 

Fly  labouring  with  the  fate  of  future  nations, 
And  hungry  slaughter  scents  imperial  blood  ? 
Jlbd.  Important  cares  detain'd  me  from  your 
counsels. 


Coli.  Some    petty  passion .    some    domestic 

trifle  ! 

Some  vain  amusement  of  a  vacant  soul ! 
A  weeping  wife,  perhaps,  or  dying  friend, 
Hung  on  your  neck,  and  hinder'd  your  depar- 
ture. 

Is  this  a  time  for  softness  or  for  sorrow 
Unprofitable,  peaceful,  female  virtues  ! 
When  eager  vengeance  shows  a  naked  foe, 
And  kind  ambition  points  the  way  to  greatness. 

Jlbd.  Must  then  ambition's  votaries  infringe 
The  law  of  kindness,  break  the  bonds  of  nature, 
And  quit  the  names  of  brother,  friend,  and  father? 

Call.  This  sovereign  passion,  scornful  of  re- 
straint, 

E'en  from  the  birth  affects  supreme  command, 
Swells  in  the  breast,  and  with  resistless  force 
O'erbears  each  gentler  motion  of  the  mind. 
As  when  a  deluge  overspreads  the  plains, 
The  wandering  rivulet  and  silver  lake, 
Mix  undistinguished  with  the  general  roar. 

Jlbd.  Yet  can  ambition  in  Abdalla's  breast 
Claim  but  the  second  place :  there  mighty  Love 
Has  fix'd  his  hopes,  inquietudes,  and  fears, 
His  glowing  wishes  and  his  jealous  pangs. 

Cali.  Love  is  indeed  the  privilege  of  youth: 
Yet  on  a  day  like  this,  when  expectation 
Pants  for  the  dread  event — But  let  us  reason — 

Jlbd.  Hast  thou  grown  old  amidst  the  crowd 

of  courts, 

And  turn'd  th'  instructive  page  of  human  life. 
To  cant  at  last,  of  reason  to  a  lover? 
Such  ill-timed  gravity,  such  serious  folly, 
Might  well  befit  the  solitary  student, 
Th'  unpractised  dervise,  or  sequester'd  faquu. 
Know'st  thou  not  yet,  when  Love  invades  the 

soul, 

That  all  her  faculties  receive  his  chains  ? 
That  Reason  gives  her  sceptre  to  his  hand, 
Or  only  struggles  to  be  more  enslaved  ? 
Aspasia,  who  can  look  upon  thy  beauties? 
Who  hear  thee  speak,  and  not  abandon  reason? 
Reason !  the  hoary  dotard's  dull  directress, 
That  loses  all  because  she  hazards  nothing  ' 
Reason  !  the  tim'rous  pilot,  that,  to  shun 
The  rocks  of  life,  for  ever  flies  the  port ! 

Coli.  But  why  this  sudden  warmth? 

Jlbd.  Because  I  love  : 

Because  my  slighted  passion  burns  in  vain ! 
Why  roars  the  lioness  distress'd  by  hunger? 
Why  foam  the  swelling  waves  when  tempests 

rise? 
Why  shakes  the  ground  when  subterraneous 

fires 

Fierce  through  the  bursting  caverns  rend  their 
way  ? 

Cali.  Not  till  this  day  thou  saw'st  this  fatal  fair 
Did  ever  passion  make  so  swift  a  progress  ? 
Once  more  reflect,  suppress  this  infant  folly.       • 

Jlbd.  Gross  fires,  enkindled  by  a  mortal  hand, 
Spread  by  degrees,   and  dread    th'  oppressing 

stream  ; 

The  subtler  flames  emitted  from  the  sky 
Flash  out  at  once,  with  strength  above  resistance, 

Cali.  How  did  Aspasia  welcome  your  address  ? 
Did  you  proclaim  this  unexpected  conquest  ? 
Or  pay  with  speaking  eyes  a  lover's  homage  ? 

Jlbd.  Confounded,  awed,  and  lost  in  admira- 
tion, 

I  gazed,  I  trembled ;  but  I  could  not  speak  ; 
When  e'en  as  love  was  breaking  off" from  wonder 
And  tender  accents  quivering  on  my  lips, 


SCENE  V.] 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


533 


Sho  mark'd   my  sparkling  eyes,  and   heaving 

breast, 

And    smiling,  conscious  of  her  charms,  with- 
drew. [Enter  DEM.  and  LEON. 
Call.  Now  be  some  moments  master  of  thyself; 
Nor  let  Demetrius  know  thee  for  a  rival. 
Hence !  or  be  calm — To  disagree  is  ruin. 

SCENE  II. 
CALI,  DEMETRIUS,  LEONTIUS,  and  ABDALLA. 

Dem.   When  will  occasion  smile  upon  our 

wishes, 

And  give  the  tortures  of  suspense  a  period? 
Still  must  we  linger  in  uncertain  hope? 
Still  languish  in  our  chains,  and  dream  of  free- 
dom, 

Like  thirsty  sailors  gazing  oil  the  clouds, 
Till  burning  death  shoots  through  their  wither'd 

limbs  ? 
Call.  Deliverance  is  at  hand ;  for  Turkey's 

tyrant, 

Sunk  in  his  pleasures,  confident  and  gay, 
With  all  the  hero's  dull  security, 
Trusts  to  my  care  his  mistress  and  his  life, 
And  laughs  and  wantons  in  the  jaws  of  death. 
Leon.  So  weak  is  man  when  destined  to  de- 
struction ! — 
The  watchful  slumber,  and  the  crafty  trust. 

Cali.  At  my  command  yon  iron  gates  unfold  ; 
At  my  command  the  sentinels  retire ; 
With  all  the  license  of  authority,  [rooms, 

Through  bowing  slaves,   I  range   the  private 
And  of  to-morrow's  action  fix  the  scene. 

Dem.  To-morrow's  action!    Can  that  hoary 
wisdom,  [morrow ! 

Borne    down    with    years,  still   doat  upon   to- 
That  fatal  mistress  of  the  young,  the  lazy, 
The  coward,  and  the  fool,  condemn'd  to  lose 
A  useless  life  in  waiting  for  to-morrow, 
To  gaze  with  longing  eyes  upon  to-morrow, 
Till  interposing  death  destroys  the  prospect. 
Strange !  that  this  general  fraud  from  day  to  day 
Should  fill  the  world  with  wretches  undetected. 
The  soldier,  labouring  through  a  winter's  march, 
Still  sees  to-morrow  drest  in  robes  of  triumph; 
Still  to  the  lover's  long-expecting  arms 
To-morrow  brings  the  visionary  bride. 
But  thou,  too  old  to  bear  another  cheat, 
Learn,  that  the  present  hour  alone  is  man's. 
Leon.  The  present  hour  with  open  arms  in- 
vites ; 

Seize  the  kind  fair,  and  press  her  to  thy  bosom. 
Dem.  Who  knows,  ere  this  important  morrow 

rise, 

But  fear  or  mutiny  may  taint  the  Greeks  ? 
"SVho  knows,  if  Mahomet's  awaking  anger 
May  spare  the  fatal  bowstring  till  to-morrow ! 
Jlbd.  Had  our  first  Asian  foes  but  known  this 

ardour, 

We  still  had  wander'd  on  Tartarian  hills. 
Rouse,  Cali ;  shall  the  aons  of  conquerM  Greece 
Lead  us  to  danger,  and  abash  their  victors? 
This  night  with  all  her  conscious  stars  be  wit- 
ness, 
Who  merits  most,  Demetrius  or  Abdalla. 

Dem.    Who  merits  most! — I   knew  not  we 

were  rivals. 

Cali.  Young  man,  forbear — the  heat  of  youth, 
no  more —  [fate. 

Well, — -'tis  decreed — This  night  shall  fix   our 
Soon  as  the  veil  of  even-ng  clouds  the  sky, 


With  cautious  secrecy,  Leontius,  steer 
Th'  appointed  vessel  to  yon  shaded  bay, 
Form'd  by  tuis  garden  jutting  on  the  deep ; 
There,  with  your  soldiers  arm'd,  and  sails  ej 

panded, 

Await  our  coming,  equally  prepared 
For  speedy  flight,  or  obstinate  defence. 

[Exit  LEONTITT» 

SCENE  III. 
CALI,  ABDALLA,  and  DEMETRIUS. 

Dem.    Now  pause,    great    Bassa,  from    the 

thoughts  of  blood, 

And  kindly  grant  an  ear  to  gentler  sounds. 
If  e'er  thy  youth  has  known  the  pangs  of  absence, 
Or  felt  th'  impatience  of  obstructed  love, 
Give  me,  before  the  approaching  hour  of  fate, 
Once  to  behold  the  charms  of  bright  Aspasia, 
And  draw  new  virtue  from  her  heavenly  tongue. 
Cali.   Let  prudence,   ere  the  suit  be  farther 

urged, 

Impartial  weigh  the  pleasure  with  the  danger. 
A  little  longer,  and  she's  thine  for  ever. 

Dem.  Prudence  and  love  conspire  in  this  re 

quest, 

Lest,  unacquainted  with  our  bold  attempt, 
Surprise  o'erwhelm  her,  and  retard  our  flight. 
Cali.  What  I  can  grant,  you  cannot  ask  in 

vain — 

Dem.  I  go  to  wait  thy  call ;  this  kind  consent 
Completes  the  gift  of  freedom  and  of  life. 

[Exit  DEMETRIUS 

SCENE  IV. 
CALI  and  ABDALLA. 

Jlbd.  And  this  is  my  reward — to  burn,  to  lan- 
guish, 

To  rave  unheeded ;  while  the  happy  Greek, 
The  refuse  of  our  swords,  the  dross  of  conquest. 
Throws  his  fond  arms  about  Aspasia's  neck, 
Dwells  on  her  lips,  and  sighs  upon  her  breast 
Is't  not  enough  he  lives  by  our  indulgence, 
But  he  must  live  to  make  his  masters  wretched  ? 

Cali.  What  claim  hast  thou  to  plead  ? 

Jlbd.  The  claim  of  power, 
The  unquestion'd  claim  of  conquerors  and  kings! 

Cali.  Yet  in  the  use  of  power  remember  justice. 

Jlbd.  Can  then  th'  assassin  lift  his  treacherous 

hand 

Against  his  king,  and  cry,  remember  justice  ? 
Justice  demands  the  forfeit  life  of  Cali ; 
Justice  demands  that  I  reveal  your  crimes ; 
Justice  demands — but  see  th'  approaching  Sul 

tan! 
Oppose  my  wishes,  and — remember  justice. 

Cali.  Disorder  sits  upon  thy  face — retire. 

[Exit  ABDALLA,  enter  MAHOMET 

SCENE  V. 
CALI  and  MAHOMET. 

Call.  Long  be  the  Sultan  blese'd  with  happy 

love ! 

My  zeal  marks  gladnedb  dawning  on  thy  cheek, 
With  raptures  such  as  fire  the  Pagan  crowds, 
When,  pale  and  anxious  for  their  years  to  come, 
They  see  the  sun  surmount  the  dark  eclipse, 
And  hail  unanimous  their  conquering  god. 

JV/oA.  My  vows,  'tis  true,  she  hears  with  less 

aversion ; 
She  sighs,  she  blushes,  but  she  still  denies. 


534 


IRENE :  A  TRAGEDY. 


[ACT.  Ill 


Call.  With  warmer  courtship  press  the  yield- 
ing fair; 

Call  to  your  aid,  with  boundless  promises, 
Each  rebel  wish,  each  traitor  inclination, 
That  raises  tumults  in  the  female  breast, 
The  love  of  power,  of  pleasure,  and  of  show. 
Mith.  These  arts  I  tried,  and,  to  inflame  her 

more, 

By  hateful  business  hurried  from  her  sight, 
I  bade  a  hundred  virgins  wait  around  her, 
Sooth  her  with  all  the  pleasures  of  command, 
Applaud  her  charms,  and  court  her  to  be  great. 
[Exit  MAHOMET. 

SCENE  VI. 

Call  [Solus.]  He's  gone — Here  rest,  my  soul, 
thy  fainting  wing, 

Here  recollect  thy  dissipated  powers. 

Our  distant  interests,  and  our  different  passions, 
Now  haste  to  mingle  in  one  common  centre, 
And  fate  lies  crowded  in  a  narrow  space. 
Yet  in  that  narrow  space  what  dangers  rise  ! — 
Far  more  1  dread  Abdalla's  fiery  folly, 
Than  all  the  wisdom  of  the  grave  divan. 
Reason  with  reason  fights  on  equal  terms^ 
The  raging  madman's  unconnected  schemes 
We  cannot  obviate,  for  we  cannot  guess. 
Deep  in  my  breast  be  treasured  this  resolve, 
When  Cali  mounts  the  throne,  Abdalla  dies, 
Too  fierce,  too  faithless,  for  neglect  or  trust. 

[Enter  IRENE  with  Attendants. 

SCENE  VII. 
CALI,  IRENE,  ASPASIA,  &c. 

Cali.  Amidst  the  splendour  of  encircling  beauty, 
Superior  majesty  proclaims  thee  queen, 
And  nature  justifies  our  monarch's  choice. 

Irene.  Reserve  this  homage  for  some.other  fair; 
Urge  me  not  on  to  glittering  guilt,  nor  pour 
In  my  weak  ear  the  intoxicating  sounds. 

Call  Make  haste,  bright  maid,  to  rule  the 

willing  world ; 

Awed  by  the  rigour  of  the  Sultan's  justice, 
We  court  thy  gentleness. 

Asp.  Can  Cali's  voice 
Concur  to  press  a  hapless  captive's  ruin  ? 

Cali.  Long  would  my  zeal  for  Mahomet  and 

thee 

Detain  me  here.    But  nations  call  upon  me, 
And  duty  bids  me  choose  a  distant  walk, 
Nor  taint  with  care  the  privacies  of  love. 

SCENE  VIII. 
IRENE,  ASPASIA,  and  Attendants. 

Asp.  If  yet  this  shining  pomp,  these  sudden 

honours, 

Swell  not  thy  soul  beyond  advice  or  friendship, 
Nor  yet  inspire  the  follies  of  a  queen, 
Or  tune  thine  ear  to  soothing  adulation, 
Suspend  awhile  the  privilege  of  power, 
To  hear  the  voice  of  Truth;  dismiss  thy  train, 
Shake  off  the  incumbrances  of  state  a  moment, 
And  lay  the  towering  sq^.aness  aside, 

[IRENE  signs  to  her  Attendants  to  retire. 
While  I  foretell  thy  fate  ;  that  office  done, — 
No  more  I  boast  the  ambitious  name  of  friend, 
But  sink  among  thy  slaves  without  a  murmur. 

Irene.  Did  regal  diadems  invest  my  brow, 
Yet  should  my  soul  still  faithful  to  her  choice 
Esteem  Aspasia's  breast  the  noblest  kingdom. 


Asp.  The  soul,  once  tainted  with  so  foul  a 
crime,  [asdour: 

No  more  shall  glow  with  friendship's  hallow'd 
These  holy  beings,  whose  superior  care 
Guides  erring  mortals  to  the  paths  of  virtue, 
Affrighted  at  impiety  like  thine, 
Resign  their  charge  to  baseness  and  to  ruin. 

Irene.  Upbraid  me  not  with  fancied  wicked- 
I  am  not  yet  a  queen  or  an  apostate.  [ness ; 

But  should  I  sin  beyond  the  hope  of  mercy, 
If,  when  religion  prompts  me  to  refuse, 
The  dread  of  instant  death  restrains  my  tongue? 

Asp.   Reflect    that    life  and   death,   affecting 

sounds ! 

Are  only  varied  modes  of  endless  being ; 
Reflect  that  life,  like  every  other  blessing, 
Derives  its  value  from  its  use  alone ; 
Not  for  itself  but  for  a  nobler  end, 
The  Eternal  gave  it,  and  that  end  is  virtue. 
When  inconsistent  with  a  greater  good, 
Reason  commands  to  cast  the  less  away  ; 
Thus  life,  with  loss  of  wealth  is  well-preserved, 
And  virtue  cheaply  saved  with  loss  of  life. 

Irene.  If  built  on  settled  thought,  this  con 

stancy 

Not  idly  flutters  on  a  boastful  tongue, 
Why,  when  destruction  raged  around  our  walls, 
Why  fled  this  haughty  heroine  from  the  battle? 
Why  then  did  not  this  warlike  Amazon 
Mix  in  the  war,  and  shine  among  the  heroes  ? 

Asp.  Heaven,  when  its  hand  pour'd  softness 

on  our  limbs, 

Unfit  for  toil,  and  polish'd  into  weakness, 
Made  passive  fortitude  the  praise  of  woman  • 
Our  only  arms  are  innocence  and  meekness. 
Not  then  with  raving  cries  I  fill'd  the  city ; 
But,  while  Demetrius,  dear  lamented  name  ! 
Pour'd  storms  of  fire  upon  our  fierce  invaders, 
Implored  the  Eternal  Power  to  shield  my  country, 
With  silent  sorrows,  and  with  calm  devotion. 

Irene.  O !  did  Irene  shine  the  queen  of  Turkey, 
No  more  should  Greece  lament  those  prayers 

rejected ; 

Again  should  golden  splendour  grace  her  cities. 
Again  her  prostrate  palaces  should  rise, 
Again  her  temples  sound  with  holy  music: 
No  more  should  danger  fright,  or  want  distress 
The  smiling  widows,  and  protected  orphans. 

Asp.  Be  virtuous  ends  pursued  by  virtuous 

means, 

Nor  think  the  intention  sanctifies  the  deed : 
That  maxim,  published  in  an  impious  age, 
Would  loose  the  wild  enthusiast  to  destroy, 
And  fix  the  fierce  usurper's  bloody  title ; 
Then  Bigotry  might  send  her  slaves  to  war, 
And  bid  success  become  the  test  of  truth : 
Unpitying  massacre  might  waste  the  world, 
And  persecution  boast  the  call  of  Heaven. 

Irene.  Shall  I  not,  wish  to  cheer  afflicted  kings, 
And  plan  the  happiness  of  mourning  millions? 

Asp.  Dream  not  of  power  thou  never  canst 

attain  : 

When  social  laws  first  harmonized  the  world, 
Superior  man  possess'd  the  charge  of  rule, 
The  scale  of  justice,  and  the  sword  of  power, 
Nor  left  us  aught  but  flattery  and  state. 

Irene.  To  me  my  lover's  fondness  will  restore 
Whate'er  man's  pride  has  ravish'd  from  our  sex. 

Asp.  When  soft   security  shall    prompt   the 

Sultan 

Freed  from  the  tumults  of  unsettled  conquest 
To  fix  his  court,  and  regulate  his  pleasures, 


SCEWK   XI.] 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


535 


Soon  shall  the  dire  seraglio's  horrid  gates 
Close  like  the  eternal  bars  of  death  upon  thee. 
Immured  and  buried  in  perpetual  sloth, 
That  gloomy  slumber  of  the  stagnant  soul, 
There  shall  thou  view  from  far  the  quiet  cottage, 
And  sigh  for  cheerful  poverty  in  vain  ; 
There  wear  the  tedious  hours  of  life  away, 
Beneath  each  curse  of  unrelenting  Heaven, 
Despair  and  slavery,  solitude  and  guilt. 

Irene.  There  shall  we  find  the  yet  untasted 

bliss 

Of  grandeur  and  tranquillity  combined. 
Asp.  Tranquillity  and  guilt,  disjoin'd  by  Hea- 
ven, 

Still  stretch  in  vain  their  longing  arms  afar ; 
Nor  dare  to  pass  th'  insuperable  bound. 
Ah !   let  me  rather  seek  the  convent's  cell ; 
There  when  my  thoughts,  at  interval  of  prayer, 
Descend  to  range  these  mansions  of  misfortune, 
Oft  shall  I  dwell  on  our  disastrous  friendship, 
And  shed  the  pitying  tear  for  lost  Irene. 

Iretie.  Go,  languish  on  in  dull  obscurity; 
Thy  dazzled  soul,  with  all  its  boasted  greatness, 
Shrinks  at  theo'erpowering  gleams  of  regal  state, 
Stoops  from  the  blaze  like  a  degenerate  eagle, 
And  flies  for  shelter  to  the  shades  of  life. 
Jlsp.  On   me   should   Providence,   without  a 

crime. 

The  weighty  charge  of  royalty  confer, 
Call  me  to  civilize  the  Russian  wilds, 
Or  bid  soft  science  polish  Britain's  heroes: 
Soon  should'st  thou  see,  how  false  thy  weak 

reproach. 

My  bosom  feels,  enkindled  from  the  sky, 
The  lambent  flames  of  mild  benevolence, 
Untouch'd  by  fierce  ambition's  raging  fires. 
Irene.  Ambition   is   the   stamp  impress'd   by 

Heaven 

To  mark  the  noblest  minds ;  with  active  heat 
Inform'd  they  mount  the  precipice  of  power, 
Grasp  at  command,  and  tower  in  quest  of  em- 
pire; 

While  vulgar  souls  compassionate  their  cares, 
Gaze  at  their  height,  and  tremble  at  their  danger: 
Thus  meaner  spirit*  with  amazement  mark 
The  varying  seasons,  and  revolving  skies, 
And  ask,  wiiat  guilty  Power's  rebellious  hand 
Rolls  with  eternal  toil  the  ponderous  orbs ; 
While  some  archangel,  nearer  to  perfection, 
In  easy  state  presides  o'er  all  their  motions, 
Directs  the  planets  with  a  careless  nod, 
Conducts jtha  sun,  and  regulates  the  spheres. 
Asp.  Wei!  may'st  thou  hide  in  labyrinths  of 
sound  [voice. 

The  cause  that  shrinks  from  Reason's  powerful 
Stoop  from  thy  flight,  trace  back  th'  entangled 

thought, 

And  set  the  glittering  fallacy  to  view. 
Not  power  I  blame,  but  power  obtain'd  by  crime ; 
Angelic  greatness  is  angelic  virtue. 
Amidst  the  glare  of  courts,  the  shout  of  armies, 
Will  not  th'  apostate  feel  the  pangs  of  guilt, 
And  wish,  too  late,  for  innocence  and  peace  ? 
Curst  as  the  tyrant  of  th'  infernal  realms, 
With  gloomy  state  and  agonizing  pomp ! 

SCENE  IX. 
IRENE,  ASPASIA,  and  MAID. 

Maid.  A  Turkish  stranger  of  majestic  mien, 
Asks  at  the  gate  admission  to  Aspasia, 
Commission's,  as  he  says,  by  Call  Bassa. 


Irene.  Whoe'er   thou   art  or  whatsoe'er  thy 

message,  \Jlside. 

Thanks  for  this  kind  relief — With  speed  admit 

him.  [ever ; 

Jlsp.  He  comes,  perhaps,  to  separate  us  for 

Whem  I  am  gone,  remember,  O  !  remember, 

That  none  are  great,  or  happy,  but  the  virtuous. 

[Exit  IRENE  ;  enter  DEMETRIUS. 

SCENE  X. 
ASPASIA  and  DEMETRIUS. 

Dem.  'Tis  she — my  hope,  my  happiness,  my 

love! 

Aspasia  !  do  1  once  again  behold  thee  ? 
Still,  still  the  same — unclouded  by  misfortune  ! 
Let  my  blest  eyes  for  ever  gaze 

Asp.  Demetrius ! 

Dem.  Why  does  the  blood  forsake  thy  lovely 
cheek  ?  [nerves  ? 

Why  shoots  this  chillness  through  thy  shaking 
Why  does  thy  soul  retire  into  herself? 
Recline  upon  my  breast  thy  sinking  beauties  : 
Revive — Revive,  to  freedom  and  to  love. 

Jlsp.  What  well-known  voice  pronounced  the 

<l  grateful  sounds 

Freedom  and  love  ?    Alas  !  I'm  all  confusion, 
A  sudden  mist  o'ercasts  my  darken'd  soul  ; 
The  present,  past,  and  future,  swim  before  me, 
Lost  in  a  wild  perplexity  of  joy. 

Dem.  Such  ecstacy  of  love,  such  pure  affection, 
What  worth  can  merit  ?  or  what  faith  reward  ? 

Jlsp.  A  thousand  thoughts,  imperfect  and  dis- 
tracted, 

Demand  a  voice,  and  struggle  into  birth  ; 
A  thousand  questions  press  upon  my  tongue, 
But  all  give  way  to  rapture  and  Demetrius. 

Dem.  O  say,  bright  Being,  in  this  age  of  ab- 
sence, [known  ? 
What  fears,  what  griefs,  what  dangers  hast  thou 
Say,  how  the  tyrant  threaten'd,  flatter'd,  sigh'd ! 
Say,  how  he  threaten'd,  flatter'd,  sigh'd  in  vain ! 
Say,  how  the  hand  of  Violence  was  raised ! 
Say,  how  thou  call'dst  in  tears  upon  Demetrius  ! 

Jlsp.  Inform  me  rather  how  thy  happy  courage 
Stemm'd  in  the  breach  the  deluge  of  destruction. 
And  pass'd  uninjured  through  the  walks  of  death. 
Did  savage  anger  and  licentious  conquest 
Behold  the  hero  with  Aspasia's  eyes? 
And,  thus  protected  in  the  general  ruin, 

0  say,   what  guardian    power  convey'd   tnee 

hither.  [chances. 

Dem.  Such  strange  events,  such  unexpected 
Beyond  my  warmest  hope,  or  wildest  wishes, 
Concurr'd  to  give  me  to  Aspasia's  arms, 

1  stand  amazed,  and  ask,  if  yet  I  clasp  thee. 

Jlsp.    Sure    heaven    (for    wonders    are    not 

wrought  in  vain!) 
That  joins  us  thus,  will  never  part  us  more1 

SCENE  XI. 

DEMETRIUS,  ASPASIA,  and  ABDALLA. 
Jlbd.   It   parts  you  now — The  hasty  Sultan 

sign'd 
The  laws  unread,  and  flies  to  his  Irene. 

Dem.  Fix'd  and  intent  on  his  Irene's  charms, 
He  envies  none  the  converse  of  Aspasia. 

Jlbd.  Aspasia's  absence  will  inflame  suspicion'. 
She  cannot,  must  not,  shall  not,  linger  here ; 
Prudence  and  Friendship  bid  rne  force  her  from 
you. 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


[ACT.  IV. 


Dem.  Force  her!  profane  her  with  a  touch, 
and  die!  [hence; 

Abd.  'Tis  Greece,  'tis  Freedom,  calls  Aspasia 
Your  careless  love  betrays  your  country's  cause. 

Dem.  If  we  must  part 

Asp.  No  !  let  us  die  together. 

Dem.  If  we  must  part 

Abd.  Despatch;  tli' increasing  danger 
Will  not  admit  a  lover's  long  farewell, 
The  long-drawn  intercourse  of  sighs  and  kisses. 

Dem.  Then — O  my  fair,  I  cannot  bid  thee  go. 
Receive  her  and  protect  her,  gracious  Heaven ! 
Yet  let  me  watch  her  dear  departing  steps,        • 
If  Fate  pursues  me,  let  it  find  me  here. 

Reproach  not,  Greece,  a  lover's  fond  delays, 

Nor  think  thy  cause  neglected  while  I  gaze ; 

New  force,  new  courage,  from  each  glance  I 
gain, 

And  find  our  passions  not  infused  in  vain. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

DEMETRIUS  an  I  ASPASIA,  enter  as  talking. 

Asp.  Enough — resistless    Reason    calms   my 

soul- 
Approving  Justice  smiles  upon  your  cause, 
And  Nature's  rights  entreat  th'  asserting  sword. 
Yet,  when  your  hand  is  lifted  to  destroy, 
Think,  but  excuse  a  woman's  needless  caution — 
Purge  well  thy  mind  from  every  private  passion, 
Drive   interest,  love,  and  vengeance  from  thy 
thoughts,  [Virtue, 

Fill    all   thy   ardent   breast  with  Greece    and 
Then  strike  secure,  and  Heaven  assist  the  blow ! 

Dem.  Thou  kind  assistant  of  my  better  angel, 
Propitious  guide  of  my  bewilder'd  soul, 
Calm  of  my  cares,  and  guardian  of  my  virtue ! 

Asp.  My  soul,  first  kindled  by  thy  bright  ex- 
ample, 

To  noble  thought  and  generous  emulation, 
Now  but  reflects  those  beams  that  flow'd  from 
thee.  [greatness, 

Dem.   With    native    lustre    and   unborrow'd 
Thou  shinest,  bright  maid,  superior  to  distress ; 
Unlike  the  trifling  race  of  vulgar  beauties, 
Those  glittering  dew-drops  of  a  vernal  morn, 
That  spread  their  colours  to  the  genial  beam, 
And  sparkling  quiver  to  the  breath  of  May ; 
But,  when  the  tempest  with  sonorous  wing 
Sweeps  o'er  the  grove,  forsake  the  labouring 

bough, 
Dispersed  in  air,  or  mingled  with  the  dust. 

Asp.  Forbear  this  triumph — still  new  conflicts 

wait  us, 

Foes  unforeseen,  and  dangers  unsuspected. 
Oft,  when  the  fierce  besiegers'  eager  host 
Beholds  the  fainting  garrison  retire, 
And  rushes  joyful  to  the  naked  wall, 
Destruction  flashes  from  the  insidious  mine, 
And  sweeps  the  exulting  conqueror  away. 
Perhaps  in  vain  the  Sultan's  anger  spared  me, 
To  find  a  meaner  fate  from  treacherous  friend- 
Abdalla! —  [ship — 

Dem.  Can  Abdalla  then  dissemble? 
That  fiery  chief,  renown'd  for  generous  freedom, 
For  zeal  unguarded,  undissembled  hate, 
For  daring  truth,  and  turbulence  of  honour! 

Asp.  This  open  friend,  this  undesigning  hero, 


With  noisy  falsehoods  forced  me  from  your  arms, 
To  shock  my  virtue  with  a  tale  of  love. 

Dem.  Did  not  the  cau;«  of  Greece  restrain  my 

sword, 
Aspasia  could  not  fear  a  second  insult. 

Asp.  His  pride  and  love  by  turns  inspired  hia 

tongue, 

And  intermix'd  my  praises  with  his  own  ; 
His  wealth,  his  rank,  his  honours,  he  recounted, 
Till,  in  the  midst  of  arrogance  and  fondness, 
Th'  approaching  Sultan   forced    me   from    the 

palace ; 

Then,  while  he  gazed  upon  his  yielding  mistress, 
I  stole  unheeded  from  their  ravish'd  eyes, 
And  sought  this  happy  grove  in  quest  of  thee. 

Dem.  Soon  may  the  final  stroke  decide  our 

fate, 

Lest  baneful  discord  crush  our  infant  scheme, 
And  strangled  freedom  perish  in  the  birth. 

Asp.  My  bosom,  harass'd  with  alternate  pas- 
Now  hopes,  now  fears [sions, 

Dem.  The  anxieties  of  love. 

Asp.    Think   how  the   Sovereign  Arbiter  of 

kingdoms 

Detests  thy  false  associates'  black  designs, 
And  frowns  on  perjury,  revenge,  and  murdei 
Embark 'd  with  treason  on  the  seas  of  fate, 
When  Heaven  shall    bid  the  swelling  billows 

rage, 

And  point  vindictive  lightnings  at  rebellion, 
Will  not  the  patriot  share  the  traitor's  danger' 
Oh  could  thy  hand  unaided  free  thy  country? 
Nor  mingled  guilt  pollute  the  sacred  cause ! 

Dem.  Permitted  oft,  though  not  inspired  by 

Heaven, 
Successful  treasons  punish  impious  kings 

Asp.  Nor  end  my  terrors  with  the  Suilans 

[death ; 

Far  as  futurity's  untravell'd  waste 
Lies  open  to  conjecture's  dubious  ken, 
On  every  side  confusion,  rage,  and  death, 
Perhaps  the  phantoms  of  a  woman's  fear, 
Beset  the  treacherous  way  with  fatal  ambush ; 
Each  Turkish  bosom  burns  for  thy  destruction, 
Ambitious  Call  dreads  the  statesman's  arts, 
And  hot  Abdalla  hates  the  happy  lover. 

Dem.   Capricious   man  !    to  good  and  ill  in- 
constant, 

Too  much  to  fear  or  trust  is  equal  weakness. 
Sometimes  the    wretch,  unawed   by  heaven  01 
With  mad  devotion  idolizes  honour.  [hell, 

The  Bassa,  reeking  with  his  master's  murder, 
Perhaps  may  start  at  violated  friendship. 

Asp.  How  soon,  alas!  will  interest,  fear,  or 

envy, 

O'erthrow  such  weak,  such  accidental,  virtue, 
Nor  built  on  faith,  nor  fortified  by  conscience  ? 

Dem.  When  desperate  ills  demand  a  speedy 

cure, 
Distrust  is  cowardice,  and  prudence  folly. 

Asp.  Yet  think  a  moment,  ere  you  court  de- 
struction, [Demetrius, 
What   hand,  when    deatn   has   snatch'd    away 
Shall  guard  Aspasia  from  triumphant  lust. 

Dem.  Dismiss  these  needless  fears — a  troop 

of  Greeks, 

Well  known,  long  try'd,  expect  us  on  the  shore. 
Borne  on  the  surface  of  the  smiling  deep, 
Soon  shalt  thou  scorn,  in  safety's  arms  reposed, 
Abdalla's  rage  and  Call's  stratagems. 

Asp.  Still,  still,  distrust  sits  heavy  on  my  heart; 
Will  e'er  a  happier  hour  revisit  Greece  ? 


SCENE  III.] 


IRENE:  A 


GEDY. 


537 


Dem.  Should  Heaven,  yet  unappeased,  refuse 

its  aid, 

Disperse  our  hopes,  and  frustrate  our  designs, 
Yet  shall  the  conscience  of  the  great  attempt 
Diffuse  a  brightness  on  our  future  days  ; 
Nor    will    his  country's  groans  reproach  De- 
metrius. 

But  how  canst  thou  support  the  woes  of  exile  ? 
Canst  thou  forget  hereditary  splendours, 
To  live  obscure  upon  a  foreign  coast, 
Content  with  science,  innocence,  and  love  ? 

Jlsp.  Nor  wealth,  nor  titles,  make  Aspasia's 

bliss. 

O'erwhelm'd  and  lost  amidst  the  public  ruins, 
Unmoved  I  saw  the  glittering  trifles  perish, 
And  thought  the  petty  dross  beneath  a  sigh. 
Cheerful  I  follow  to  the  rural  cell ; 
Love  be  my  wealth,  and  my  distinction  virtue. 

Dem.  Submissive,  and  prepared  for  each  event, 
Now  let  us  wait  the  last  award  of  Heaven, 
Secure  of  happiness  from  flight  or  conquest, 
Nor  fear  the  fair  and  learn'd  can  want  protection. 
The  mighty  Tuscan  courts  the  banish'd  arts 
TO  kind  Italia's  hospitable  shades  ; 
There  shall  soft  leisure  wing  the  excursive  soul, 
And  peace  propitious  smile  on  soft  desire ; 
There  shall  despotic  Eloquence  resume 
Her  ancient  empire  o'er  the  yielding  heart; 
There  Poetry  shall  tune  her  sacred  voice, 
And  wake  from  ignorance  the  Western  world. 

SCENE  II. 
DEMETRIUS,  ASPASIA,  and  CALL 

Call.  At  length  the  unwilling  sun  resigns  the 

world 

To  silence  and  to  rest.     The  hours  of  darkness, 
Propitious  hours  to  stratagem  and  death, 
Pursue  the  last  remains  of  lingering  light. 

Dem.  Count  not  these  hours  as  parts  of  vul- 
gar time, 

Think  them  a  sacred  treasure  lent  by  Heaven, 
Which,  squander'd  by  neglect,  or  fear,  or  folly, 
No  prayer  recalls,  no  diligence  redeems. 
To-morrow's  dawn  shall  see  the  Turkish  king 
Stretch'd  in  the  dust,  or  towering  on  his  throne; 
To-morrow's  dawn  shall  see  the  mighty  Cali, 
The  sport  of  tyranny,  or  lord  of  nations. 

Cali.  Then  waste  no  longer  these  important 

moments 

In  soft  endearments  and  in  gentle  murmurs ; 
Nor  lose  in  love  the  patriot  and  the  hero. 

Dem.  'Tis  love,  combined  with  guilt  alone, 

that  melts 

The  soften'd  soul  to  cowardice  and  sloth ; 
Bui  virtuous  passion  prompts  the  «;reat  resolve, 
And  fans  the  slumbering  spark  of  heavenly  fire. 
Retire,    my  fair;    that  Power  that  smiles  on 

goodness 

Guide  all  thy  steps,  calm  every  stormy  thought, 
And  still  thy  bosom  with  the  voice  of  peace ! 
Asp.  Soon  may  we  meet  again,  secure  and 

free, 
To  feel  no  more  the  pangs  of  separation !   [Exit. 

DEMETRIUS  and  CALI. 

Dem.  This  night  alone  is  ours — Our  mighty 
No  longer  lost  in  amorous  solitude,  [foe, 

Will  now  remount  the  slighted  seat  of  empire, 
And  show  Irene  to  the  shouting  people: 
Aspasia  left  her  sighing  in  his  arms, 
And  listening  to  the  pleasing  tale  of  power ; 
3  S 


With  soften'd  voice  she  dropp'd  the  faint  refusal, 
Smiling  consent  she  sat,  and  blushing  love. 
Cali.  Now,  tyrant,  with  satiety  oi  ueauty, 
Now  feast  thine  eyes,  thine  eyes  that  ne'er  here- 
after 

Shall  dart  their  amorous  glances  at  the  fair, 
Or  glare  on  Cali  with  malignant  beams. 

SCENE  III. 

DEMETRIUS,  CALI,  LEONTIUS,  and  ABDALLA. 
Leon.  Our  bark  unseen  has  reach'd  th'  ap- 
pointed bay,  [surge, 
And  where  yon   trees  wave  o'er  the  foaming 
Reclines  against  the  shore ;  our  Grecian  troop 
Extends  its  lines  along  the  sandy  beach, 
Elate  with  hope,  and  panting  for  a  foe. 

Md.  The  favouring  winds  assist  the  great  de- 
sign, 

Sport  in  our  sails,  and  murmur  o'er  the  deep. 
Cali.  'Tis  well — A  single  blow  completes  our 

wishes ; 

Return  with  speed,  Leontius,  to  your  charge ; 
The  Greeks,  disorder'd  by  their  leader's  absence, 
May  droop  dismay'd,  or  kindle  into  madness. 
Lean.  Suspected  still ! — What  villain's  pois' 
nous  tongue  [hood  ? 

Dares  join  Leontius'  name  with  fear  or  false- 
Have  I  for  this  preserved  my  guiltless  bosom 
Pure  as  the  thoughts  of  infant  innocence  ? 
Have  I  for  this  defy'd  the  chiefs  of  Turkey, 
Intrepid  in  the  flaming  front  of  war  ? 

Cali.  Hast  thou  not  search'd  my  soul's  pro- 

foundest  thoughts  ? 

Is  not  the  fate  of  Greece  and  Cali  thine? 
Leon.  Why  has  thy  choice  then  pointed  out 

Leontius, 

Unfit  to  share  this  night's  illustrious  toils  ? 
To  wait  remote  from  action  and  from  honour, 
An  idle  listener  to  the  distant  cries 
Of  slaughter'd  infidels,  and  clash  of  swords  ? 
Tell  me  the  cause,  that  while  thy  name,  Deme- 
trius, 

Shall  soar  triumphant  on  the  wings  of  Glory, 
Despised  and  cursed,  Leontius  must  descend 
Through  hissing  ages,  a  proverbial  coward, 
The  tale  of  women,  and  the  scorn  of  fools  ? 
Dem.  Can  brave   Leontius  be  the   slave  of 

Glory? 

Glory,  the  casual  gift  of  thoughtless  crowds ! 
Glory,  the  bribe  of  avaricious  virtue ! 
Be  but  my  country  free,  be  thine  the  praise  j 
I  ask  no  witness,  but  attesting  conscience, 
No  records,  but  the  records  of  the  sky. 

Leon.  Will  thou  then  head  the  troop  upon  the 

shore, 

While  I  destroy  the  oppressor  of  mankind  ? 
Dem.  What  canst  thou  boast  superior  to  Do. 
metrius  ?  [cause, 

Ask  to  whose  sword  the  Greeks  will  trust  their 
My  name  shall  echo  through  the  shouting  field : 
Demand  whose  force  yon  Turkish  heroes  dread, 
The  shuddering  camp  shall  murmur  out  Deme- 
trius. 

Cali.  Must  Greece,  still  wretched  by  her  chil- 
dren's folly, 

For  ever  mourn  their  avarice  or  factions? 
Demetrius  justly  pleads  a  double  title ; 
The  lover's  interest  aids  the  patriot's  claim. 
Leon.  My  pride  shall  ne'er  protract  my  coun- 
try's woes ; 
Succeed,  my  friend,  unenvied  by  Leontius. 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


[AcrlV. 


Dun.  1  feel  new  spirit  shoot  along  my  nerves, 
My  soul  expands  to  meet  the  approaching  free- 
dom. 

Now  hover  o'er  us  with  propitious  wings, 
Ye  sacred  shades  of  patriots  and  of  martyrs ! 
All  ye,  whose  blood  tyrannic  rage  effused, 
Or  persecution  drank,  attend  our  call ; 
And  from  the  mansions  of  perpetual  peace 
Descend,  to  sweeten  labours  once  your  own  ! 

Call.  Go  then,  and  with  united  eloquence 
Confirm  your  troops ;  and  when  the  moon's  fair 

beam 

Plays  on  the  quivering  waves,  to  guide  our  flight, 
Return,  Demetrius,  and  be  free  for  ever. 

[Exeunt  DEM.  and  LEON. 

SCENE  IV. 
CALI  and  Ann AI.I.A. 

Jlbd.  How  the  new  monarch,  swell'd  with  airy 
rule,  [height, 

Looks  down,  contemptuous,  from  his  fancied 
And  utters  fate,  unmindful  of  Abdalla  I 

Cali.  Far  be  such  black  ingratitude  from  Cali ! 
When  Asia's  nations  own  me  for  their  lord, 
Wealth,  and  command,  and  grandeur,  shall  be 
thine. 

Jlbd.  Is  this  the  recompense  reserved  for  me  ? 
Dar'st  thou  thus  dally  with  Abdalla's  passion  ? 
Henceforward  hope  no  more  my  slighted  friend- 
ship, [tortures, 
Wake  from  thy  dream  of  power  to  death  and 
And  bid  thy  visionary  throne  farewell. 

CalL  Name,  and  enjoy  thy  wish — 

Jlbd.  I  need  not  name  it ; 
Aspasia's  lovers  know  but  one  desire, 
Nor  hope,  nor  wish,  nor  live  but  for  Aspasia. 

Cali.  That  fatal  beauty,  plighted  to  Deme- 
Heaven  makes  not  mine  to  give.  [trius, 

Jlbd.  Nor  to  deny. 

Cali.  Obtain  her,  and  possess ;  thou  know'st 
thy  rival.  [plains, 

Jlbd.  Too  well  I  know  him,  since  on  Thracia's 
I  felt  the  force  of  his  tempestuous  arm, 
And  saw  my  scatter'd  squadrons  fly  before  him. 
Nor  will  I  trust  th'  uncertain  chance  of  combat; 
The  rights  of  princes  let  the  sword  decide, 
The  petty  claims  of  empire  and  of  honour: 
Revenge  and  subtle  jealousy  shall  teach 
A  surer  passage  to  his  hated  heart. 

Cali.  O  spare  the  gallant  Greek,  in  him  we  lose 
The  politician's  arts,  and  hero's  flame. 

Jlbd.  When  next  we  meet  before  we  storm  the 

palace, 

The  bowl  shall  circle  to  confirm  our  league  ; 
Then  shall  these  juices  taint  Demetrius'  draught, 
[Showing  a  phial. 
And  stream  destructive  through   his    freezing 

veins  : 

Thus  shall  he  live  to  strike  th'  important  blow, 
And  perish  ere  he  taste  the  joys  of  conquest. 

SCENE  V. 
MAHOMET,  MUSTAFHA,  CALI,  and  ABDALLA. 

Mah.  Henceforth  for  ever  happy  be  this  day, 
Sacred  to  love,  to  pleasure,  and  Irene! 
The  matchless  fair  has  bless'd  me  with  compll 

ance ; 

Let  every  tongue  resound  Irene's  praise, 
And  spread  the  general  transport  through  man 
kind. 


his    sinking 


Cali.  Blest  prince,  for  whom  indulgent  Hea- 
ven ordains 

At  once  the  joys  of  paradise  and  empire, 
STow  join  thy  people's  and  thy  Cali's  prayers ; 
Suspend  thy  passage  to  the  seats  of  bliss, 
STor  wish  for  Houries  in  Irene's  arms. 

Mah.  Forbear — I  know  the  long-try'd  faith  of 
Cali.  [Heaven, 

Cali.  O!  could  the  eyes  of  kings,  like  those  of 
3earch  to  the  dark  recesses  of  the  soul, 
Dft  Would  they  find  ingratitude  and  treason, 
By  smiles,  and  oaths,  and  praises,  ill  disguised. 
How  rarely  would  they  meet,  in  crowded  courts, 
Fidelity  so  firm,  so  pure,  as  mine ! 

Mus.  Yet,  ere  we  give  our  loosen'd  thoughts 

to  rapture, 

Let  prudence  obviate  an  impending  danger: 
Tainted  by  sloth,  the  parent  of  sedition, 
The  hungry  Janizary  burns  for  plunder, 
And  growls  in  private  o'er  his  idle  sabre. 

Mah.  To  still  their  murmurs,  ere  the  twentieth 

sun 

Shall  shed  his  beams  upon  the  bridal  bed, 
1  rouse  to  war,  and  conquer  for  Irene. 
Then    shall    the    Rhodian   mourn   his 

towers, 

And  Buda  fall,  and  proud  Vienna  tremble 
Then  shall  Venetia  fed  Ihe  Turkish  power. 
And  subject  seas  roar  round  their  queen  in  vain. 

Jlbd.  Then  seize  fair  Italy's  delightful  coast, 
To  fix  your  standard  in  imperial  Rome. 

Mah.  Her  sons  malicious  clemency  shall  spare, 
To  form  new  legends,  sanctify  new  crimes, 
To  canonize  the  slaves  of  superstition, 
And  fill  the  world  with  follies  and  impostures, 
Till  angry  Heaven  shall  mark  them  out  for  ruin, 
And  War  o'erwhelm  them  in  their  dream  of  vice. 
O,  could  her  fabled  saints  and  boasted  prayers 
Call  forth  her  ancient  heroes  to  the  field, 
How  should  I  joy,  'midst  the  fierce  shock  of  na- 
tions, 

To  cross  the  towerings  of  an  equal  soul, 
And  bid  the  master  genius  rule  the  world ! 
Abdalla,  Cali,  go — proclaim  my  purpose. 

[Exeunt  CALI  and  ABDALLA. 

SCENE  VI. 
MAHOMET  and  MUSTAPHA. 

Mah.  Still  Cali  lives :   and  must  he  live  to- 
morrow ? 

That  fawning  villain's  forced  congratulations 
Will  cloud  my  triumphs,  and  pollute  the  day. 
Mus.  With  cautious  vigilance,  at  my  com- 
mand, 

Two  faithful  captains,  Hazan  and  Caraza, 
Pursue  him  through  his  labyrinths  of  treason, 
And  wait  your  summons  to  report  his  conduct. 
Mah.  Call  them — but  let  them   not  prolong 

their  tale, 
Nor  press  too  much  upon  a  lover's  patience. 

[Exit  MUSTAPHA. 

SCENE  VII. 

Mah.  [Solus.]  Whome'er  the  hope,  still  blast- 
ed, still  renew'd, 

Of  happiness  lures  on  from  toil  to  toil, 
Remember  Mahomet,  and  cease  thy  labour. 
Behold  him  here,  in  love,  in  war  successful, 
Behold  him  wretched,  in  his  double  triumph ! 
His  favourite  faithless,  and  his  mistress  base. 
Ambition  only  gave  her  to  my  arms, 


SCENE  H.] 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


539 


By  reason  not  convinced,  nor  won  by  love. 
Ambition  was  her  crime ;  but  meaner  folly 
Dooms  me  to  loathe  at  once,  and  doat  on  false- 
hood, 

And  idolize  th'  apostate  I  contemn. 
If  thou  art  more  than  the  gay  dream  of  fancy, 
More  than  a  pleasing  sound  without  a  meaning, 
O  happiness  !  sure  thou  art  all  Aspasia's. 

SCENE  VIII. 
MAHOMET,  MUSTAPHA,  HASAN,  and  CARAZA. 

Mah.  Caraza,  speak — have  ye  remark'd  the 
Bassa?  [his  steps; 

Car.  Close,  as  we  might  unseen,  we  watch'd 
Hie  hair  disorder'd,  and  his  gait  unequal, 
Betray'd  the  wild  emotions  of  his  mind. 
Sudden  he  stops,  and  inward  turns  his  eyes, 
Absorb'd  in   thought;    then   starting  from  his 

trance, 

Constrains  a  sullen  smile,  and  shoots  away. 
With  him  Abdalla  we  beheld — 
Mus.  Abdalla ! 

Mali,  He  wears  of  late  resentment  on  his  brow. 
Deny'd  the  government  of  Servia's  province. 
Car.  We  mark'd  him  storming  in  excess  of 

fury, 

And  heard,  within  the  thicket  that  conceal'd  us, 
An  undistinguish'd  sound  of  threatening  rage. 
Mus.  How  guilt,  once  harbour'd  in  the  con- 
scious breast, 

Intimidates  the  brave,  degrades  the  great ; 
See  Cali,  dread  of  kings,  and  pride  of  armies, 
By  treason  levell'd  with  the  dregs  of  men ! 
Ere  guilty  fear  depress'd  the  hoary  chief, 
An  angry  murmur,  a  rebellious  frown, 
Had  stretch'd  the  fiery  boaster  in  the  grave. 
Mah.  Shall  monarchs  fear  to  draw  the  sword 
of  justice,  [strain'd  ? 

Awed  by  the  crowd,  and  by  their  slaves  re- 
Seize  him  this  night,  and  through  the  private 

passage 

Convey  him  to  the  prison's  inmost  depths, 
Reserved  to  all  the  pangs  of  tedious  death. 

[Exeunt  MAHOMET  and  MUSTAPHA. 

SCENE  IX. 
HASAN  and  CARAZA. 

Has.  Shall  then  the  Greeks,  unpunish'd  and 

conceal'd, 

Contrive  perhaps  the  ruin  of  our  empire, 
League  with  our  chiefs,  and  propagate  sedition  ? 
Car.  Whate'er  their  scheme,  the  Bassa's  death 

defeats  it, 

And  gratitude's  strong  ties  restrain  my  tongue. 
Has.  What  ties  to  slaves  ?  what  gratitude  to 

foes? 

Car.  In  that  black  day  when  slaughter'd  thou- 
sands fell 

Around  these  fatal  walls,  the  tide  of  war 
Bore  me  victorious  onward,  where  Demetrius 
Tore  unresisted  from  the  giant  hand 
Of  stern  Sebalias  the  triumphant  crescent, 
And  dash'd  the  might  of  Asam  from  the  ram- 
parts. 

Thore  I  became,  nor  blush  to  make  it  known, 
The  captive  of  his  sword.     The  coward  Greeks, 
Enraged  by  wrongs,  exulting  with  success, 
Doom'd  me  to  die  with  all  the  Turkish  captains ; 
But  brave  Demetrius  scorn'd  the  mean  revenge, 
A  nd  gave  me  life. 


Has.  Do  thou  repay  the  gift, 
Lest*unrewarded  mercy  lose  its  charms. 
Profuse  of  wealth,  or  bounteous  of  success, 
When  Heaven  bestows  the  privilege  to  bless ; 
Let  no  weak  doubt  the  generous  hand  restrain, 
For  when  was  power  beneficent  in  vain  ? 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 
SCENE  I. 

Asp.  [Solus.]  In  these  dark  moments  of  sus- 
pended fate, 

While  yet  the  future  fortune  of  my  country, 
Lies  in  the  womb  of  Providence  conceal'd, 
And  anxious  angels  wait  the  mighty  birth ; 
O  grant  thy  sacred  influence,  powerful  Virtue  1 
Attentive  rise,  survey  the  fair  creation, 
Till,  conscious  of  th'  encircling  Deity, 
Beyond  the  mists  of  care  thy  pinion  towers. 
This    calm,  these  joys,   dear  Innocence!    are 
thine ;  fpire. 

Joys  ill  exchanged  for  gold,  and  pride,  and  em- 
[Enter  IRENE  and  Attendants. 

SCENE  II. 
ASPASIA,  IRENE,  and  Attendants. 

Irene.  See  how  the  moon  through  all  th'  un- 
clouded sky 

Spreads  her  mild  radiance,  and  descending  dews 
Revive  the  languid  flowers  ;  thus  nature  shone 
New  from  the  Maker's  hand,  and  fair  array'd 
In  the  bright  colours  of  primeval  spring ; 
When  purity,  while  fraud  was  yet  unknown, 
Play'd  fearless  in  th'  inviolated  shades. 
This  elemental  joy,  this  general  calm, 
Is  sure  the  smile  of  unoffended  Heaven. 
Yet!  why— 

Maid.  Behold  within  th'  embowering  grove, 
Aspasia  stands — 

Irene.  With  melancholy  mien, 
Pensive  and  envious  of  Irene's  greatness. 
Steal  unperceived  upon  her  meditations — 
But  see,  the  lofty  maid,  at  our  approach, 
Resumes  th'  imperious  air  of  haughty  virtue. 
Are  these  th'  unceasing  joys,  th'  unmingled  plea- 
sures [To  ASPASIA. 
For  which  Aspasia  scorn'd  the  Turkish  crown? 
Is  this  th'  unshaken  confidence  in  Heaven? 
Is  this  the  boasted  bliss  of  conscious  virtue? 
When  did  Content  sigh  out  her  cares  in  secret  ? 
When  did  Felicity  repine  in  deserts  ? 

Asp.   Ill  suits  with  guilt  the  gayeties  of  tri- 
umph; 

When  daring  Vice  insults  eternal  Justice, 
The  ministers  of  wrath  forget  compassion, 
And  snatch  the  flaming  bolt  with  hasty  hand. 

Irene.  Forbear  thy  threats,  proud  Prophetess 

of  ill, 
Versed  in  the  secret  counsels  of  the  sny. 

Asp.  Forbear!  But  thou  art  sunk  beneath  le- 

proach ; 

In  vain  affected  raptures  flush  the  cheek, 
And  songs  of  pleasure  warble  from  the  tongue, 
When  fear  and  anguish  labour  in  the  breast, 
And  all  within  is  darkness  and  confusion. 
Thus  on  deceitful  ^Etna's  flowery  side 
Unfading  virtue  glads  the  roving  eye , 
While  secret  flames,  with  unextinguish'd  rage 


540 


IRENE :  A  TRAGEDY. 


[Acx  V. 


Insatiate  on  her  wastee.  entrails  prey, 

And  melt  her  treacherous  beauties  into  ruin. 


^C,    Ut;Ul     111O.1U,    C11Y    DVJlH-f »»  O    VIA    Lll^     TtlVjL^iJ, 

e  fear,  or  rage,  or  treachery,  betray'd  us ! 
e.  [Aside.]  A  private  station  may  discove: 


SCENE  III. 
ASPASIA,  IRENE,  and  DEMETRIUS. 

Dem.    Fly,  fly,  my  love !  destruction  rushes 

on  us, 

The  rack  expects  us,  and  the  sword  pursues. 
Asp,  Is  Greece  deliver'd  ?  Is  the  tyrant  fallen  ? 
Dem.  Greece  is  no  more  ;  the  prosperous  ty- 
rant lives, 

Reserved  for  other  lands,  the  scourge  of  Heaven. 
Asp.  Say,  by  what  fraud,  what  force,  were 

you  defeated? 

Betray'd  by  falsehood,  or  by  crowds  o'erborne  ? 
Dem.  The  pressing  exigence  forbids  relation. 

Abdalla 

Asp.  Hated  name !  his  jealous  rage 
Broke  out  in  perfidy — O  cursed  Aspasia, 
Born  to  complete  the  ruin  of  her  country ! 
Hide  me,  oh  hide  me  from  upbraiding  Greece ; 
Oh,  hide  me  from  myself! 
Dem.  Be  fruitless  grief 
The  doom  of  guilt  alone,  nor  dare  to  seize 
The  breast  wnere  Virtue  guards  the  throne  of 

Peace, 

Devolve,  dear  maid,  thy  sorrows  on  the  wretch, 
Whose 
Irene, 

more ; 

Then  let  me  rid  them  of  Irene's  presence ; 
Proceed,  and  give  a  loose  to  love  and  treason. 

Withdraws. 
Asp.  Yet  tell. 

Dem.  To  tell  or  hear  were  waste  of  life. 
Asp.   The  life,  which  only  this  design  sup- 
ported, 

Were  now  well  lost  in  hearing  how  you  fail'd. 
Dem.  Or  meanly  fraudulent,  or  madly  gay, 
Abdalla,  while  we  waited  near  the  palace, 
With  ill-timed  mirth  proposed  the  bowl  of  love. 
Just  as  it  reach'd  my  lips,  a  sudden  cry 
Urged  me  to  dash  it  to  the  ground  untouch'd, 
And  seize  my  sword  with  disencumber'd  hand. 
Asp.  What  cry?    The  stratagem?    Did  then 

Abdalla— 
Dem.  At  once  a  thousand  passions  fired  his 

cheek ! 

Then  all  is  past,  he  cried — and  darted  from  us ; 
Nor  at  the  call  of  Call  deign'd  to  turn. 

Asp.  Why   did   you  stay,  deserted  and  be- 
tray'd? 

What  more   could  force  attempt,  or  art  con- 
trive? 
Dem.   Amazement  seiz'd  us,  and  the  hoary 

Bassa 

Stood  torpid  in  suspense ;  but  soon  Abdalla 
Return'd  with  force  that  made  resistance  vain, 
And  bade  his  new  confederates  seize  the  traitors. 
Cali,  disarm'd,  was  borne  away  to  death  ; 
Myself  escaped,  or  favour'd,  or  neglected. 

Asp.  O  Greece !  renown'd  for  science  and  for 

•wealth, 

Behold  thy  boasted  honours  snatch'd  away. 
Dem.  Though  disappointment  blast  our  gene- 
ral scheme, 

Yet  much  remains  to  hope.     I  shall  not  call 
The  day  disastrous  that  secures  our  flight : 
Nor  think  that  effort  lost  which  rescues  thee. 

[Enter  ABDALLA 


SCENE  IV. 
IRENE,  ASPASIA,  DEMETRIUS,  and  ABDALLA. 

Abd.  At  length  the  prize  is  mine — The  haughty 

maid 

That  bears  the  fate  of  empires  in  her  air, 
lenceforth  shall  live  for  me  ;  for  me  alone 
hall  plume   her  charms,  and,  with   attentive 

watch, 

teal  from  Abdalla's  eye  the  sign  to  smile. 
Dem.  Cease  this  wild  roar  of  savage  exultation- 
Advance,  and  perish  in  the  frantic  boast. 

\sp.   Forbear,  Demetrius,  'tis  Aspasia  calls 

thee ; 

Thy  love,  Aspasia,  calls :  restrain  thy  sword ; 
S^or  rush  on  useless  wounds  with  idle  courage. 
Dem.  What  now  remains  ? 
Asp.  It  now  remains  to  fly ! 
Dem.  Shall  then  the  savage  live,  to  boast  his 

insult? 

Tell  how  Demetrius  shunn'd  his  single  hand, 
And  stole  his  life  and  mistress  from  his  sabre  ? 

Abd.  Infatuate  loiterer,  has  Fate  in  vain 
Jnclasp'd  his  iron  gripe  to  set  thee  free  ? 
Still  dost  thou  flutter  in  the  jaws  of  death ; 
Snared  with  thy  fears,  and  mazed  in  stupefac- 
tion ?  [calls : 
Dem.  Forgive,   my  fair:  'tis  life,  'tis  nature 
Now,  traitor,  feel  the  fear  that  chills  my  hand. 
Asp.    'Tis  madness   to  provoke   superfluous 

danger, 
And  cowardice  to  dread  the  boast  of  folly. 

Abd.  Fly,  wretch,  while  yet  my  pity  grants 

thee  flight, 

The  power  of  Turkey  waits  upon  my  call. 
Leave  but  this  maid,  resign  a  hopeless  claim, 
And  drag  away  thy  life  in  scorn  and  safety. 
Thy  life,  too  mean  a  prey  to  lure  Abdalla. 

Dem.    Once  more  I  dare  thy  sword ;  behold 

the  prize, 
Behold  I  quit  her  to  the  chance  of  battle. 

[Quitting  ASPASIA. 
Abd.  Well  may'st  thou  call  thy  master  to  the 

combat, 

And  try  the  hazard,  that  hast  nought  to  stake ; 
Alike  my  death  or  thine  is  gain  to  thee ; 
But  soon  thou  shalt  repent ;  another  moment 
Shall  throw  th'  attending  janizaries  round  thee. 
[Exit  hastily  ABDALLA. 

SCENE  V. 
ASPASIA,  IRENE,  and  DEMETRIUS. 

Irene.  Abdalla  fails ;  now  Fortune,  all  is  mine. 

[Aside. 
Haste,  Murza,  to  the  palace,  let  the  sultan 

[To  one  of  her  Attendants. 

Despatch  his  guards  to  stop  the  flying  traitors, 
While  I  protract  their  stay.    Be  swift  and  faith 
ful.  [Exit  MURZA. 

This  lucky  stratagem  shall  charm  the  Sultan, 

[Aside. 
Secure  his  confidence,  and  fix  his  love. 

Dem.  Behold  a  boaster's  worth  !  Now  snatch, 

my  fair, 

The  happy  moment;  hasten  to  the  shore, 
Ere  he  return  with  thousands  at  his  side. 
Asp.  In  vain  I  listen  to  th'  inviting  call 
Of  freedom  and  of  love  ;  my  trembling  joints, 
Relax'd  with  fear,  refuse  to  bear  me  forward. 
Depart,  Demetrius,  lest  my  fate  involve  thee ; 
Forsake  a  wretch  abandon'd  to  despair, 
To  share  the  miseries  herself  has  caused. 


SCENE  VIII.] 


IRENE :  A  TRAGEDY, 


541 


Dem.  Let  us  not  struggle  with  th'  eternal  will, 

Nor  languish  o'er  irreparable  ruins ; 

Come,  haste  and  live — Thy  innocence  and  truth 

Shall    bless    our    wanderings,    and    propitiate 

Heaven.  [nerves 

Irene.  Press  not  her  flight,  while  yet  her  feeble 
Refuse  their  office,  and  uncertain  life 
Still  labours  with  imaginary  wo  ; 
Here  let  me  tend  her  with  officious  care, 
Watch  each  unquiet  flutter  of  the  breast, 
And  joy  to  feel  the  vital  warmth  return, 
To  see  the  cloud  forsake  her  kindling  cheek, 
And  hail  the  rosy  dawn  of  rising  health. 

Asp,  Oh  !  rather,  scornful  of  flagitious  great- 
ness, 

Resolve  to  share  our  dangers  and  our  toils, 
Companion  of  our  flight,  illustrious  exile, 
Leave  slavery,  guilt,  and  infamy  behind. 

Irene.  My  soul  attends  thy  voice,  and  banish'd 

Virtue 

Strives  to  regain  her  empire  of  the  mind : 
Assist  her  efforts  with  thy  strong  persuasion ! 
Sure  'tis  the  happy  hour  ordain'd  above, 
When  vanquished  Vice  shall  tyrannize  no  more. 

Dem.  Remember  peace  and  anguish  are  before 

thee, 
And  honour  and  reproach,  and  Heaven  and  Hell. 

Asp.  Content  with  freedom,  and  precarious 
greatness. 

Dem.  Now  make  tht  choice,   while  yet  the 

power  of  choice^ 

Kind  Heaven  affords  thee,  and  inviting  Mercy 
Holds  out  her  hand  to  lead  thee  back  to  truth. 

Irene.  Stay — in  this  dubious  twilight  of  con- 
viction, 

The  gleams  of  reason,  and  the  clouds  of  passion, 
Irradiate  and  obscure  my  breast  by  turns  : 
Stay  but  a  moment,  and  prevailing  truth 
Will  spread  resistless  light  upon  my  soul. 

Dem.  But  since  none  knows  the  danger  of  a 

moment, 

And  Heaven  forbids  to  lavish  life  away, 
Let  kind  compulsion  terminate  the  contest. 

[Seizing  her  hand. 

Ye  Christian  captives  follow  me  to  freedom  : 
A  galley  waits  us,  and  the  winds  invite. 

Irene.  Whence  is  this  violence? 

Dem.  Your  calmer  thought, 
Will  teach  a  gentler  term. 

Irene.  Forbear  this  rudeness, 
And  learn  the  reverence  due  to  Turkey's  queen  ; 
Fly,  slaves,  and  call  the  Sultan  to  my  rescue. 

~Dem.  Farewell,  unhappy  maid ;   may  every 

j°y 

Be  thine,  that  wealth  can  give,  or  guilt  receive ! 
Asp.  And   when   contemptuous  of  imperial 

power, 

Disease  shall  chase  the  phantoms  of  ambition, 
May  penitence  attend  thy  mournful  bed, 
And  wing  thy  latest  payer  to  pitying  Heaven. 

[Exeunt  DEM.  and  ASP.  with  part  of  the 
Attendants. 

SCENE  VI, 
IRENE  walks  at  a  distance  from  her  Attendants. 

Irene.   [After  a  pause.]  Against  the  head  which 

innocence  secures, 

Insidious  Malice  aims  her  darts  in  vain, 
Turn'd  backwards  by  the  powerful  breath  of 

Heaven. 
Perhaps  even  now  the  lovers  unpursued 


Bound  o'er  the  sparkling  waves.     Go,  happy 

bark, 

Thy  sacred  freight  shall  still  the  raging  main. 
To  guide  thy  passage  shall  th'  aerial  spirits 
Fill  all  the  starry  lamps  with  double  blaze ; 
Th'  applauding  sky  shall  pour  forth  all  its  beama, 
To  grace  the  triumph  of  victorious  virtue ; 
While  I,  not  yet  familiar  to  my  crimes, 
Recoil  from  thought,  and  shudder  at  mysert. 
How  am  I  changed  !  How  lately  did  Irene 
Fly  from  the  busy  pleasures  of  her  sex, 
Well  pleased  to  search  the  treasures  of  remem- 
brance, 

And  live  her  guiltless  moments  o'er  anew ! 
Come,  let  us  seek  new  pleasures  in  the  palace, 

[To  her  Attendants  going  off. 
Till  soft  fatigue  invites  us  to  repose. 

SCENE  VII. 

Enter  MUSTAPHA,  meeting  and  stopping  her. 

Mus.  Fair  Falsehood,  stay. 

Irene.  What  dream  of  sudden  power 
Has  taught  my  slave  the  language  of  command  J 
Henceforth  be  wise,  nor  hope  a  second  pardon. 

Mus.  Who  calls  for  pardon  from  a  wretch  con- 
demn'd  ? 

Irene.  Thy  look,  thy  speech,  thy  action,  all  is 
Who  charges  guilt  on  me  ?  [wildness — 

Mus.  Who  charges  guilt !  [science. 

Ask  of  thy  heart ;   attend   the  voice  of  Con- 
Who  charges  guilt !  lay  by  this  proud  resentment 
That  fires  thy  cheek,  and  elevates  thy  mien, 
Nor  thus  usurp  the  dignity  of  virtue. 
Review  this  day. 

Irene.  Whate'er  thy  accusation, 
The  Sultan  is  my  judge. 

Mus.  That  hope  is  past ; 
Hard  was  the  strife  of  justice  and  of  love  ; 
But  now  'tis  o'er,  and  justice  has  prevail'd. 
Know'st  thou  not  Cali?   know'st  thou  not  De- 
metrius ?  [them  traitors. 

Irene.  Bold  slave,  I  know  them  both — I  know 

Mus,  Perfidious ! — yes — too  well  thou  know'st 
them  traitors.  [Irene. 

Irene.  Their  treason  throws  no  stain  upon 
This  day  has  proved  my  fondness  for  the  Sultan  : 
He  knew  Irene's  truth. 

Mus.  The  Sultan  knows  it, 
He  knows  how  near  apostacy  to  treason — 
But  'tis  not  mine  to  judge — I  scorn  and  leave 

thee. 

I  go,  lest  vengeance  urge  my  hand  to  blood, 
To  blood  too  mean  to  stain  a  soldier's  sabre. 

[Exit  MUSTAPHA. 

Irene.    [To  her  Attendants.]    Go,  blustering 

slave — He  has  not  heard  of  Murza, 
That  dexterous  message  frees  me  from  suspicion. 

SCENE  VIII. 

Enter  HASAN    and  CARAZA,  with  Mutes,  who 

throw  the  black  robe  upon  IRENE,  and  sign  to  her 

Attendants  to  withdraw. 

Has.  Forgive,  fair  Excellence,  the  unwilling 

tongue, 

The  tongue,  that,  forced  by  strong  necessity, 
Bids  beauty,  such  as  thine,  prepare  to  die. 

Irene.  What  wild  mistake  is  this !  Take  hence 

with  speed 

Your  robe  of  mourning,  and  your  dogs  of  death, 
duick  from  my  sight,  you  inauspicious  monster*, 
Nor  dare  henceforth  to  shock  Irene's  walks. 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


[Acr  V. 


Has.  Alas !    they  come  commanded  by  the 

Sultan, 

The  unpitying  ministers  of  Turkish  justice, 
Nor  dare  to  spare  the  life  his  frown  condemns. 

Irene.  Are  these  the  rapid  thunderbolts  of  war, 
That  pour  with  sudden  violence  on  kingdoms, 
And  spread  their  flames  resistless  o'er  the  world  ? 
What  sleepy  charms  benumb  these  active  heroes, 
Depress  their  spirits,  and  retard  their  speed  ? 
Beyond  the  fear  of  lingering  punishment, 
Aspasia  now,  within  her  lover's  arms, 
Securely  sleeps,  and  in  delightful  dreams 
Smiles  at  the  threat'nings  of  defeated  rage. 
Car.  We  come,  bright  Virgin,  though  relent- 
ing Nature 

Shrinks  at  the  hated  task,  for  thy  destruction  ; 
When  summon'd  by  tne  Sultan's  clamorous  fury, 
We  ask'd  with  timorous  tongue  the  offender's 

name, 

He  struck  his  tortured  breast,  and  roar'd,  Irene ! 
We  started  at  the  sound,  again  inquired ; 
Again  his  thundering  voice  return'd,  Irene ! 
Irene.  Whence  is  this  rage  ?  what  barbarous 
tongue  has  wrong'd  me  ?  [cense  ? 

What  fraud  misleads  him  ?  or  what  crimes  in- 

Has.  Expiring  Call  named  Irene's  chamber, 
The  place  appointed  for  his  master's  death. 
Irene.    Irene's    chamber !    from    my  faithful 

bosom 
Far  be  the  thought — But  hear  my  protestation. 

Car.  'Tis  ours,  alas  !  to  punish,  not  to  judge, 
Not  call'd  to  try  the  cause,  we  heard  the  sen- 
tence, 

Ordain'd  the  mournful  messengers  of  death. 
Irene.   Some   ill-designing  statesman's   base 

intrigue ! 

Some  cruel  stratagem  of  jealous  beauty  ! 
Perhaps  yourselves  the  villains  that  defame  me, 
Now  haste  to  murder,  ere  returning  thought 

Recall  the  extorted  doom. It  must  be  so : 

Confess  your  crime,  or  lead  me  to  the  Sultan, 
There  dauntless  truth  shall  blast  the  vile  ac- 
cuser ; 

Then  shall  you  feel  what  language  cannot  utter, 
Each  piercing  torture,  every  change  of  pain, 
That  vengeance  can  invent,  or  power  inflict 

[Enter  ABDALLA  :  he  stops  short  and  listens. 

SCENE  IX. 

IRENE,  HASAN,  CARAZA,  and  ABDALLA. 
Abd.  [Jlside.]  All  is  not  lost,  Abdalla ;  see 

the  queen, 

See  the  last  witness  of  thy  guilt  and  fear 
Enrobed  in  death — despatch  her,  and  be  great. 

Car.  Unhappy  fair!  compassion  calls  upon  me 
To  check  this  torrent  of  imperious  rage ; 
While  unavailing  anger  crowds  thy  tongue 
With  idle  threats  and  fruitless  exclamation, 
The  fraudful  moments  ply  their  silent  wings, 
And  steal  thy  life  away.     Death's  horrid  angel 
Already  shakes  his- bloody  sabre  o'er  thee. 
The  raging  Sultan  burns  till  our  return, 
Curses  the  dull  delays  of  lingering  mercy, 
A  nd  thinks  his  fatal  mandates  ill  obey'd. 

Jlbd.  Is  then  your  sovereign's  life  so  cheaply 

rated, 

That  thus  you  parly  with  detected  treason? 
Should  she  prevail  to  gain  the  Sultan's  presence, 
Soon  might  her  tears  engage  a  lover's  credit ; 
Perhaps  her  malice  might  transfer  the  charge ; 
Perhaps  her  poisonous  tongue  might  blast  Ab- 
dalla. 


Irene.  O  let  me  but  be  heard,  nor  fear  from  me 
Or  flights  of  power  or  projects  of  ambition. 
My  hopes,  my  wishes,  terminate  in  life, 
A  little  life,  for  grief,  and  for  repentance. 

Jlbd.  I  mark'd  her  wily  messenger  afar, 
And  saw  him  skulking  in  the  closest  walks ; 
I  guess'd  her  dark  designs,  and  warn'd  the  Sultan, 
And  bring  her  former  sentence  new  confirm'd. 
Has.  Then  call  it  not  our  cruelty,  nor  crime ; 
Deem  us  not  deaf  to  wo,  nor  blind  to  beauty, 
That  thus  constrain'd  we  speed  the  stroke  of 
death.  [Beckons  the  Mutes. 

Irene.  O,  name  not  death!    Distraction  and 

amazement, 

Horror  and  agony  are  in  that  sound  ! 
Let  me  but  live,  heap  woes  on  woes  upon  me, 
Hide  me  with  murderers  in  the  dungeon's  gloom, 
Send  me  to  wander  on  some  pathless  shore, 
Let  shame  and  hooting  infamy  pursue  me, 
Let  slavery  harass,  and  let  hunger  gripe. 

Car.   Could  we  reserve  the  sentence  of  the 

Sultan, 

Our  bleeding  bosoms  plead  Irene's  cause. 
But  cries  and  tears  are  vain  ;  prepare  with  pa- 
tience 
To  meet  that  fate  we  can  delay  no  longer. 

[The  Mutes  at  the  sign  lay  hold  of  her. 
Jlbd.  Despatch,  ye  lingering  slaves ;  or  nim- 
bler hands, 

duick  at  my  call  shalLexecute  your  charge ; 
Despatch,  and  learn  affitter  time  for  pity. 

Irene.  Grant  me  one  hour,  O  grant  me  but  a 

moment, 

And  bounteous  Heaven  repay  the  mighty  mercy 
With  peaceful  death,  and  happiness  eternal. 
Car.  The  prayer  I  cannot  grant — I  dare  not 

hear. 
Short  be  thy  pains,         [Stg-ns  again  to  the  Mutes. 

Irene.  Unutterable  anguish ! 
Guilt  and  despair,  pale  spectres,  grin  around  me, 
And  stun  me  with  the  yellings  of  damnation  ! 
O,  hear  my  prayers !  accept  all-pitying  Heaven, 
These  tears,  these  pangs,  these  last  remains  of 

life; 

Nor  let  the  crimes  of  this  detested  day 
Be  charged  upon  my  soul.     O,  mercy !  mercy ! 
[Mutes  force  her  out 

SCENE  X. 
ABDALLA,  HASAN,  and  CARAZA. 

Jlbd.  [Jlside.]  Safe  in  her  death,  and  in  De- 
metrius' flight, 

Abdalla,  bid  thy  troubled  breast  be  calm. 
Now  shall  thou  shine  the  darling  of  the  Sultan, 
The  plot  all  Call's,  the  detection  thine. 

Has.  [To  CAR.]   Does  not  thy  bosom  (for  1 

know  thee  tender, 

A  stranger  to  th'  oppressor's  savage  joy,) 
Melt  at  Irene's  fate,  and  share  her  woes? 

Car.  Her  piercing  cries  yet  fill  the  loaded  air, 
Dwell  on  my  ear,  and  sadden  all  my  soul. 
But  let  us  try  to  clear  our  clouded  brows, 
And  tell  the  horrid  tale  with  cheerful  face  ; 
The  stormy  Sultan  rages  at  our  stay. 

Jlbd.  Frame  your  report  with  circumspective 

art: 

Inflame  her  crimes,  exalt  your  own  obedience  • 
But  let  no  thoughtless  hint  involve  Abdalla. 

Car.  What  need  of  caution  to  report  the  fate 
Of  her  the  Sultan's  voice  condemn'd  to  die? 
Or  whv  should  he,  whose  violence  of  duty 


SCEKE  XH.J 


IRENE:  A  TRAGEDY. 


543 


Has  served  his    prince  so   well,   demand  our 

silence? 
Jlbd.  Perhaps  my  zeal,  too  fierce,  betray'd  my 

prudence ; 

Perhaps  my  warmth  exceeded  my  commission ; 
Perhaps — I  will  not  stoop  to  plead  my  cause, 
Or  argue  with  the  slave  that  saved  Demetrius. 
Car.  From  his  escape  learn  thou  the  power  of 
virtue ;  [worth. 

Nor  hope   his  fortune,  while  thou  want's!  his 
Has.    The  Sultan   comes,  still  gloomy,  still 
enraged. 

SCENE  XI. 

HASAN,  CARAZA,  MAHOMET,  MUSTAPHA,  and 
ABDALLA. 

Mah.  Where's  this  fair  traitoress  ?     Where's 

this  smiling  mischief, 

Whom  neither  vows  could  fix,  nor  favours  bind  ? 
Has.  Thine  orders,  mighty  Sultan !  are  per- 

form'd, 

And  all  Irene  now  is  breathless  clay. 
Mah.  Your  hasty  zeal  defrauds  the  claim  of 

justice, 

And  disappointed  vengeance  burns  in  vain. 
I  came  to  heighten  tortures  by  reproach, 
And  add  new  terrors  to  the  face  of  death. 
Was  this  the  maid  whose  love  I  bought  with 

empire  ? 

True,  she  was  fair;  the  smile  of  innocence 
Plav'd  on  her  cheek — So  shone  the  first  apos- 
tate— 

Irene's  chamber !     Did  not  roaring  Cali, 
Just  as  the  rack  forced  out  his  struggling  soul, 
Name  for  the  scene  of  death,  Irene's  chamber? 
Miis.  His  breath  prolong'd  but  to  detect  her 

treason, 

Then  in  short  sighs  forsook  his  broken  frame. 
Mah.  Decreed  to  perish  in  Irene's  chamber! 
There  had  she  lull'd  me  with  endearing  false- 
hoods, 

Clasp'd  in  her  arms,  or  slumbering  on  her  breast, 
And  bared  my  bosom  to  the  ruffian's  dagger. 

SCENE  XH. 

HASAN,  CARAZA,  MAHOMET,  MUSTAPHA, 
MURZA,  and  ABDALLA. 

Mur.  Forgive,  great  Sultan !    that,  by  fate 

prevented, 
J  bring  a  tardy  message  from  Irene. 

Mah.  Some  artful  wile  of  counterfeited  love ! 
Some  soft  decoy  to  lure  me  to  destruction ! 
And  thou,  the  curst  accomplice  of  her  treason, 
Declare  thy  message,  and  expect  thy  doom. 

Mur.  The  queen  requested  that  a  chosen  troop 
Might  intercept  the  traitor  Greek,  Demetrius, 
Then  lingering  with  his  captive  mistress  here. 

Mus.  The  Greek  Demetrius!    whom  th'  ex- 
piring Bassa 
Declared  the  chief  associate  of  his  guilt ' 

Mah.  A  chosen  troop — to  intercept — Deme- 
trius—  [sage ; 
The  queen  requested — Wretch,  repeat  the  mes- 
And,  if  one  varied  accent  prove  thy  falsehood, 
Or  but  one  moment's  pause  betray  confusion, 
Those  trembling  limbs — Speak  out  thou  shiver- 
ing traitor. 

Mur.  The  queen  requested 

Mah.  Who?  the  dead  Irene? 


Was  she  then  guiltless  ?  has  my  thoughtless 

rage 

Destroyed  the  fairest  workmanship  of  Heaven1 
Doom'd  her  to  death  unpity'd  and  unheard, 
Amidst  her  kind  solicitudes  for  me! 
Ye  slaves  of  cruelty,  ye  tools  of  rage, 

[To  HAS.  and  CAR. 
Ye  blind  officious  ministers  of  folly, 
Could    not  her  charms  repress  your  zeal  for 

murder  ? 

Could  not  her  prayers,  her  innocence,  her  tears, 
Suspend  the  dreadful  sentence  for  an  hour  ? 
One  hour  had  freed  me  from  the  fatal  error ; 
One  hour  had  saved  me  from  despair  and  madness. 
Car.  Your  fierce  impatience  forced  us  from 

your  presence, 

Urged  us  to  speed,  and  bade  us  banish  pity, 
Nor  trust  our  passions  with  her  fatal  charms. 
Mah.  What  hadst  thou  lost  by  slighting  those 

commands? 

Thy  life,  perhaps — Were  but  Irene  spared. 

Well  if  a  thousand  lives  like  thine  had  perish'd ; 

Such   beauty,   sweetness,    love,   were   cheaply 

bought  [globe. 

With  half  the  grovelling  slaves  that  load  the 

Mus.  Great  is  thy  wo !  But  think,  illustrious 

Sultan, 

Such  ills  are  sent  for  souls  like  thine  to  conquer. 
Shake  off  this  weight  of  unavailing  grief, 
Rush  to  the  war,  display  thy  dreadful  banners, 
And  lead  thy  troops  victorious  round  the  world. 
Mah.  Robb'd  of  the  maid  with  whom  I  wish'd 

to  triumph, 

No  more  I  burn  for  fame,  or  for  dominion ; 
Success  and  conquest  now  are  empty  sounds, 
Remorse  and  anguish  seize  on  all  my  breast ; 
Those  groves,  whose  shades  embowered  the  dear 
Irene,  [ties, 

Heard  her  last  cries,  and  fann'd  her  dying  beau- 
Shall  hide  me  from  the  tasteless  world  forever. 

[MAHOMET  goes  back,  and  returns. 
Yet,  ere  I  quit  the  sceptre  of  dominion, 
Let  one  just  act  conclude  the  hateful  day. 
Hew  down,  ye  guards,  those  vassals  of  destruc- 
tion, [Pointing  to  HAS.  and  CAR. 
Those  hounds  of  blood,  that  catch  the  hint  to 

kill, 

Bear  off  with  eager  haste  th'  unfinish'd  sentence, 
And  speed  the  stroke  lest  mercy  should  o'ertake 

them. 

Car.  Then  hear,  great  Mahomet,  the  voice  of 
truth.  [Irene  ? 

Mah.  Hear!  shall  I  hear  thee?  didst  thou  hear 
Car.  Hear  but  a  moment. 
Mah.  Hadst  thou  heard  a  moment, 
Thou  might'st  have  lived,  for  thou  hadst  spared 
Irene.  [save  her. 

Car.   I  heard  her,  pitied  her,  and  wish'd  to 
Mah.  And  wish'd— Be  still  thy  fate  to  wish  in 

vain. 

Car.  I  heard,  and  soften'd,  till  Abdalla  brought 
Her  final  doom,  and  hurried  her  destruction. 
Mah.   Abdalla  brought  her  doom !    Abdalla 

brought  it ! 

The  wretch  whose  guilt,  declared  by  tortured 
Cali,  [brance. 

My  rage  and  grief  had  hid  from  my  remem- 
Abdalla  brought  her  doom ! 
Has.  Abdalla  brought  it, 

While  yet  she  begg'd  to  plead  her  cause  before 

thee.  [me ' 

Mah.  O  seize  me  Madness — Did  she  call  on 


544 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


I  feel,  I  see  the  ruffian's  barbarous  rage. 
He  seized  her  melting  in  the  fond  appeal, 
And  stopp'd  the  heavenly  voice  that  call'd  on  me. 
My  spirits  tail;  awhile  support  me  Vengeance — 
Be  just,  ye  slaves;  and,  to  be  just,  be  cruel; 
Contrive"  new  racks,  embitter  every  pang, 
Inflict  whatever  treason  can  deserve, 
Which  murder'd  innocence  that  call'd  on  me. 

[Exit  MAHOMET  ;  ABDALLA  is  dragged  off. 

SCENE  XIII. 
HASAN,  CARAZA,  MUSTAPHA,  and  MURZA. 

Mus.  [ToMuRZA.]  What  plagues,  what  tor- 
tures are  in  store  for  thee, 
Thou  sluggish  idler,  dilatory  slave ! 
Behold  the  model  of  consummate  beauty, 
Torn  from  the  mourning  earth  by  thy  neglect. 
Mur.  Such  was  the  will  of  Heaven — A  band 

of  Greeks, 

That  mark'd  my  course,  suspicious  of  my  pur- 
pose, 
Rush'd  out  and  seized  me,  thoughtless  and  un- 

arm'd, 

Breathless,  amazed,  and  on  the  guarded  beach 
Detain'd  me,  till  Demetrius  set  me  free. 

Miis.  So  sure  the  fall  of  greatness,  raised  on 

crimes ; 

So  fix'd  the  justice  of  all-conscious  Heaven ! 
When  haughty  guilt  exults  with  impious  joy, 
Mistake  shall  blast,  or  accident  destroy ; 
Weak  man  with  impious  rage  may  throw  the 

dart, 
But  heaven  shall  guide  it  to  the  guilty  heart. 


EPILOGUE, 
BY  SIR  WILLIAM  YOKGE. 

MARRY  a  Turk !  a  haughty  tyrant  king! 
Who  thinks  us  women  born  to  dress  and  sing 
To  please  his  fancy !  see  no  other  man ! 
Let  him  persuade  me  to  it — if  he  can  ; 
Besides,  he  has  fifty  wives,  and  who  can  bear 
To  have  the  fiftieth  part  her  paltry  share  ? 

'Tis  true,  the  fellow's  handsome,  straight,  and 

tall, 

But  how  the  devil  should  he  please  us  all ! 
My  swain  is  little — true — but  be  it  known 
My  pride's  to  have  that  little  all  my  own. 
Men  will  be  ever  to  their  errors  blind, 
Where  woman's  not  allow'd  to  speak  her  mind. 
I  swear  this  Eastern  pageantry  is  nonsense, 
And  for  one  man — one  wife's  enough  in  con- 
science. 

In  vain  proud  man  usurps  what's  woman's 

due; 

For  us  alone  they  honour's  paths  pursue : 
Inspired  by  us,  they  glory's  heights  ascend  ; 
Woman  the  source,  the  object,  and  the  end. 
Though  wealth,  and  power,  and  glory,  they  re- 
ceive, 

These  are  all  trifles  to  what  we  can  give. 
For  us  the  statesman  labours,  hero  fights, 
Bears  toilsome  days,  and  wakes  long  tedious 

nights ; 

And,  when  blest  peace  has  silenced  war's  alarms. 
Receives  his  full  reward  in  Beauty's  arms. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

LONDON:  A  POEM: 

IN  IMITATION  OF  THE  THIRD  SATIRE  OF  JUVENAL. 

WRITTEN  IN  1738. 


— Q,uts  ineptae 
Tarn  patiens  urbis,  tarn  ferreus  ut  teneat  se  ? 


Juv. 


^THOUGH  grief  and  fondness  in  my  breast  rebel, 
When  injured  Thales*  bids  the  town  farewell, 

JUV.  SAT.  III. 

*  GXuamvis  digressu  veteris  confusus  amici ; 
Laudo  tamen  vacuis  quod  sedem  figere  Cumis 
Destinet,  atque  unum  civem  donare  Sibyllas. 


*  Sir  John  Hawkins  says,  that  by  Thales  we  are  here 
to  understand  Savage.  Mr.  Boswell  asserts  that  this  is 
entirely  groundless,  and  adds,  "  I  have  been  assured  that 
Dr.  Johnson  said,  he  was  not  so  much  as  acquainted  with 
Savage  when  he  wrote  his  '  London.'  "  This  added  to 
the  circumstance  of  the  date  (for  Savage  did  not  set  out 
for  Wales  till  1739)  might  be  decisive,  if,  unfortunately 
for  Mr.  Boswell,  he  had  not,  a  few  pages  after,  given  us 
•ome  highly  complimentary  lines  which  "he  was  assured 


Yet  still  my  calmer  thoughts  his  choice  com 

mend, 

I  praise  the  hermit,  but  regret  the  friend, 
Resolved  at  length,  from  vice  and  London  far, 
To  breathe  in  distant  fields  a  purer  air, 


were  written  by  Dr.  Johnson,"  "Ad  Ricardum  Savage," 
in  April,  1738,  about  a  month  before  "  London"  was  pub- 
lished. This  surely  implies  previous  acquaintance  with 
Savage,  for  Dr.  Johnson  would  not  have  praised  a 
stranger  in  such  terms,  and  gives  a  very  strong  probabil- 
ity to  Sir  John  Hawkins'  conjecture.  That  Savage  did 
not  set  out  for  Wales  until  the  following  year,  is  a  matter 
of  little  consequence,  as  tfie  intention  of  such  a  journey 
would  justify  the  lines  alluding  to  it.  See  Boswell's  Liia 
of  Johnson,  vol.  i.  p.  100,  and  p.  139,  Svo.  edit.  1804— C 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


545 


And  fix'd  on  Cambria's  solitary  shore, 
Give  to  St.  David  one  true  Briton  more. 

bFor  who  would  leave,  unbribed,  Hibernia's 

land, 

Or  change  the  rocks  of  Scotland  for  the  Strand? 
There  none  are  swept  by  sudden  fate  away, 
But  all,  whom  hunger  spares,  with  age  decay  : 
Here  malice,  rapine,  accident  conspire. 
And  now  a  rabble  rages,  now  a  fire ; 
Their  ambush  here  relentless  ruffians  lay, 
And  here  the  fell  attorney  prowls  for  prey ; 
Here  falling  houses  thunder  on  your  head, 
And  here  a  female  Atheist  talks  you  dead. 

'While  Thales  waits  the  wherry  that  contains 
Of  dissipated  wealth  the  small  remains, 
On  Thames's  banks,  in  silent  thought  we  stood 
Where  Greenwich  smiles  upon  the  silver  flood  ; 
Struck  with  the  seat  that  gave  Eliza*  birth, 
We  kneel  and  kiss  the  consecrated  earth ; 
In  pleasing  dreams  the  blissful  age  renew, 
And  call  Britannia's  glories  back  to  view  ; 
Behold  her  cross  triumphant  on  the  main, 
The  guard  of  commerce,  and  the  diead  of  Spain, 
Ere  masquerades  debauch'd,  excise  oppress'd, 
Or  English  honour  grew  a  standing  jest. 

A  transient  calm  the  happy  scenes  bestow, 
And  for  a  moment  lull  the  sense  of  \Wb. 
At  length  awaking,  with  contemptuous  frown, 
Indignant  Thales  eyes  the  neighbouring  town. 

dSince  worth,  he  cries,  in  these  degenerate  days 
Wants  even  the  cheap  reward  of  empty  praise ; 
In  those  cursed  walls,  devote  to  vice  and  gain, 
Since  unrewarded  Science  toils  in  vain  ; 
Since  hope  but  soothes  to  double  my  distress, 
And  every  moment  leaves  my  little  less; 
While  yet  my  steady  steps  no  'staff  sustains, 
And  life  still  vigorous  revels  in  my  veins  ; 
Grant  me,  kind  Heaven,  to  find  some  happier 

place, 

Where  honesty  and  sense  are  no  disgrace ; 
Some  pleasing  bank  where  verdant  osiers  play, 
Some  peaceful  vale  with  Nature's  paintings  gay ; 
Where  once  the  harass'd  Briton  found  repose, 
And,  safe  in  poverty,  defy'd  his  foes ; 
Some  secret  cell,  ye  Powers,  indulgent  give, 

fLet live  here,  for he  has  learn'd  to  live. 

Here  let  those  reign,  whom  pensions  can  incite 
To  vote  a  patriot  black,  a  courtier  white ; 

0  — Ego  vel  Prochytam  praepono  Suburrae. 
Nam  quid  tarn  miserum,  et  tarn  solum  vidimus, 

ut  non 

Deterius  credas  horrere  incendia,  lapsus 
Tectorum  assiduos,  ac  mille  pericula  saevae 
Urbis,  et  Augusto  recitante*  mense  poetas  ? 

« Sed  dum  tota  domus  rheda  componitur  una, 
Substitit  ad  veteres  arcus. 

dHinc  tune  Umbritius:  duando  artibus,  in- 

cjuit,  honestis 

ISuilus  in  urbe  locus,  null  a  emolumenta  laborum, 
Res  hodie  minor  est,  heri  quam  fuit,  atque  eadem 

eras 

Deteret  exiguis  aliquid :  proponimus  illuc 
Ire,  fatigatas  ubi  Daedalus  exuit  alas : 
Dum  nova  canities. 

• et  pedibus  me 

Porto  meis,  nullo  dextram  subeunte  bacillo. 

f  Cedamus  patria:  vivant  Arturius  istic 
Et  Catulus :  maneant  qui  nigra  in  Candida  ver- 
tunt 


+  Queen  Elizabeth,  born  at  Greenwich. 
3T 


Explain  their  country's  clear-bought  rights  away, 
And  plead  for*  pirates  in  the  face  of  day; 
With  slavish  tenets  taint  our  poison'd  youth, 
And  lend  a  lie  the  confidence  of  truth. 

BLet  such  raise  palaces,  and  manors  buy, 
Collect  a  tax,  or  farm  a  lottery ; 
With  warbling  eunuchsf  fill  a  licensed  stage, 
And  lull  to  servitude  a  thoughtless  age. 

Heroes,  proceed!    what  bounds    your  pride 

shall  hold?  [gold? 

What  check  restrain  your  thirst  for  power  and 

Behold  rebellious  Virtue  quite  o'erthro'wn, 

Behold  our  fame,  our  wealth,  our  lives  your  own. 

To  such  the  plunder  of  a  land  is  given, 
When    public    crimes    inflame    the   wrath    of 
Heaven :  [me, 

hBut  what,  my  friend,  what  hope  remains  for 
Who  start  at  theft,  and  blush  at  perjury? 
Who  scarce  forbear,  though  Britain's  court  he 

sing, 

To  pluck  a  titled  poet's  borrow'd  wing  ; 
A  statesman's  logic  unconvinced  can  hear, 
And  dare  to  slumber  o'er  the  ^Gazetteer ; 
Despise  a  fool  in  half  his  pension  dress'd, 
And  strive  in  vain  to  laugh  at  Clodio's  jest. 

'Others  with  softer  smiles  and  subtler  art, 
Can  sap  the  principles,  or  taint  the  heart ; 
With  more  address  a  lover's  note  convey, 
Or  bribe  a  virgin's  innocence  away. 
Well  may  they  rise,  while  I,  whose  rustic  tongue 
Ne'er  knew  to  puzzle  right,  or  varnish  wrong, 
Spurn'd  as  a  beggar,  dreaded  as  a  spy, 
Live  unregarded,  unlamented  die. 

JFor  what  but  social  guilt  the  friend  endears  ? 
Who  shares  Orgilio's  crimes,  his  fortune  shares  •. 
kBut  thou,  should  tempting  Villany  present 
All  Marlborough  hoarded,  or  all  Villiers  spent, 
Turn  from  the  glittering  bribe  thy  scornful  eye, 
Nor  sell  for  gold,  what  gold  could  never  buy, 
The  peaceful  slumber,  self-approving  day, 
Unsullied  fame,  and  conscience  ever  gay. 

'The  cheated  nation's  happy  favourites  see ! 
Mark  whom  the  great  caress,  who  frown  on  me! 
London !  the  needy  villain's  general  home, 
The  common-sewer  of  Paris  and  of  Rome! 
With  eager  thirst,  by  folly  or  by  fate, 
Sucks  in  the  dregs  of  each  corrupted  state. 

gdueis  facile  est  aedem  conducere,  flumina, 

portus, 

Siccandam  eluviem,  portandum  ad    busta  ca- 
daver   

Munera  nunc  edunt. 

h  duid  Romae  faciam  ?  mentiri  nescio :  librum, 
Si  malus  est,  nequeo  laudare  et  poscere. 

i Ferre  ad  nuptam  quas  mittit  adulter, 

duse  mandat,  norint  alii ;  me  nemo  ministro 
Fur  erit,  atque  ideo  nulli  comes  exeo. 

)  duis  nunc  diligitur,  nisi  conscius  ? 

Carus  erit  Verri,  qui  Verrem  tempore,  quo  vult, 
Accusare  potest. 

k Tanti  tibi  non  sit  ppaci 

Omnis  arena  Tagi,  quodque  in  mare  volvitur 

aurum, 
Ut  somno  careas. 

1  duae  nunc  divitibus  gens  acceptissimanostns, 
Et  quos  praecipue  fugiam,  properabo  fateri. 

*  The  invasions  of  the  Spaniards  were  defended  in  the 
Houses  of  Parliament. 

t  The  Licensing  Act  was  then  lately  made. 

I  The  paper  which  at  that  time  contained  apologies  rot 
the  Court. 


546 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Forgive  my  transports  on  A  theme  like  this, 
"I  cannot  hear  a  French  metropolis. 

"Illustrious  Edward  !  from  the  realms  of  day, 
The  land  of  heroes  and  of  saints  survey; 
Nor  hope  the  British  lineaments  to  trace 
The  rustic  grandeur,  or  the  surly  grace ; 
But,  lost  in  thoughtless  ease  and  empty  show, 
Behold  the  warrior  dwi. idled  to  a  beau  ; 
Sense,  freedom,  piety,  refined  away, 
Of  France  the  mimic,  and  of  Spain  the  prey. 

All  that  at  home  no  more  can  beg  or  steal, 
Or  like  a  gibbet  better  than  a  wheel; 
Hiss'd  from  the  stage,  or  hooted  from  the  court, 
Their  air,  their  dress,  their  politics,  import ; 
Obsequious,  artful,  voluble  and  gay, 
On  Britain's  fond  credulity  they  prey. 
No  gainful  trade  their  industry  can  'scape, 
PThey  sing,  they  dance,  clean  shoes  or  cure  a  clap: 
All  sciences  a  fasting  Monsieur  knows, 
And,  bid  him  go  to  hell,  to  hell  he  goes. 

lAh !  what  avails  it,  that  from  slavery  far, 
I  drew  the  breath  of  life  in  English  air ; 
Was  early  taught  a  Briton's  right  to  prize, 
And  lisp  the  tale  of  Henry's  victories ; 
If  the  gull'd  conqueror  receives  the  chain, 
And  flattery  prevails  when  arms  are  vain  ? 

'Studious  to  please,  and  ready  to  submit, 
The  supple  Gaul  was  born  a  parasite : 
Still  to  his  interest  true  where'er  he  goes, 
Wit,  bravery,  worth,  his  lavish  tongue  bestows  ; 
In  every  face  a  thousand  graces  shine, 
From  every  tongue  flows  harmony  divine. 
•These  arts  in  vain  our  rugged  natives  try, 
Strain  out  with  falt'ring  diffidence,  a  lie, 
And  get  a  kick  for  awkward  flattery. 

Besides,  with  justice,  this  discerning  age 
Admires  their  wondrous  talents  for  the  stage  : 
'Well  may  they  venture  on  the  mimic's  art, 
Who  play  from  morn  to  night  a  borrow'd  part ; 
Practised  their  master's  notions  to  embrace, 
Repeat  his  maxims,  and  reflect  his  face  ; 
With  every  wild  absurdity  comply, 
And  view  each  object  with  another's  eye ; 
To  shake  with  laughter  ere  the  jest  they  hear, 
To  pour  at  will  the  counterfeited  tear  ; 
And,  as  their  patron  hints  the  cold  or  heat, 
To  shake  in  dog-days,  in  December  sweat. 
"How,  when  competitors  like  these  contend, 

Non  possum  ferre,  duirites, 


Grsecam  urbem. 

n  Rusticus  ille  tuus  sumit  trechedipna,  duirine, 
Et  ceromatico  fert  niceteria  collo. 

0  Ingenium  velox,  audacia  perdita,  sermo 
Promptus. 

P  Augur,  schcenobates,  medicus,  magus :  omnia 

novit. 
Graeculus  escuriens,  in  ccelum,  jusseris,  ibit. 

1  Usque  adeo  nihil  est,  quod  nostra  infantia 
Hausit  Aventini  ?  [coelum 

T  duid  ?  quod  adulandi   gens  prudentissima, 

laudat 
Sermonem  indocti,  faciem  deformis  amici? 

•  Haec  eadem  licet  et  nobis  laudare:  Bed  illis 
Creditor. 

« Natio  comcoda  est.  Rides  ?  majore  cachinno 
Concutitur,  &c. 

•  Non  sumus  ergo  pares :  melior  qui  semper 

et  omni 

Nocte  dieque  potest  alienum  sumere  vultum, 
A  facie  jactare  manus :  laudare  paratus, 
Si  bene  ructavit,  si  rectum  minxit  amicus. 


Can  surly  virtue  hope  to  fix  a  friend  ? 
Slaves  that  with  serious  impudence  beguile, 
And  lie  without  a  blush,  without  a  smile; 
Exalt  each  trifle,  every  vice  adore, 
Your  taste  in  snuff,  your  judgment  iri  a  whore  j 
Can  Balbo's  eloquence  applaud,  and  swear 
He  gropes  his  breeches  with  a  Monarch's  air. 

For  arts  like  these  preferr'd,  admired,  caress'd, 
They  first  invade  your  table,  then  your  breast ; 
^Explore  your  secrets  with  insidious  art, 
Watch  the  weak   hour,  and  ransack  all   the 

heart ; 

Then  soon  your  ill-placed  confidence  repay, 
Commence  your  lords,  and  govern  or  betray. 

wBy  numbers  here  from  shame  or  censure  free 
All  crimes  are  safe,  but  hated  poverty. 
This,  only  this,  the  rigid  law  pursues, 
This,  only  this,  provokes  the  snarling  Muse, 
The  sober  trader  at  a  tatter'd  cloak 
Wakes  from  his  dream,  and  labours  for  a  joke ; 
With  brisker  air  the  silken  courtiers  gaze, 
And  turn  the  varied  taunt  a  thousand  ways. 
*Of  all  the  griefs  that  harass  the  distress'd, 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest;       [heart, 
Fate    never   wounds  more    deep  the    generous 
Than  when  a  blockhead's  insult  points  the  dart. 

yHas  Heaven  reserved,  in  pity  to  the  poor, 
No  pathless  waste  or  undiscover'd  shore? 
No  secret  island  in  the  boundless  main  ? 
No  peaceful  desart  yet  unclaim'd*  by  Spain'' 
Gluick  let  us  rise,  the  happy  seats  explore, 
And  bear  Oppression's  insolence  no  more. 

This  mournful  truth  is  every  where  confess'd, 
'Slow  rises  worth  by  poverty  depress'd : 
But  here  more  slow,  where  all  are  slaves  to 
gold,  [sold  : 

Where  looks  are  merchandize  and  smiles  are 
Where,  won  by  bribes,  by  flatteries  implored, 
The  groom  retails  the  favours  of  his  lord,    [cries 

But  hark  !  the  affrighted  crowd's  tumultuous 
Roll  through  the  streets,  and  thunder  to  the  skies : 
Raised  from  some  pleasing  dream  of  wealth  and 

power, 

Some  pompous  palace,  or  some  blissful  bower, 
Aghast  you  start,  and  scarce  with  aching  sight 
Sustain  the  approaching  fire's  tremendous  light ; 
Swift  from  pursuing  horrors  take  your  way, 
And  leave  your  little  all  to  flames  a  prey ; 
•Then  through  the  world  a  wretched  vagrant 


T  Scire  volunt  secreta  domus  atque  inde  timeri. 

w Materiam  praebet  causasque  jocorum 

Omnibus  hie  idem  ?  si  fceda  et  scissa  lacerna,  &c. 

*  Nil  habet  infelix  paupertas  durius  in  se, 
duam  quod  ridiculos  homines  facit. 

y Agmine  facto, 

Debuerant  olim  tenues  migrasse  duirites. 

*Haud    facile  emergunt,  quorum  virtutibus 

obstat 

Res  angusta  domi ;  sed  Romae  durior  illia 
Conatus. 


-Omnia  Romae 


Cum  pretio.- 

Cogimur,  et  cultis  augere  peculia  servis. 

• Ultimus  auteru 

jErumnae  cumulus,  quod  nudum  et  frustra  ro- 

gantem 
Nemo  cibo,  nemo  hospitio,  tectoqne  juvabit. 

*  The  Spaniards  at  this  time  were  sa  i  to  make  claim 
w  some  of  our  American  provinces 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


547 


For  where  can  starving  merit  find  a  home  ? 
In  vain  your  mournful  narrative  disclose, 
While  all  neglect,  and  most  insult  your  woes. 

bShou!d  Heaven's  just  bolts  Orgilio's  wealth 

confound, 

And  spread  his  flaming  palace  on  the  ground, 
Swift  o'er  the  land  the  dismal  rumour  flies, 
And  public  mournings  pacify  the  skies  ; 
The  laureat  tribe  in  venal  verse  relate, 
flow  virtue  wars  with  persecuting  fate ; 
•With  well-feign'd  gratitude  the  pension'd  band 
Refund  the  plunder  of  the  beggar'd  land. 
See  !   while  he  builds,  the  gaudy  vassals  come, 
And  crowd  with  sudden  wealth  the  rising  dome; 
The  price  of  boroughs  and  of  souls  restore; 
And  raise  his  treasures  higher  than  before : 
Now  bless'd  with  all  the  baubles  of  the  great, 
The  polish'd  marble,  and  the  shining  plate, 
dOrgilio  sees  the  golden  pile  aspire, 
And  hopes  from  angry  Heaven  another  fire. 

•Couldst  thou  resign  the  park  and  play  con- 
For  the  fair  banks  of  Severn  or  of  Trent ;    [tent, 
There  might'st  thou  find  some  elegant  retreat, 
Some  hireling  senator's  deserted  seat ; 
And  stretch  thy  prospects  o'er  the  smiling  land, 
For  less  than  rents  the  dungeons  of  the  Strand  : 
There  prune  thy  walks,  support  the  drooping 

flowers, 

Direct  thy  rivulets,  and  twine  thy  bowers ; 
And  while  thy  grounds  a  cheap  repast  afford, 
Despise  the  dainties  of  a  venal  lord ; 
There  every  bush  with  Nature's  music  rings  ; 
There  every  breeze  bears  health  upon  its  wings ; 
On  all  thy  hours  security  shall  smile, 
And  bless  thine  evening  walk  and  morning  toil. 

( Prepare  for  death,  if  here  at  night  you  roam, 
And  sign  your  will  before  you  sup  from  home. 

iSome  fiery  fop  with  new  commission  vain, 
Who  sleeps  on  brambles  till  he  kills  his  man ; 
Some  frolic  drunkard,  reeling  from  a  feast, 
Provokes  a  broil,  and  stabs  you  for  a  jest. 

hYet  even  these  heroes,  mischievously  gay, 
Lords  of  the  street,  and  terrors  of  the  way; 

b  Si  magna  Asturici  cecidit  domus,  horrida 
Pullati  proceres. [mater, 

e Jam  accurrit,  qui  marmora  donet, 

Conferat  impensas:  hie,  &c. 
Hie  modium  argenti. 

d Meliora  ac  plura  reponit 

Persicus  orborum  lautissimus. 

•  Si  potes  avelli  Circensibus,  optima  Sorae, 
Aut  Fabrateriae  domus,  aut  Frusinone  paratur, 
Gluanti  nunc  tenebras  unum  conducis  in  annum. 

Hortulus  hie. 

Vive  bidentis  amans,  et  culti  villicus  horti. 
Unde  epulum  possis  centum  dare  Pythagoraeis. 

' Possis  ignavus  haberi, 

Et  subiti  casus  improvidus,  ad  ccenam  si 
Intestatus  eas. 

s  Ebrius,  ac  petulans,  qui  nullum  forte  cectdit, 
Dat  pcenas,  noctem  patitur  lugentis  amicum 
Peleids. 

b Sed,  cummvis  improbus  annis, 


Flush'd^s  they  are,  with  folly,  youth,  and  wine, 
Their  prudent  insults  to  the  poo'r  confine : 
Afar  they  mark  the  flambeau's  bright  approach, 
And  shun  the  shining  train,  and  golden  coach. 
•  'In  vain,  these  dangers  past,  your  doors  you 

close, 

And  hope  the  balmy  blessings  of  repose ; 
Cruel  with  guilt,  and  daring  with  despair, 
The  midnight  murderer  bursts  the  faithless  bar ; 
Invades  the  sacred  hour  of  silent  rest, 
And  leaves,  unseen,  a  dagger  in  your  breast 
JScarce  can  our  fields,  such  crowds  at  Tyburn 

die, 

With  hemp  the  gallows  and  the  fleet  supply. 
Propose  your  schemes,  ye  senatorian  band, 
Whose  ways  and  means*  support  the  sinking 

land  : 

Lest  ropes  be  wanting  in  the  tempting  spring, 
To  rig  another  convoy  for  the  king."f 

kA  single  jail,  in  Alfred's  golden  reign, 
Could  half  the  nation's  criminals  contain: 
Fair  justice,  then,  without  constraint  adored, 
Held  high  the  steady  scale,  but  sheath'd  the 

sword ; 

No  spies  were  paid,  no  special  juries  known; 
Blest  age !  but  ah !  how  different  from  our  own  I 

'Much  could  I  add,  but  see  the  boat  at  hand, 
The  tide,  retiring,  calls  me  from  the  land  : 
"Farewell ! — When   youth,  and  health,   and 

fortune  spent, 

Thou  fly'st  for  refuge  to  the  Wilds  of  Kent; 
And,  tired,  like  me,  with  follies  and  with  crimes, 
In  angry  numbers  warn'st  succeeding  times  ; 
Then  shall  thy  friend,  nor  thou  refuse  his  aid, 
Still  foe  to  vice,  forsake  his  Cambrian  shade ; 
In  virtue's  cause  once  more  exert  his  rage, 
Thy  satire  point,  and  animate  thy  page. 

Atque  mero  fervens,  cavet  hunc,  quern  coccina 

Icena 

Vitari  jubet,  et  comitum  longissimus  ordo, 
Multum  praeterea  flammarum,  atque  ocnea  lam- 
pas. 

•  Nee  tamen  hoc  tantum  metuas :    nam  qui 

spoliet  te 
Non  deerit ;  clausis  domibus,  &c. 

J  Maximus  in  vinclis  ferri  modus,  ut  time-as, 
Vomer  deficiat,  ne  marrae  et  sarcula  desint.    [ne 

k  Felices  proavorum  atavos,  felicia  dicas 
Saecula,  quae  quondam  sub  regibus  atque  tribunis 
Viderunt  uno  contentam  carcere  Romam. 

•His  alias  poteram  et  plures  subnectere  cau- 
Sed  jumenta  vocant [sas  : 

m Ergo  vale  nostri  memor :  et  quoties  te 

Roma  tuo  refici  properantem  reddet  Aquino, 
Me  quoque  ad  Elvinam  Cererem,  vestramqu« 

Dianam 

Convelle  a  Cumis :  satiraram  ego,  ni  pudet  illas, 
Adjutor  gelidos  veniam  caligatus  in  agros. 


*  A  cant  term  in  the  House  of  Commons,  for  methods  of 
raising  money. 

f  The  nation  was  discontented  at  the  visits  made  by  tuo 
kingtoHanovei. 


543  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

THE   VANITY   OF   HUMAN  WISHES; 

IN  IMITATION  OF  THE 

TENTH  SATIRE  OF  JUVENAL. 


LET  *Observation,  with  extensive  view, 
Survey  mankind  from  China  to  Peru  ; 
Remark  each  anxious  toil,  each  eager  strife, 
And  watch  the  busy  scenes  of  crowded  life ; 
Then  say,  how  hope  and  fear,  desire  and  hate, 
O'erspread  with  snares  the  clouded  maze  of  fate, 
Where   wavering  man,   betray'd    by  vent'rous 

pride, 

To  tread  the  dreary  paths  without  a  guide, 
As  treacherous  phantoms  in  the  mist  delude, 
Shuns  fancied  ills,  or  chases  airy  good  ; 
How  rarely  reason  guides  the  stubborn  choice, 
Rules  the  bold  hand,  or  prompts  the  suppliant 

voice ; 

How  nations  sink,  by  darling  schemes  oppress'd, 
When  Vengeance  listens  to  the  fool's  request. 
Fate  wings  with  every  wish  th'  afflictive  dart, 
Each  gift  of  nature,  and  each  grace  of  art ; 
With  fatal  heat  impetuous  courage  glows, 
With  fatal  sweetness  elocution  flows ; 
I  mpeachment  stops  the  speaker's  powerful  b  reath, 
And  restless  fire  precipitates  on  death. 
fBut,  scarce  observed,  the  knowing  and  the 

bold 

Fall  in  the  general  massacre  of  Gold ; 
Wide  wasting  pest!  that  rages  unconfined, 
And  crowds  with  crimes  the  records  of  mankind : 
For  gold  his  sword  the  hireling  ruffian  draws, 
For  gold  the  hireling  judge  distorts  the  laws; 
Wealth  heap'd  on  wealth,  nor  truth  nor  safety 

buys, 

The  dangers  gather  as  the  treasures  rise. 
Let  History  tell  where  rival  kings  command, 
And  dubious  title  shakes  the  madded  land, 
When  statutes  glean  the  refuse  of  the  sword, 
How  much  more  safe  the  vassal  than  the  lord ; 
Low  sculks  the  hind  beneath  the  rage  of  power, 
And  leaves  the  wealthy  traitor  in  the  Tower, 
Untouch'd  his  cottage,  and  his  slumbers  sound, 
Though  Confiscation's  vultures  hover  round. 

The  needy  traveller,  serene  and  gay, 
Walks  the  wild  heath,  and  sings  his  toil  away. 
Does  envy  seize  thee  ?  crush  th'  upbraiding  joy ; 
Increase  his  riches,  and  his  peace  destroy  ; 
Now  fears  in  dire  vicissitude  invade, 
The  rustling  brake  alarms,  and  quivering  shade ; 
Nor  light  nor  darkness  bring  his  pain  relief, 
One  shows  the  plunder,  and  one  hides  the  thief. 

YetJ  still  one  general  cry  the  skies  assails, 
And  gain  and  grandeur  load  the  tainted  gales ; 
Few^know  the  toiling  statesman's  fear  or  care, 
Th'  insidious  rival  and  the  gaping  heir. 

Once§  more,  Democritus,  arise  on  earth, 
With  cheerful  wisdom  and  instructive  mirth, 
See  motley  life  in  modern  trappings  dress'd, 
And  feed  with  varied  fools  th'  eternal  jest  : 
Thou  who  could'st  laugh  where  want  enchain  d 

caprice, 
Toil  crush'd  conceit,  and  man  was  of  a  piece ; 


*  Ver.  1— 11. 
Ver.  93—27 


t  Ver.  12—22. 
j  Ver.  28—55 


Where  wealth,  unloved,  without  a  mourner  died ; 
And  scarce  a  sycophant  was  fed  by  pride ; 
Where  ne'er  was  known  the  form  of  mock  de- 
bate, 

Or  seen  a  new-made  mayor's  unwieldy  state  ; 
Where  change  of  favourites  made  no  change  of 

laws, 

And  senates  heard  before  they  judged  a  cause ; 
How  wouldst  thou  shake   at  Briton's  modish 

tribe, 

Dart  the  quick  taunt,  and  edge  the  piercing  gibe  ? 
Attentive  truth  and  nature  to  descry, 
And  pierce  each  scene  with  philosophic  eye, 
To  thee  were  solemn  toys,  or  empty  show, 
The  robes  of  pleasure  and  the  veils  of  wo: 
All  aid  the  farce,  and  all  thy  mirth  maintain, 
Whose  joys  are  causeless,  and  whose  griefs  are 

vain. 

Such  was  the  scorn  that  fill'd  the  sage's  mind, 
Renew'd  at  every  glance  on  human  kind  ; 
How  just  that  scorn  ere  yet  thy  voice  declare, 
Search  every  state,  and  canvass  every  prayer. 
*Unnumber'd  suppliants  crowd  Preferment'* 

gate, 

Athirstfor  wealth,  and  burning  to  be  great; 
Delusive  Fortune  hears  th'  incessant  call, 
They  mount,  they  shine,  evaporate,  and  falL 
On  every  stage  the  foes  of  peace  attend, 
Hate  dogs  their  flight,  and  insult  mocks  their  end. 
Love  ends  with  hope,  the  sinking  statesman's 

door 

Pours  in  the  morning  worshipper  no  more ; 
For  growing  names  the  weekly  scribbler  lies, 
To  growing  wealth  the  dedicator  flies, 
From  every  room  descends  the  painted  face, 
That  hung  the  bright  palladium  of  the  place ; 
And,  smoked  in  kitchens,  or  in  auctions  sold, 
To  better  features  yields  the  frame  of  gold ; 
For  now  no  more  we  trace  in  every  line 
Heroic  worth,  benevolence  divine : 
The  form  distorted,  justifies  the  fall, 
And  detestation  rids  th'  indignant  wall. 

But  will  not  Britain  hear  the  last  appeal, 
Sign  her  foes'  doom,  or  guard  her  favourites* 
zeal  ?  ["ngs, 

Through  Freedom's  sons  no  more  remonstrance 
Degrading  nobles,  and  controlling  kings ; 
Our  supple  tribes  repress  their  patriot  throats, 
And  ask  no  questions  but  the  price  of  votes  ; 
With  weekly  libels  and  septennial  ale, 
Their  wish  is  full  to  riot  and  to  rail. 

In  full-blown  dignity,  see  Wolsey  stand, 
Law  in  his  voice,  and  fortune  in  his  hand  : 
To  him  the  church,  the  realm,  their  powers  con- 
sign, 

Through  him  Ihe  rays  of  regal  bounty  shine, 
Turn'd  by  his  nod  the  stream  of  honour  flows, 
His  smile  alone  security  bestows: 
Still  to  new  heights  his  restless  wishes  tower, 
Claim  leads  to  claim,  and  power  advances  power; 


*  Ver.  56—107. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


549 


assassin's 


Till  conquest  unresisted  ceased  to  please, 
And  rights  submitted,  left  him  none  to  seize. 
At  length  his  sovereign  frowns — the  train  of  state 
Mark  the  keen  glance,  and  watch  the  sign  to 

hate. 

Where'er  he  turns,  he  meets  a  stranger's  eye, 
Elis  suppliants  scorn  him,  and  his  followers  fly ; 
Now  drops  at  once  the  pride  of  awful  state, 
The  golden  canopy,  the  glittering  plate, 
The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board, 
The  liveried  army,  and  the  menial  lord. 
With  age,  with  cares,  with  maladies  oppress'd, 
He  seeks  the  refuge  of  monastic  rest. 
Grief  aids  disease,  remember'd  folly  stints, 
And  his  last  sighs  reproach  the  faith  of  kings. 
Speak  thou,  whose  thoughts  at  humble  peace 

repine,  thine? 

Shall  Wolsey's  wealth,  with  Wolsey's  end,  be 
Or  livest  thou  now,  with  safer  pride  content, 
The  wisest  justice  on  the  banks  of  Trent? 
For,  why  did  Wolsey,  near  the  steeps  of  fate, 
On  weak  foundations  raise  th'  enormous  weight? 
Why  but  to  sink  beneath  misfortune's  blow, 
With  louder  ruin  to  the  gulfs  below  ? 
*What  gave  great  Villiers  to  th' 

knife, 

And  fix'd  disease  on  Harley's  closing  life? 
What  murder'd  Wentworth,  and  what  exiled 

Hyde, 

By  kings  protected,  and  to  kings  allied? 
What  but  their  wish  indulged  in  courts  to  shine, 
And  power  too  great  to  keep,  or  to  resign  ? 

|  When  first  the  college  rolls  receive  his  name, 
The  young  enthusiast  quits  his  ease  for  fame ; 
Resistless  burns  the  fever  of  renown, 
Caught  from  the  strong  contagion  of  the  gown  ; 
O'er  Bodley's  dome  his  future  labours  spread, 
And  ^Bacon's  mansion  trembles  o'er  his  head. 
Are  these  thy  views?    Proceed,  illustrious  youth, 
And  Virtue  guard  thee  to  the  throne  of  Truth ! 
Yet,  should  thy  soul  indulge  the  generous  heat 
Till  captive  Science  yields  her  last  retreat; 
Should  Reason  guide  thee  with  her  brightest  ray, 
And  pour  on  misty  Doubt  resistless  day ; 
Should  no  false  kindness  lure  to  loose  delight, 
Nor  praise  relax,  nor  difficulty  fright ; 
Should  tempting  Novelty  thy  cell  refrain, 
And  Sloth  effuse  her  opiate  fumes  in  vain  ; 
Should  Beauty  blunt  on  fops  her  fatal  dart, 
Nor  claim  the  triumph  of  a  letter'd  heart ; 
Should  no  disease  thy  torpid  veins  invade, 
Nor  Melancholy's  phantojns  haunt  thy  shade, 
Yet  hope  not  life  from  grref  or  danger  free, 
Nor  think  the  doom  of  man  reversed  for  thee : 
Deign  on  the  passing  world  to  turn  thine  eyes, 
And  pause  awhile  from  Letters,  to  be  wise  ; 
There  mark  what  ills  the  scholar's  life  assail, 
Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  gaol. 
See  nations,  slowly  wise,  and  meanly  just, 
To  buried  merit  raise  the  tardy  bust. 
If  dreams  yet  flatter,  once  again  attend, 
Hear  Lydiat's  life,  and  Galileo's  end.§ 

Nor   deem,  when   Learning   her   last   prize 

bestows, 
The  glitt'ring  eminence  exempt  from  woes ; 


*  Ver.  108—113.  f  Ver.  114— 132. 

f  There  is  a  tradition,  that  the  study  of  friar  Bacon, 
built  on  an  arch  over  the  bridge,  will  fall  when  a  man 
greater  than  Bacon  shall  pass  under  it.  To  prevent  so 
shocking  an  accident,  it  was  pulled  down  many  years 
since. 

4  See  Gent.  Mag.  Vol.  LXVIII  p.  951.  1027- 


See,  when  the  vulgar  'scape,  despised  or  awed, 
Rebellion's  vengeful  talons  seize  on  Laud. 
From  meaner  minds  though  smallerfines  content, 
The  plunder'd  palace,  or  sequester'd  tent ; 
Mark'd  out  by  dangerous  parts,  he  meets  the 

shock, 

And  fatal  Learning  leads  him  to  the  block  : 
Around  his  tomb  let  Art  and  Genius  weep, 
But  hear  his  death,  ye  blockheads,  hear  and 

sleep. 

*The  festal  blazes,  the  triumphal  show, 
The  ravish'd  standard,  and  the  captive  foe, 
The  senate's  thanks,  the  Gazette's  pompous  tale, 
With  force  resistless  o'er  the  brave  prevail. 
Such  bribes  the  rapid  Greek  o'er  Asia  whirl'd, 
For  such  the  steady  Romans  shook  the  world ; 
For  such  in  distant  lands  the  Britons  shine ; 
And  stain  with  blood  the  Danube  or  the  Rhine  , 
This  power  has  praise  that  virtue  scarce  can 

warm, 

Till  fame  supplies  the  universal  charm. 
Yet  Reason  frowns  on  War's  unequal  game, 
Where  wasted  nations  raise  a  single  name ; 
And  mortgaged  states  their  grandsires'  wreaths 
From  age  to  age  in  everlasting  debt ;       [regret, 
Wreaths  which  at  last  the  dear-bought   right 

convey, 
To  rust  on  medals,  or  on  stones  decay. 

|On  what  foundation   stands   the  warrior's 

pride, 

How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide ; 
A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire, 
No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labours  tire ; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 
Uncpnquer'd  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield, 
War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  field ; 
Behold  surrounding  kings  their  power  combine, 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign ; 
Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms 

in  vain ;  [remain, 

"  Think  nothing  gain'd,"  he  cries,  "  till  nought 
On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly, 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky." 
The  march  begins  in  military  state, 
And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait; 
Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast, 
And  Winter  barricades  the  realm  of  Frost ; 
He  comes,  nor  want  nor  cold  his  course  delay 
Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide  Pultowa's  day: 
The  vanquish'd  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands, 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands ; 
Condenyi'd  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait, 
While  ladies  interpose  and  slaves  debate. 
But  did  not  Chance  at  length  her  error  mend  ? 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end  ? 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound  ? 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground  ? 
His  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand  ; 
He  left  a  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale, 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 

{All  times  their  scenes  of  pompous  woes  aflbrd, 
From  Persia's  tyrant  to  Bavaria's  lord. 
In  gay  hostility  and  barbarous  pride, 
With'half  mankind  embattled  at  his  side, 
Great  Xerxes  comes  to  seize  the  certain  prey, 
And  starves  exhausted  regions  in  his  way; 
Attendant  Flattery  counts  his  myriads  o'er, 
Till  counted  myriads  sooth  his  pride  no  more, 


*  Ver.  133— 146.    ]  Ver.  147— 167    |  Vzr  168-187. 


550 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Fresh  praise  is  try'd  till  madness  fires  his  mind, 
The  waves  he  lashes,  and  enchains  the  wind, 
New  powers  are  claim'd,  new  powers  are  still 

bestow'd, 

1'ill  rude  Resistance  lops  the  spreading  god  ; 
The  daring  Greeks  deride  the  martial  show, 
And  heap  their  valleys  with  the  gaudy  foe ; 
Th'  insulted   sea   with   humbler   thoughts   he 

gains, 

A  single  skiff  to  speed  his  flight  remains  ; 
The  in  cumbered  oar  scarce  leaves  the  dreaded 

coast, 
Through  purple  billows  and  a  floating  host. 

The  bold  Bavarian,  in  a  luckless  hour, 
Tries  the  dread  summits  of  Caesarian  power, 
With  unexpected  legions  bursts  away, 
And  sees  defenceless  realms  receive  his  sway  ; 
Short  sway !  fair  Austria  spreads  her  mournful 

charms, 

The  queen,  the  beauty,  sets  the  world  in  arms  ; 
From  hill  to  hill  the  beacon's  rousing  blaze 
Spreads  wide  the  hope  of  plunder  and  of  praise  ; 
The  fierce  Croatian,  and  the  wild  Hussar, 
With  all  the  sons  of  ravage  crowd  the  war  ; 
The  baffled  prince,  in  honour's  flattering  bloom 
Of  hasty  greatness,  finds  the  fatal  doom  ; 
His  foes'  derision,  and  his  subjects'  blame, 
And   steals   to   death  from  anguish  and  from 

shame. 

*  Enlarge  my  life  with  multitude  of  days  ! 
In  health,  in  sickness,  thus  the  suppliant  prays  ; 
Hides  from  himself  his  state,  and  shuns  to  know, 
That  life  protracted  is  protracted  wo. 
Time  hovers  o'er,  impatient  to  destroy, 
And  shuts  up  all  the  passages  of  joy  : 
In  vain  their  gifts  the  bounteous  seasons  pour, 
The  fruit  autumnal,  and  the  vernal  flower; 
With  listless  eyes  the  dotard  views  the  store, 
He  views,  and  wonders  that  they  please  no 

more: 

Now  pall  the  tasteless  meats  and  joyless  wines, 
And  luxury  with  sighs  her  slave  resigns. 
Approach,  ye  minstrels,  try  the  soothing  strain, 
Diffuse  the  tuneful  lenitives  of  pain  : 
No  sounds,  alas !   would  touch  th'  impervious 
ear,  [near ; 

Though  dancing  mountains  witness'd  Orpheus 
Nor  lute  nor  lyre  his  feeble  powers  attend, 
Nor  sweeter  music  of  a  virtuous  friend  ; 
But  everlasting  dictates  crowd  his  tongue, 
Perversely  grave,  or  positively  wrong. 
The  still  returning  tale,  and  lingering  jest, 
Perplex  the  fawning  niece  and  pamper'd  guest, 
While  growing  hopes  scarce  awe  the  gathering 
And  scarce  a  legacy  can  bribe  to  hear  ;     [sneer, 
The  watchful  guests  still  hint  the  last  offence  ; 
The  daughter's  petulance,  the  son's  expense, 
Improve  his  heady  rage  with  treach'rous  skill, 
And  mould  his  passions  till  they  make  his  will. 

Unnumber'd  maladies  his  joints  invade, 
Lay  siege  to  life,  and  press  the  dire  blockade  ; 
But  imextingnish'd  Avarice  still  remains, 
And  dreaded  losses  aggravate  his  pains ; 
He    turns,    with    anxious    heart    and    crippled 

hands, 

His  bonds  of  debt,  and  mortgages  of  lands  ; 
Or  views  his  coffers  with  suspicious  eyes, 
Unlocks  his  gold,  and  counts  it  till  he  dies. 

But  grant,  the  virtues  of  a  temperate  prime 
Bless  with  an  age  exempt  from  scorn  or  crime  ; 

*  Ver  183—293. 


An  age  that  melts  in  unperceived  decay, 
And  glides  in  modest  innocence  away ; 
Whose  peaceful  day  Benevolence  endears, 
Whose  night  congratulating  Conscience  cheers ; 
The  general  favourite  as  the  general  friend  ; 
Such  age  there  is,  and  who  shall  wish  its  end  ? 

Yet  even  on  this  her  load  Misfortune  flings, 
To  press  the  weary  minutes'  flagging  wings  ; 
New  sorrow  rises  as  the  day  returns, 
A  sister  sickens,  or  a  daughter  mourns. 
Now  kindred  Merit  fills  the  sable  bier, 
Now  lacerated  Friendship  claims  a  tear ; 
Year  chases  year,  decay  pursues  decay, 
Still  drop  some  joy  from  withering  life  away; 
New  forms  arise,  and  different  views  engage, 
Superfluous  lags  the  veteran  on  the  stage, 
Till  pitying  Nature  signs  the  last  release, 
And  bids  afflicted  worth  retire  to  peace. 

But  few  there  are  whom   hours   like  these 

await, 

Who  set  unclouded  in  the  gulfs  of  Fate, 
From   Lydia's  monarch  should  the  search  de- 
By  Solon  caution'dto  regard  his  end,        [scend. 
In  life's  last  scene  what  prodigies  surprise, 
Fears  of  the  brave,  and  follies  of  the  wise  ! 
From  Marl  borough's  eyes  the  streams  of  dotage 

flow 
And  Swift  expires  a  driveller  and  a  show. 

*  The  teeming  mother,  anxious  for  her  race, 
Begs  for  each  birth  the  fortune  of  a  face  ; 
Yet  Vane    could    tell  what  ills   from  beauty 

spring ; 

And  Sedley  cursed  the  form  that  pleased  a  king. 
Ye  nymphs  of  rosy  lips  and  radiant  eyes, 
Whom  Pleasure  keeps  too  busy  to  be  wise  ; 
Whom  joys  with  soft  varieties  invite, 
By  day  the  frolic,  and  the  dance  by  night , 
Who  frown  with  vanity,  who  smile  with  art, 
And  ask  the  latent  fashion  of  the  heart ; 
What  care,  what  rules,  your  heedless  charms 
shall  save,  [slave  ? 

Each  nymph  your  rival,  and  each  youth  your 
Against  your  fame  with  fondness  hate  combines, 
The  rival  batters,  and  the  lover  mines. 
With  distant  voice  neglected  Virtue  calls, 
Less  heard  and   less,  the  faint  remonstrance 
falls ;  [reign, 

Tired  with  contempt,   she   quits   the  slippery 
And  Pride  and  Prudence  take  her  seat  in  vain. 
In  crowd  at  once,  where  none  the  pass  defend, 
The  harmless  freedom,  and  the  private  friend. 
The  guardians  yield,  by  force  superior  plied, 
To  Interest,  Prudence*;  and  to  Flattery,  Pride. 
Here  Beauty  falls  betray'd,  despised,  distress'd, 
And  hissing  Infamy  proclaims  the  rest 

t  Where  then  shall  Hope  and  Fear  their  ob- 
jects find  ? 

Must  dull  suspense  corrupt  the  stagnant  mind  ? 
Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  sedate, 
Roll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate  ? 
Must  no  dislike,  alarm,  no  wishes  rise, 
No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies  ? 
Inquirer,  cease  ;  petitions  yet  remain 
Which  Heaven  may  hear,  nor  deem  Religion 

vain. 

Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating  voice, 
But  leave   to   Heaven   the    measure   and   the 

choice. 

Safe  in  his  tower,  whose  eyes  discern  afar 
The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  prayer; 


*  Ver.  233—3-15. 


t  Ver.  &16— 365. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


551 


Implore  his  aid,  in  his  decisions  rest, 
Secure,  whate'er  he  gives,  he  gives  the  best 
Yet,  when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires, 
And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  aspires, 
Pour  forth  thy  fervours  for  a  healthful  mind, 
Obedient  passions  and  a  will  resign'd  ; 
For  love,  which  scarce  collective  man  can  fill ; 
For  patience,  sovereign  o'er  transmuted  ill ; 
For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happier  seat, 
Counts  death  kind  Nature's  signal  of  retreat 
These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of  Heaven  or- 
dain, [gain  ; 
These  goods  he  grants,  who  grants  the  power  to 
With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms  the  mind, 
And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 


PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN*    BY    MR.    GARRICK, 
AT   THE 

Opening  of  the  Theatre-Royal,  Drury-Lane,  1747- 

WHEN  Learning's  triumph  o'er  her  barharous 
foes  [rose ; 

First   rear'd   the  stage,    immortal   Shakspeare 
Each  change  of  many-colour'd  life  he  drew, 
Exhausted  worlds,  and  then  imagined  new  : 
Existence  saw  him  spurn  her  bounded  reign, 
And  panting  Time  toil'd  after  him  in  vain. 
His  powerful  strokes  presiding  Truth  impress'd, 
And  unresisted  Passion  storm'd  the  breast. 

Then  Jonson  came,  instructed  from  the  school, 
To  please  in  method,  and  invent  by  rule  ; 
jlis  studious  patience  and  laborious  art, 
By  regular  approach  assail'd  the  heart : 
Cold  approbation  gave  the  lingering  bays, 
For  those,  who  durst  not  censure,  scarce  could 

praise. 

A  mortal  born,  he  met  the  general  doom, 
But  left,  like  Egypt's  kings,  a  lasting  tomb. 
The   wits   of  Charles  found  easier  ways  to 
fame,  [flame, 

tfor  wish'd  for  Jonson's   art,  or  Shakspeare's 
Themselves  they  studied — as  they  felt  they  writ ; 
.ntrigue  was  plot,  obscenity  was  wit. 
Vice  always  found  a  sympathetic  friend  ; 
They  pleased  their  age,  and  did  not  aim  to  mend. 
Yet  "bards  like  these  aspired  to  lasting  praise, 
And  proudly  hoped  to  pimp  in  future  days. 
Their  cause  was  general,  their  supports  were 
strong,  [long  : 

Their  slaves  were  willing,'  and  their  reign  was 
Till  Shame  regain'd  the  post  that  Sense  betray'd, 
And  Virtue  call'd  Oblivion  to  her  aid. 
Then,  crush'd  by  rules,  and  weaken'd  as  re- 
fined, 

For  years  the  power  of  Tragedy  declined  ; 
From  bard  to  bard  the  frigid  caution  crept, 
Till  Declamation  roar'd,  while  Passion  slept ; 
Yet  still  did  Virtue  deign  the  stage  to  tread, 
Philosophy  remain'd  though  Nature  fled. 
But  forced,  at  length,  her  ancient  reign  to  quit, 
She  saw  great  Faustus  lay  the  ghost  of  Wit; 
Exulting  Folly  hail'd  the  joyful  day, 
And  Pantomine  and  Song  confirm'd  her  sway. 

But  who  the  coming  changes  can  presage, 
&.ml  mark  the  future  periods  of  the  Stage  ? 
Perhaps,  if  skill  could  distant  times  explore, 
New  Behns,  new  Durfeys,  yet  remain  in  store  ; 
Perhaps,  where  Lear  has   raved,  and  Hamlet 
On  flying  cars  new  sorcerers  may  ride :       [died, 


Perhaps    (for    who    can    guess    th'  effects  of 

chance?)  [dance. 

Here   Hunt    may   box,    or    Mahomet  *    may 

Hard  is  his  lot  that,  here  by  Fortune  placed, 
Must  watch  the  wild  vicissitudes  of  taste  ; 
With  every  meteor  of  caprice  must  play, 
And  chase  the  new-blown  bubbles  of  the  day. 
Ah  !  let  not  Censure  term  our  fate  our  choice, 
The  stage  but  echoes  back  the  public  voice  ; 
The  drama's  laws,  the  drama's  patrons  give, 
For  we  that  live  to  please,  must  please,  to  live. 

Then  prompt  no  more  the  follies  you  decry. 
A  s  tyrants  doom  their  tools  of  guilt  to  die ; 
Tis  yours,  this  night,  to  bid  the  reign  commence 
Df  rescued  Nature  and  reviving  Sense  ;    [Show, 
To  chase  the   charms  of  Sound,  the  pomp  or 
For  useful  Mirth,  and  salutary  Wo  ; 
Sid  scenic  Virtue  form  the  rising  age, 
And  Truth  diffuse  her  radiance  from  the  stage. 


PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN     BY    MR.    GARRICK,    APRIL    5,    1750. 

BEFORE   THE   MASO.UE    OF  COMCS, 
ACTED   AT  DRURY-LANE   THEATRE   FOR   THE  BENEFIT   OF 

MILTON'S  GRANDDAUGHTER. 

YE  patriot  crowds,  who  burn  for  England's 

fame,  [name, 

Ye  nymphs,  whose   bosoms  beat  at  Milton's 

Whose  generous  zeal,  unbought  by  flattering 

rhymes, 

Shames  the  mean  pensions  of  Augustan  times, 
Immortal  patrons  of  succeeding  days, 
Attend  this  prelude  of  perpetual  praise  ; 
Let  wit,  condemn'd  the  feeble  war  to  wage 
With  close  malevolence,  or  public  rage, 
Let  study,  worn  with  virtue's  fruitless  lore, 
Behold  this  theatre,  and  grieve  no  more. 
This  night,  distinguish'd  by  your  smile,  shall 
That  never  Briton  can  in  vain  excel  ;  [tell 

The  slighted  arts  futurity  shall  trust, 
And  rising  ages  hasten  to  be  just. 

At  length  our  mighty  bard's  victorious  lays 
Fill  the  loud  voice  of  universal  praise  ; 
And  baffled  spite,  with  hopeless  anguish  dumb, 
Yields  to  renown  the  centuries  to  come : 
With  ardent  haste  each  candidate  of  fame, 
Ambitious,  catches  at  his  towering  name  ; 
He  sees,  and  pitying  sees,  vain  wealth  bestow, 
Those  pageant  honours  which  he  scorn'd  below, 
While  crowds  aloft  the  laureat  bust  behold, 
Or  trace  his  form  on  circulating  gold, 
Unknown,  unheeded,  long  his  offspring  lay, 
And  want  hung  threatening  o'er  her  slow  decay, 
What  though  she  shine  with  no  Miltonian  fire, 
No  favouring  Muse  her  morning  dreams  inspire ; 
Yet  softer  claims  the  melting  heart  engage, 
Her  youth  laborious,  and  her  blameless  age  ; 
Hers  the  mild  merits  of  domestic  life, 
The  patient  sufferer,  and  the  faithful  wife. 
Thus  graced  with  humble  virtue's  native  charms, 
Her  grandsire  leaves  her  in  Britannia's  arms ; 
Secure  with  peace,  with  competence,  to  dwell, 
While  tutelary  nations  guard  her  ceD. 
Yours  is  the  charge,  ye  fair,  ye  wise,  ye  brave  ! 
'Tis  yours  to  crown  desert — beyond  the  grave. 


*  Hunt  a  famous  boxer  on  the  stage  ;  Mahomet  a  rope- 
dancer,  who  had  exhibited  at  Covent-Garden  Theatre  th« 
winter  before,  said  to  be  a  Turk. 


552 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


PROLOGUE 


TO    THE    COMEDY    OF 

THE  GOODNATURED  MAN,  1769. 

PREST  by  the  load  of  life,  the  weary  mind 
Surveys  the  general  toil  of  human  kind. 
With  cool  submission  joins  the  labouring  train, 
And  social  sorrow  loses  half  its  pain  : 
Our  anxious  bard  without  complaint  may  share 
This  bustling  season's  epidemic  care  ; 
Like  Caesar's  pilot  dignified  by  Fate, 
Tost  in  one  common  storm  with  all  the  great ; 
Distrest  alike  the  statesman  and  the  wit, 
_When  one  a  Borough  courts,  and  one  the  Pit. 
"The  busv  candidates  for  power  and  fame 
Have  hopes,  and  fears,  and   wishes,  just  the 

same ; 

Disabled  both  to  combat  or  to  fly. 
Must  hear  all  taunts,  and  hear  without  reply.. 
Uncheck'd  on  both  loud  rabbles  vent  their  rage, 
As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  a  cage. 
Th'  offended  burgess  hoards  his  angry  tale, 
For  that  blest  year  when  all  that  vote  may  rail ; 
Their  schemes  of  spite  the  poet's  foes  dismiss, 
Till   that   glad   night  when  all  that  hate  may 

hiss. 
"  This  day  the  powder'd  curls  and  golden 

coat,"  [vote." 

Says  swelling  Crispin,     "  begg'd  a  cobbler's 
"  This  night  our  wit,"  the  pert  apprentice  cries, 
"  Lies  at  my  feet ;  I  hiss  him,  and  he  dies." 
The  great,  'tis   true,  can   charm   the  electing 

tribe ; 

The  bard  may  supplicate,  but  cannot  bribe. 
Yet,  judged  by  those  whose  voices  ne'er  were 

sold, 

He  feels  no  want  of  ill-persuading  gold ; 
But,  confident  of  praise,  if  praise  be  due, 
Trusts  without  fear  to  merit  and  to  you. 

PROLOGUE 

TO    THE    COMEDY    OP 

A  WORD  TO  THE  WISE.* 
Spoken  by  Mr.  Hull. 

THIS  night  presents  a  play  which  public  rage, 
Or  right,  or  wrong,  once  hooted  from  the  stage.-] 
From  zeal  or  malice,  now  no  more  we  dread, 
For  English  vengeance  wars  not  with  the  dead. 
A  generous  foe  regards  with  pitying  eye 
The  man  whom  fate  has  laid  where  all  must  lie. 

To  wit  reviving  from  its  author's  dust, 
Be  kind,  ye  judges,  or  at  least  be  just, 
For  no  renew'd  hostilities  invade 
The  oblivious  grave's  inviolable  shade. 
Let  one  great  payment  every  claim  appease, 
And  him,  who  cannot  hurt,  allow  to  please ; 
To  please  by  scenes  unconscious  of  offence, 
By  harmless  merriment  or  useful  sense. 
Where  aught  of  bright,  or  fair,  the  piece  displays 
Approve  it  only — 't  is  too  late  to  praise. 
If  want  of  skill,  or  want  of  care  appear, 
Forbear  to  hiss — the  poet  cannot  hear. 
By  all,  like  him,  must  praise  and  blame  be  found 
At  best  a  fleeting  gleam,  or  empty  sound. 


Yet  then  shall  calm  reflection  bless  the  night, 
When  liberal  pity  dignify'd  delight; 
When  pleasure  fired  her  torch  at  Virtue's  flame, 
And  Mirth  was  Bounty  with  an  humbler  name. 


*  Performed  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  May  29,  1777 
(or  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Kelly,  widow  of  Hugh  Kelly,  Esq 
(the  author  of  the  play)  and  her  children. 

\  Uix?n  fhe  first  representation  of  this  play,  1770,  a  party 
tMuemMad  to  damn  it,  and  succeeded. 


SPRING. 

AN  ODE. 

STERN  Winter  now,  by  Spring  repress'd, 

Forbears  the  long-continued  strife : 
And  Nature  on  her  naked  breast, 

Delights  to  catch  the  gales  of  life. 
Now  o'er  the  rural  kingdom  roves 

Soft  pleasure  with  the  laughing  train, 
Love  warbles  in  the  vocal  groves, 

And  vegetation  plants  the  plain, 
Unhappy !  whom  to  beds  of  pain, 

Arthritic*  tyranny  consigns ; 
Whom  smiling  nature  courts  in  vain, 

Though  rapture  sings  and  beauty  shines. 
Yet  though  my  limbs  disease  invades, 

Her  wings  imagination  tries, 
And  bears  me  to  the  peaceful  shades, 

Where 's  humble  turrets  rise. 

Here  stop,  my  soul,  thy  rapid  flight, 

Nor  from  the  pleasing  groves  depart, 
Where  first  great  nature  charm'd  my  sight, 

Where  wisdom  first  inform'd  my  heart. 
Here  let  me  through  the  vales  pursue 

A  guide — a  father — and  a  friend, 
Once  more  great  Nature's  works  renew, 

Once  more  on  Wisdom's  voice  attend. 
From  false  caresses,  causeless  strife, 

Wild  hope,  vain  fear,  alike  removed  ; 
Here  let  me  learn  the  use  of  life, 

When  besf  enjoy'd — when  most  improved 
Teach  me,  thou  venerable  bower, 

Cool  meditation's  quiet  seat, 
The  generous  scorn  of  venal  power, 

The  silent  grandeur  of  retreat. 
When  pride  by  guilt  to  greatness  climbs, 

Or  raging  factions  rush  to  war, 
Here  let  me  learn  to  shun  the  crimes 

I  can't  prevent,  and  will  not  share. 
But  lest  I  fall  by  subtler  foes, 

Bright  Wisdom,  teach  me  Curio's  art, 
The  swelling  passions  to  compose, 

And  quell  the  rebels  of  the  heart. 


MIDSUMMER. 


O  PHOEBUS  !  down  the  western  sky, 

Far  hence  diffuse  thy  burning  ray, 
Thy  light  to  distant  worlds  supply, 

And  wake  them  to  the  cares  of  day. 
Come,  gentle  Eve,  the  friend  of  care, 

Come,  Cynthia,  lovely  queen  of  night! 
Refresh  me  with  a  cooling  air, 

And  cheer  me  with  a  lambent  light : 
Lay  me  where  o'er  the  verdant  ground 

Her  living  carpet  Nature  spreads : 
Where  the  green  bower,  with  roses  crown'd, 

In  showers  its  fragrant  foliage  sheds  , 
Improve  the  peaceful  hour  with  wine, 

Let  music  die  along  the  grove ; 
Around  the  bowl  let  myrtles  twine, 

And  every  strain  be  tuned  to  love. 
Come,  Stella,  queen  of  all  my  heart 


*  The  author  being  ill  of  the  gout 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Come,  born  to  fill  its  vast  desires! 
Thy  looks  perpetual  joys  impart, 

Thy  voice  perpetual  love  inspires. 
Whilst  all  my  wish  and  thine  complete, 

By  turns  we  languish  and  we  burn, 
Let  sighing  gales  our  sighs  repeat, 

Our  murmurs — murmuring  brooks  return. 
Let  me  when  nature  calls  to  rest, 

And  blushing  skies  the  morn  foretell, 
Sink  on  the  down  of  Stella's  breast, 

And  bid  the  waking  world  farewell. 


553 


AUTUMN. 

AN  ODE. 

ALAS  !  with  swift  and  silent  pace, 

Impatient  time  rolls  on  the  year; 
The  seasons  change,  and  nature's  face 

Now  sweetly  smiles,  now  frowns  severe.     • 
'T  was  Spring,  't  was  Summer,  all  was  gay, 

Now  Autumn  bends  a  cloudy  brow ; 
The  flowers  of  Spring  are  swept  away, 

And  Summer-fruits  desert  the  bough. 
The  verdant  leaves  that  play'd  on  high, 

And  wanton'd  on  the  western  breeze, 
Now  trod  in  dust  neglected  lie, 

As  Boreas  strips  the  bending  trees. 
The  fields  that  waved  with  golden  grain, 

As  russet  heaths,  are  wild  and  bare ; 
Not  moist  with  dew,  but  drench'd  with  rain, 

Nor  health  nor  pleasure,  wanders  there. 
No  more  while  through  the  midnight  shade, 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  orb  I  stray, 
Soft  pleasing  woes  my  heart  invade, 

As  Progne  pours  the  melting  lay. 
From  this  capricious  clime  she  soars, 

Oh!  would  some  god  but  wings  supply! 
To  where  each  morn  the  Spring  restores, 

Companion  of  her  flight  I'd  fly. 
Vain  wish !  me  fate  compels  to  bear 

The  downward  season's  iron  reign, 
Compels  to  breathe  polluted  air, 

And  shiver  on  a  blasted  plain. 
What  bliss  to  life  can  Autumn  yield, 

If  glooms,  and  showers,  and  storms  prevail, 
And  Ceres  flies  the  naked  field, 

And  flowers,  and  fruits,  and  Phoebus  fail? 
Oh  '  what  remains,  what  lingers  yet, 

To  cheer  me  in  the  darkening  hour ! 
The  grape  remains  !  the  friend  of  wit, 

In  love,  and  mirth,  of  mighty  power. 
Haste — press  the  clusters,  fill  the  bowl 

Apollo !  shoot  thy  parting  ray : 
This  gives  the  sunshine  of  the  soul, 

This  god  of  health,  and  verse,  and  day. 
Still — still  the  jocund  strain  shall  flow, 

The  pulse  with  vigorous  rapture  beat ; 
My  Stella  with  new  charms  shall  glow, 

And  every  bliss  in  wine  shall  meet. 


WINTER. 


No  more  the  morn,  with  tepid  rays, 

Unfolds  the  flower  of  various  hue; 
Noon  spreads  no  more  the  genial  blaze, 

Nor  gentle  eve  distils  the  dew. 
The  lingering  hours  prolong  the  night, 

Usurping  Darkness  shares  the  day  ; 
Her  mists  restrain  the  force  of  light, 

And  Phcebus  holds  a  doubtful  sway. 
3U 


By  gloomy  twilight  half  reveal'd, 

With  sighs  we  view  the  hoary  hill, 
The  leafless  wood,  the  naked  field, 

The  snow-topt  cot,  the  frozen  rill. 
No  music  warbles  through  the  grove, 

No  vivid  colours  paint  the  plain ; 
No  more  with  devious  steps  I  rove 

Through  verdant  paths,  now  sought  in  vain. 
Aloud  the  driving  tempest  roars, 

Congeal'd,  impetuous,  showers  descend ; 
Haste,  close  the  window,  bar  the  doors, 

Fate  leaves  me  Stella,  and  a  friend. 
In  nature's  aid,  let  art  supply 

With  light  and  heat  my  little  spnere; 
Rouse,  rouse  the  fire,  and  pile  it  high, 

Light  up  a  constellation  here. 
Let  music  sound  the  voice  of  joy, 

Or  mirth  repeat  the  jocund  tale  ; 
Let  Love  his  wanton  wiles  employ, 

And  o'er  the  season  wine  prevail. 
Yet  time  life's  dreary  winter  brings, 

When  Mirth's  gay  tale  shall  please  no  more ; 
Nor  music  charm — though  Stella  sings  ; 

Nor  love,  nor  wine,  the  Spring  restore. 
Catch,  then,  Oh !  catch  the  transient  hour, 

Improve  each  moment  as  it  flies  ; 
Life's  a  short  summer — man  a  flower : 

He  dies — alas !  how  soon  he  dies ! 


THE  WINTER'S  WALK. 

BEHOLD,  my  fair,  where'er  we  rove, 

What  dreary  prospects  round  us  rise  5 
The  naked  hill,  the  leafless  grove, 

The  hoary  ground,  the  frowning  skies ! 
Nor  only  through  the  wasted  plain, 

Stern  Winter !  is  thy  force  confess'd ; 
Still  wider  spreads  thy  horrid  reign, 

I  feel  thy  power  usurp  my  breast 
Enlivening  hope,  and  fond  desire, 

Resign  the  heart  to  spleen  and  care ; 
Scarce  frighted  Love  maintains  her  fire, 

And  rapture  saddens  to  despair, 
In  groundless  hope,  and  causeless  fear, 

Unhappy  man  !  behold  thy  doom  ; 
Still  changing  with  the  changeful  year, 

The  slave  of  sunshine  and  of  gloom. 
Tired  with  vain  joys  and  false  alarms, 

With  mental  and  corporeal  strife, 
Snatch  me,  my  Stella,  to  thy  arms, 

And  screen  me  from  the  ills  of  life.* 


TO  MISS  *****. 

On  her  giving  the  Author  a  gold  and  sUk  net-work 
Purse  of  her  men  weaving.^ 

THOUGH  gold  and  silk  their  charms  unite 
To  make  thy  curious  web  delight, 
In  vain  the  varied  work  would  shine, 
If  wrought  by  any  hand  but  thine  ; 
Thy  hand,  that  knows  the  subtler  art 
To  weave  those  nets  that  catch  the  heart. 

Spread  out  by  me,  the  roving  coin 
Thy  nets  may  catch,  but  not  confine  ; 
Nor  can  I  hope  thy  silken  chain 
The  glittering  vagrants  shall  restrain. 
Why,  Stella,  was  it  then  decreed 
The  heart  once  caught  should  ne'er  be  freed  ? 


*  And  hide  me  from  the  sight  oflife.     1st  edition, 
f  Printed  among  Mrs.  Williams's  Miscellanies. 


554 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TO  MISS  *****. 

On  her  playing  upon  the  Harpsichord  in  a  Roor, 
hung  with  Flower  Pieces  of  her  own  painting.* 

WHEN  Stella'  strikes  the  tuneful  string 
In  scenes  of  imitated  Spring, 
Where  Beauty  lavishes  her  powers 
On  heds  of  never-fading  flowers, 
And  pleasure  propagates  around 
Each  charm  of  modulated  sound  ; 
Ah !  think  not,  in  the  dangerous  hour, 
The  nymph  fictitious  as  the  flower ; 
But  shun,  rash  youth,  the  gay  alcove, 
Nor  tempt  the  snares  of  wily  love. 

When  charms  thus  press  on  every  sense, 
What  thought  of  flight,  or  of  defence  ? 
Deceitful  hope,  and  vain  desire, 
For  ever  flutter  o'er  her  lyre, 
Delighting  as  the  youth  draws  nigh, 
To  point  the  glances  of  her  eye, 
And  forming  with  unerring  art 
New  chains  to  hold  the  captive  heart. 

But  on  those  regions  of  delight 
Might  truth  intrude  with  daring  flight, 
Could  Stella,  sprightly,  fair,  and  young, 
One  moment  hear  the  moral  song, 
Instruction  with  her  flowers  might  spring, 
And  wisdom  warble  from  her  string. 

Mark,  when  from  thousand  mingled  dyes 
Thou  seest  one  pleasing  form  arise, 
How  active  light,  and  thoughtful  shade, 
In  greater  scenes  each  other  aid ; 
Mark,  when  the  different  notes  agree 
In  friendly  contrariety, 
How  passion's  well-accorded  strife 
Gives  all  the  harmony  of  life  ; 
Thy  pictures  shall  thy  conduct  frame, 
Consistent  still,  though  not  the  same ; 
Thy  music  teach  the  nobler  art, 
To  tune  the  regulated  heart. 


EVENING. 


TO  STELLA. 

EVENING  now  from  purple  wings 
Sheds  the  grateful  gift  she  brings ; 
Brilliant  drops  bedeck  the  mead, 
Cooling  breezes  shake  the  reed ; 
Shake  the  reed,  and  curl  the  stream, 
Silver'd  o'er  with  Cynthia's  beam: 
Near  the  chequer'd,  lonely  grove, 
Hears,  and  keeps  thy  secrets,  Love. 
Stella,  thither  let  us  stray, 
Lightly  o'er  the  dewy  way. 
Phoebus  drives  his  burning  car, 
Hence,  my  lovely  Stella,  far ; 
In  his  stead,  the  dueen  of  Night 
Round  us  pours  a  lambent  light ; 
Light  that  seems  but  just  to  show 
Breasts  that  beat,  and  cheeks  that  glow. 
Let  us  now,  in  whisper'd  joy, 
Evening's  silent  hours  employ, 
Silence  best,  and  conscious  shades, 
Please  the  hearts  that  love  invades, 
Other  pleasures  give  them  pain, 
Lovers  all  but  love  disdain. 


»  Printed  among  Mrs.  Williams's  Miscellanies. 


TO  THE  SAME. 
WHETHER  Stella's  eyes  are  fount! 
Fix'd  on  earth,  or  glancing  round 
If  her  face  with  pleasure  glow, 
If  she  sigh  at  others'  wo, 
If  her  easy  air  express 
Conscious  worth,  or  soft  distress, 
Stella's  eyes,  and  air  and  face, 
Charm'd  with  undiminish'd  grace. 

If  on  her  we  see  display'd 
Pendant  gems,  and  rich  brocade, 
If  her  chintz  with  less  expense 
Flows  in  easy  negligence  ; 
Still  she  lights  the  conscious  flame, 
Still  her  charms  appear  the  same  ; 
If  she  strikes  the  vocal  strings, 
If  she's  silent,  speaks,  or  sings, 
If  she  sit,  or  if  she  move, 
£till  we  love  and  still  approve. 

Vain  the  casual,  transient  glance, 
Which  alone  can  please  by  chance, 
Beauty,  which  depends  on  art, 
Changing  with  the  changing  heart, 
Which  demands  the  toilet's  aid, 
Pendant  gems  and  rich  brocade. 
I  those  charms  alone  can  prize 
Which  from  constant  nature  rise, 
Which  not  circumstance  nor  dress 
E'er  can  make,  or  more,  or  less. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

No  more  thus  brooding  o'er  yon  heap. 
With  Avarice  painful  vigils  keep ; 
Still  unenjoy'd  the  present  store, 
Still  endless  sighs  are  breath'd  for  more, 
Oh !  quit  the  shadow,  catch  the  prize, 
Which  not  all  India's  treasure  buys  ! 
To  purchase  Heaven  has  gold  the  power .- 
Can  gold  remove  the  mortal  hour  ? 
In  life  can  love  be  bought  with  gold  ? 
Are  friendship's  pleasures  to  be  sold? 
No — all  that's  worth  a  wish — a  thought, 
Fair  virtue  gives  unbribed,  unbought. 
Cease  then  on  trash  thy  hopes  to  bind, 
Let  nobler  views  engage  thy  mind. 

With  science  tread  the  wondrous  way, 
Or  learn  the  Muses'  moral  lay  ; 
In  social  hours  indulge  thy  soul, 
Where  mirth  and  temperance  mix  the  bowl 
To  virtuous  love  resign  thy  breast, 
And  be,  by  blessing  beauty — blest. 

Thus  taste  the  feast  by  nature  spread, 
Ere  youth  and  all  its  joys  are  fled  ; 
Come  taste  with  me  the  balm  of  life, 
Secure  from  pomp,  and  wealth,  and  strife 
I  boast  whate'er  for  man  was  meant, 
In  health,  and  Stella,  and  content ; 
And  scorn— oh  !  let  that  scorn  be  thine — 
Mere  things  of  clay  that  dig  the  mine. 


STELLA  IN  MOURNING. 

WHEN  lately  Stella's  form  display'd 

The  beauties  of  the  gay  brocade, 

The  nymphs,  who  found  their  power  decline, 

Proclaim'd  her  not  so  fair  as  fine. 

"  Fate !  snatch  away  the  bright  disguise, 

And  let  the  goddess  trust  her  eyes." 

Thus  blindly  pray'd  the  fretful  fair, 

And  Fate,  malicious,  heard  the  prayer ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


555 


But,  brighli*.,\\\  v     the  sable  dress, 
As  virtue  IKOJ  \\  distress, 
Since  Stella  r-vK)  t  itends  her  reign, 
Ah  !  how  shall  cuvy  soothe  her  pain  ? 

Th'  adoring  Youth  and  envious  Fair, 
Henceforth  shall  form  one  common  prayer; 
And  love  and  hate  alike  implore 
The  skies — "  That  Stella  mourn  no  more." 


TO  STELLA. 

NOT  the  soft  sighs  of  vernal  gales, 
The  fragrance  of  the  flowery  vales, 
The  murmurs  of  the  crystal  rill, 
The  vocal  grove,  the  verdant  hill ; 
Not  all  their  charms,  though  all  unite, 
Can  touch  my  bosom  with  delight 

Not  all  the  gems  on  India's  shore, 

Not  all  Peru's  unbounded  store, 

Not  all  the  power,  nor  all  the  fame, 

That  heroes,  kings,  or  poets,  claim  ; 

Nor  knowledge,  which  the  learn'd  approve  ; 

To  form  one  wish  my  soul  can  move. 

Yet  Nature's  charms  allure  my  eyes, 
And  knowledge,  wealth,  and  fame  I  prize ; 
Fame,  wealth,  and  knowledge  I  obtain, 
Nor  seek  I  Nature's  charms  in  vain  ; 
In  lovely  Stella  all  combine ; 
And,  lovely  Stella !  thou  art  mine. 


VERSES 

tf'ritten  at  the  request  of  a  Gentleman  to  whom  a 
Lady  had  given  a  Sprig  of  Myrtle.* 

WHAT  hopes,  what  terrors,  does  thy  gift  create; 
Ambiguous  emblem  of  uncertain  fate! 
The  myrtle  (ensign  of  supreme  command, 
Consign'd  by  Venus  to  Melissa's  hand) 
Not  less  capricious  than  a  reigning  fair, 
Oft  avours,  oft  rejects,  a  lover's  prayer, 
In  myrtle  shades  oft  sings  the  happy  swain, 
In  myrtle  shades  despairing  ghosts  complain. 
The  myrtle  crowns  the  happy  lovers'  heads, 
Th'  unhappy  lovers'  graves  the  myrtle  spreads. 
Oh !  then,  the  meaning  of  thy  gift  impart, 
And  ease  the  throbbings  of  an  anxious  heart. 
Soon  must  this  bough,  as  you  shall  fix  its  doom, 
Adorn  Philander"  s  head,  or  grace  his  tomb. 


LADY  FIREBRACE.1 

AT  BURY  ASSIZES. 

AT  length  must  Suffolk's  beauties  shine  in  vain, 
So  Ion**  renown'd  in  B n's  deathless  strain  ? 


*  These  verses  were  first  printed  in  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine  for  1768,  p.  439,  but  were  written  many  years 
earlier.  Elegant  as  they  are,  Dr.  Johnson  assurec 
me,  they  were  composed  in  the  short  space  of  five 
minutes.  N. 

t  Tliis  larly  was  Bridget,  third  daughter  of  Philip  Ba- 
con, Esq.  of  Ipswich,  and  relict  of  Philip  Evers,  Esq.  o 
that  town.  She  became  the  second  wife  of  Sir  Cordel! 
Firebrace,  the  last  Baronet  of  that  name  (to  whom  she 
brought  a  fortune  of  £25,000),  July  26,  1737.  Being 
a'ain  left  a  widow  in  1759,  she  was  a  third  time  married 
April  7,  1762,  to  William  Campbell,  Esq.  uncle  to  the 
present  Duke  of  Argjle,  and  died  July  3,  1782. 


Thy  charms  at  least,  fair  Firebrace,  might  in- 
spire 

Some  zealous  bard  to  wake  the  sleeping  lyre ; 

For  such  thy  beauteous  mind  and  lovely  face, 

Thou  seem'st  at  once,  bright  nymph,  a  Mute 
and  Grace. 

TO    L  Y  C  E, 

AN  ELDERLY  LADT. 

Ye  nymphs  whom  starry  rays  invest, 

By  flattering  poets  given, 
Who  shine,  by  lavish  lovers  drest, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  Heaven ; 

Engross  not  all  the  beams  on  high, 

Which  gilds  a  lover's  lays, 
But,  as  your  sister  of  the  sky 

Let  Lyce  share  the  praise. 

Her  silver  locks  display  the  moon, 

Her  brows  a  cloudy  show, 
Stripp'd  rainbows  round  her  eyes  are  seen, 

And  showers  from  either  flow. 

Her  teeth  the  night  with  darkness  dyes, 
She  's  starr'd  with  pimples  o'er ; 

Her  tongue  like  nimble  lightning  plies, 
And  can  with  thunder  roar. 

But  some  Zelinda,  while  I  sing, 

Denies  my  Lyce  shines ; 
And  all  the  pens  of  Cupid's  wing 

Attack  my  gentle  lines. 

Yet,  spite  of  fair  Zelinda's  eye, 

And  all  her  bards  express, 
My  Lyce  makes  as  good  a  sky, 

And  I  but  flatter  less. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 

MR.    ROBERT   LEVET, 

A  PRACTISER  IN  PHYSIC. 

CONDEMN'D  to  Hope's  delusive  mine, 
As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 

By  sudden  blasts,  or  slow  decline, 
Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 
See  Level  to  the  grave  descend, 

Officious,  innocent,  sincere, 

Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  affection's  eye, 
Obscurely  wise,  and  coarsely  kind ; 

Nor  letter'd  arrogance  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  nature  call'd  for  aid, 
And  hovering  death  prepared  the  blow, 

His  vigorous  remedy  display'd 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  misery's  darkest  cavern  known, 
His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh, 

Where  hopeless  anguish  pour'd  his  groan. 
And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mock'd  by  chill  delay, 
No  petty  gain  disdain'd  by  pride, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walk'd  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void  ; 

And  sure  th'  Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employ'd. 

The  busy  day — the  peaceful  night, 

Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by ; 
His  frame  was  firm— his  powers  were  bright, 

Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh. 

Then,  with  no  fiery  throbbing  pain, 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay, 
Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain, 

And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 


EPITAPH  ON  CLAUDE  PHILLIPS, 

AN  ITINERANT  MUSICIAN.* 

PHILLIPS!  whose  touch  harmonious  could  re- 
move 

The  pangs  of  guilty  power,  and  hapless  love, 
Rest  here,  distress'd  by  poverty  no  more, 
Find  here  that  calm  thou  gav'st  so  oft  before  ; 
Sleep  undisturb'd  within  this  peaceful  shrine, 
Till  angels  wake  thee  with  a  note  like  thine. 


EPITAPHIUMt 


THOMAM   HANMER,    BARONETTUM. 

HONORABILIS  admodum  Thomas  Hanmer, 

Baronettus, 
Wilhelmi  Hanmer  armigeri,  e  Peregrina  Hen- 

rici  North 

De  Mildenhall  in  Com.  Suffolciae  Baronetti  so- 
rore  et  haerede, 

Filius ; 
Johannis  Hanmer  de  Hanmer  Baronetti 

Haeres  patruelis 
A.ntiquo  gentis  SUEC  et  titulo  et  patrimonio  suc- 

cessit. 

Duas  uxores  sortitus  est ; 
Alteram  Isabellam,  honore  a  patre  derivato,  de 

Arlington  comitissam, 
Deind6  celsissimi  principis  ducis  de  Grafton  vi 

duam  dotariam : 

Alteram  Elizabetham  Thomae  Foulkes  de  Bar- 
ton in  Com.  Suffi  armigeri 

Filiam  et  haeredem. 

Inter  humanitates  studia  felicitSr  enutritus, 
Omnes   liberalium  artium  disciplinas  avide  ar 

ripuit, 
duas  morum  suavitate  haud  leviter  ornavit. 

Postquam  excessit  ex  ephebis, 

Continud  inter  populares  suos  fama  eminens, 

Et  comitatus  sui  legatus   ad  Parliamentum  mis 

sus, 

Ad  ardua  regni  negotia  per  annos  prope  triginta 
se  accinxit  : 


*  These  lines  are  among  Mrs.  Williams's  Miscella 
nies  :  they  are  nevertheless  recognised  as  Johnson's  i 
a  memorandum  of  his  hand-writing,  and  were  probabl. 
written  at  her  request.  Phillips  was  a  travelling  fiddle 
up  and  down  Wales,  and  was  greatly  celebrated  for  hi 
performance. 

|  At  Hanmer  church  in  Flintshire. 


iumque  apud  illos  amplissimorum  virorum  or- 

dines 

Solent  nihil  temere  effutire, 
Sed  probe  perpensa  diserte  expromere, 

Orator  gravis  et  pressus  ; 
fon  minus  integritatis  quam  eloquentiae  laude 

commendatus, 
Equd  omnium,  utcunque  inter  se  alioqui  dissi 

dentium, 

Aures  atque  animos  attraxit. 

Annoque  demum  M.DCC.XIII.  regnante  Annft. 

Felicissnnas  florentissimasque  memoriae  regina, 

Ad  Prolocutoris  cathedram 
Jommuni  Senatus  universi  voce  designatus  est: 

Gluod  munus, 
Cum  nullo  tempore  non  difficile, 

Turn  illo  certe,  negotiis 
Et  variis  et  lubricis  et  implicatis  difficillimum, 

Cum  dignitate  sustinuit. 
Honores  alios,  et  omnia  quoa  sibi  in  lucrum  ce- 

derent  munera, 

Sedulo  detrectavit, 

Ut  rei  totus  inserviret  publicae ; 

Justi  rectique  tenax, 
Et  fide  in  patriam  incorrupta  notus. 
LTbi  omnibus,  quae  virum  civemque  bonum  de- 
cent, officiis  satisfecisset, 
Paulatim  se  &  publicis  consiliis  in  otium  reci 

piens, 

Inter  literarum  amoenitates, 

[nter  ante-actas  vitae  haud  insuaves  recordationea. 

Inter  amicorum  convictus  et  amplectus, 

Honorifice  consenuit ; 
Et  bonis  omnibus,  quibus  charissimus  vixit, 

Desideratissimus  obiit. 
Hie,  juxta  cineres  avi,  suos  condi  voluit,  et  cu- 

ravit 
Gulielmus  Bunbury  Bttui-  nepos  et  haeres. 

PARAPHRASE    OF    THE    ABOVE   EPI- 
TAPH. 

BY  DR.  JOHNSON.* 

THOU  who  survcy'st  these  walls  with  curious 

eye, 

Pause  at  the  tomb  where  Hanmer's  ashes  lie  ' 
His  various  worth  through  varied  life  attend, 
And   learn   his  virtues  while  thou  mourn'st  his 
end. 

His  force  of  genius  burn'd  in  early  youth, 
With  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  with  love  of  truth , 
His  learning,  join'd  with  each  endearing  art, 
Charm'd  every  ear,  and  gain'd  on  every  heart. 

Thus  early  wise,  th'  endanger'd  realm  to  aid, 
His  country  call'd  him  from  the  studious  shade  ; 
In  life's  first  bloom  his  public  toils  began, 
At  once  commenced  the  Senator  and  man. 

In  business  dexterous,  weighty  in  debate, 
Thrice  ten  long  years  he  labour'd  for  the  State  >. 
In  every  speech  persuasive  wisdom  flow'd, 
In  every  act  refulgent  virtue  glow'd  : 
Suspended  faction  ceased  from  rage  and  strife, 
To  hear  his  eloquence,  and  praise  his  life. 

Resistless  merit  fix'd  the  Senate's  choice 
Who  hail'd  him  Speaker  with  united  voice. 
Illustrious  age  !  how  bright  thy  glories  shone, 
When  Hanmer  fill'd  the  chair — and  Anne  the 
throne ! 


*  This  Paraphrase  is  inserted  in  Mrs.  Williams's  Mis- 
cellanies. The  Latin  is  there  said  to  be  written  by  Dr 
Freind.  Of  the  person  whose  memory  it  celebrates,  a 
copious  account  may  be  seen  in  the  Appendix  to  ihe 
Supplement  to  the  Biographia  Britannica. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


557 


Then  when  dark  arts  obscured  each  fierce  de- 
bate, 

When  mutual  frauds  perplex'd  the  maze  of  state, 
The  moderator  firmly  mild  appear'd — 
Beheld  with  love — with  veneration  heard. 

This   task  perform'd — he  sought  no  gainful 

post, 

Nor  wish'd  to  slitter  at  his  country's  cost ; 
Strict  on  the  right  he  kept  his  steadfast  eye, 
With  temperate  zeal  and  wise  anxiety  ; 
Nor  e'er  from  Virtue's  paths  was  lured  aside, 
To  pluck  the  flowers  of  pleasure  or  of  pride. 
Her  gifts  despised,  Corruption  blush'd  and  fled, 
And  Fame  pursued  him  where  Conviction  led. 

Age  ca!!'d,  at  length,  his  active  mind  to  rest, 
With  honour  sated,  and  with  cares  opprest ; 
To  letter'd  ease  retired,  and  honest  mirth. 
To  rural  grandeur  and  domestic  worth : 
Delighted  still  to  please  mankind,  or  mend, 
The  patriot's  fire  yet  sparkled  in  the  friend. 

Calm  Conscience,  then,  his  former  life  sur- 
vey'd, 

And  recollected  toils  endear'd  the  shade, 
Till  Nature  call'd  him  to  the  general  doom, 
And  Virtue's  sorrow  dignified  his  tomb. 


TO    MISS    II  1C  K  M  A  N.* 

PLAYING  ON  THE  SPIXNET. 

BRIGHT  Stella,  form'd  for  universal  reign, 
Too  well  you  know  to  keep  the  slaves  you  gain  ; 
When  in  your  eyes  resistless  lightnings  play, 
Awed  into  love,  our  conquer'd  hearts  obey, 
And  yield  reluctant  to  despotic  sway : 
But  when  your  music  sooths  the  raging  pain, 
We  bid  propitious  Heaven  prolong  your  reign, 
We  bless  the  tyrant,  and  we  hug  the  chain. 

When  old  Timotheus  struck  the  vocal  string, 
Ambition's  fury  fired  the  Grecian  king  : 
Unbounded  projects  labouring  in  his  mind, 
He  pants  for  room,  in  one  poor  world  confined. 
Thus  waked  to  rage,  by  music's  dreadful  power, 
He  bids  the  sword  destroy,  the  flame  devour. 
Had  Stella's  gentle  touches  moved  the  lyre, 
Soon  had  the  monarch  felt  a  nobler  fire  ; 
No  more  delighted  with  destructive  war, 
Ambitious  only  now  to  please  the  fair  ; 
Resign'd  his  thirst  of  empire  to  her  charms, 
And  found  a  thousand  worlds  in  Stella's  arms. 


PARAPHRASE  OF  PROVERBS. 

CHAP.  VI.  Verses  6— 11. 
"  Go  to  the  *1nt,  thou  Sluggard."] 

TURK  on  the  prudent  ant  thy  heedful  eyes, 
Observe  her  labours,  sluggard,  and  be  wise  : 
No  stern  command,  no  monitory  voice, 
Prescribes  her  duties,  or  directs  her  choice  ; 
Yet,  timely  provident,  she  hastes  away, 
To  snatch  the  blessings  of  the  plenteous  day ; 
When  fruitful  summer  loads  the  teeming  plain, 
She  crops  the  harvest,  and  she  stores  the  grain 


*  These  lines,  which  have  been  communicated  by  Dr. 
Turton,  son  to  Mrs.  Turton,  the  lady  to  whom  they  are 
addressed  by  her  maiden  name  of  Hickman,  must  have 
been  written  at  least  as  early  as  the  year  17S4,  as  that 
was  the  year  of  her  marriase :  at  how  much  earlier  a 
period  of'Dr.  Johnson's  life  they  may  have  been  written, 
is  not  known. 

f  In  Mrs.  Williams's  Miscellanies,  but  now  printed 
from  the  original  in  Dr.  Johnson's  own  hand-writing. 


How  long  shall  Sloth  usurp  thy  useless  hours, 
Unnerve  thy  vigour,  and  enchain  thy  powers  : 
While  artful  shades  thy  downy  couch  enclose, 
And  soft  solicitation  courts  repose  ? 
Amidst  the  drowsy  charms  of  dull  delight, 
Year  chases  year  with  unremitted  flight, 
Till  Want,  now  following,  fraudulent  and  slow, 
Shall  spring  to  seize  thee  like  an  ambush'd  foe. 


HORACE,  LIB.  IV.  ODE  VII. 

TRANSLATED. 

THE  snow  dissolved,  no  more  is  seen, 
The  fields  and  woods,  behold !  are  green  ; 
The  changing  year  renews  the  plain, 
The  rivers  know  their  banks  again  ; 
The  sprightly  nymph  and  naked  grace  ; 
The  mazy  dance  together  trace  ; 
The  changing  year's  successive  plan, 
Proclaims  mortality  to  man  ; 
Rough  winter's  blasts  to  spring  give  way, 
Spring  yields  to  summer's  sovereign  ray  j 
Then  summer  sinks  in  autumn's  reign, 
And  winter  chills  the  world  again ; 
Her  losses  soon  the  moon  supplies, 
But  wretched  man,  when  once  he  lies 
Where  Priam  and  his  sons  are  laid, 
Is  nought  but  ashes  and  a  shade. 
Who  knows  if  Jove,  who  counts  our  score 
Will  toss  us  in  a  morning  more  ? 
What  with  your  friend  you  nobly  share, 
At  least  you  rescue  from  your  heir. 
Not  you,  Torquatus,  boast  of  Rome, 
When  Minos  once  has  fix'd  your  doom, 
Or  eloquence,  or  splendid  birth, 
Or  virtue,  shall  restore  to  earth. 
Hippolytus,  unjustly  slain, 
Diana  calls  to  life  in  vain  ; 
Nor  can  the  might  of  Theseus  rend 
The  chains  of  Hell  that  hold  his  friend. 
JVoc.  1784. 


he  following  TRANSLATIONS,  PARODIES, 
mid  BURLESQUE  VERSES,  most  of  them  extern* 
pore,  are  taken  from  ANECDOTES  of  Dr.  JOHN- 
SON, published  by  Mrs.  PIOZZI. 

ANACREON,  ODE  IX. 

Lovely  courier  of  the  sky, 
Whence  and  whither  dost  thou  fly? 
Scattering,  as  thy  pinions  play, 
Liquid  fragrance  all  the  way  : 
Is  it  business  ?  is  it  love  ? 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  gentle  dove. 

Soft  Anacreon's  vows  I  bear, 
Vows  to  Myrtale  the  fair ; 
Graced  with  all  that  charms  the  heart, 
Blushing  nature,  smiling  art. 
Venus,  courted  by  an  ode, 
On  the  bard  her  dove  bestow'd ; 
Vested  with  a  master's  right, 
Now  Anacreon  rules  my  flight ; 
His  the  letters  that  you  see, 
Weighty  charge  consign'd  to  me; 
Think  not  yet  my  service  hard, 
Joyless  task  without  reward  ; 
Smiling  at  my  master's  gates, 
Freedom  my  return  awaits  ; 
But  the  liberal  grant  in  vain 
Tempts  me  to  be  wild  again. 


558 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Can  a  prudent  dove  decline 
Blissful  bondage  such  as  mine  ? 
Over  hills  and  fields  to  roam, 
Fortune's  guest  without  a  home  ; 
Under  leaves  to  hide  one's  head, 
Slightly  shelter'd,  coarsely  fed  : 
Now  my  better  lot  bestows 
Sweet  repast,  and  soft  repose ; 
Now  the  generous  bowl  I  sip 
As  it  leaves  Anacreon's  lip  : 
Void  of  care,  and  free  from  dread, 
From  his  fingers  snatch  his  bread ; 
Then,  with  luscious  plenty  gay, 
Round  his  chamber  dance  and  play  ; 
Or  from  wine,  as  courage  springs, 
O'er  his  face  extend  my  wings  ; 
And  when  feast  and  frolic  tire, 
Drop  asleep  upon  his  lyre. 
This  is  all,  be  quick  and  go, 
More  than  all  thou  canst  not  know  ; 
Let  me  now  my  pinions  ply, 
I  have  chatter'd  like  a  pye. 


LINES 

Written  in  Ridicule  of  certain  Poems  published 
in  1777. 

WHERESOE'ER  I  turn  my  view, 
All  is  strange,  yet  nothing  new ; 
Endless  labour  all  along; 
Endless  labour  to  be  wrong  ; 
Phrase  that  time  hath  flung  away, 
Uncouth  words  in  disarray, 
Trick'd  in  antique  ruff  and  bonnet, 
Ode,  and  elegy,  and  sonnet. 


PARODY  OF  A  TRANSLATION 

From  the  Medea  of  Euripides. 
ERR  shall  they  not,  who  resolute  explore, 

Times  gloomy  backward  with  judicious  eyes ; 
And  scanning  right  the  practices  of  yore, 

Shall  deem  our  hoar  progenitors  unwise. 

They  to  the  dome  where  smoke,  with  curling 
play, 

Announced  the  dinner  to  the  regions  round, 
Summon'd  the  singer  blithe  and  harper  gay, 

And  aided  wine  with  dulcet-streaming  sound. 

The  better  use  of  notes,  or  sweet  or  shrill, 

By  quivering  string  or  modulated  wind  ; 
Trumpet  or  lyre — to  their  harsh  bosoms  chill 

Admission  ne'er  had  sought,  or  could  not  find. 
Oh !  send  them  to  the  sullen  mansions  dun, 

Her  baleful  eyes  where  Sorrow  rolls  around  ; 
Where  gloom-enamour'd  Mischief  loves  to  dwell, 

And  Murder,  all  blood-boltcr'd,  schemes  the 
wound. 

Then  cates  luxuriant  pile  the  spacious  dish, 
And  purple  nectar  glads  the  festive  hour  ; 

The  guest,  without  a  want,  without  a  wish, 
Can  yield  no  room  to  music's  soothing  power. 


TRANSLATION 

Of  the  two  first  Stanzas  of  the  Song  "  Rio  Verde, 

Rio  Verde,"  printed  in  Bishop  Percy's  Reliques 

of  Ancient  English  Poetry. 

AN  IMPROMPTU. 
GLASSY  water,  glassy  water, 

1  "own  whose  current,  clear  and  strong, 


Chiefs  confused  in  mutual  slaughter, 
Moor  and  Christian,  roll  along. 


IMITATION 

OF 
THE    STYLE    OF    ****. 

HERMIT  hoar,  in  solemn  cell 
Wearing  out  life's  evening  gray, 

Strike  thy  bosom,  sage,  and  tell, 
What  is  bliss,  and  which  the  way  ? 

Thus  I  spoke,  and  speaking  sigh'd, 
Scarce  repress'd  the  starting  tear, 

When  the  hoary  sage  reply'd, 

Come,  my  lad,  and  drink  some  beer ! 


BURLESdUE 

Of  the  follmcing  Lines  of  Lopez  de  Vega. 

AN    IMPROMPTU. 

Se  acquien  los  leones  vence 

Vence  una  muger  hermosa 
O  ei  de  flaco  averguence 

O  ella  di  ser  mais  furiosa. 

IF  the  man  who  turnips  cries, 
Cry  not  when  his  father  dies, 
'Tis  a  proof  that  he  had  rather 
Have  a  turnip  than  his  father. 


TRANSLATION 

Of  the  follmcing  Lines  at  the  end  of  Barettfs  Easy 
Phraseology. 

AN  IMPROMPTU. 

VivA  !  viva  la  padrona  ! 
Tutta  bella,  e  tutta  buona, 
La  padrona  e  un  angiolella 
Tutta  buona  e  tutta  bella ; 
Tutta  bella  e  tutta  buona ; 
Viva !  viva  la  padrona  ! 

LONG  may  live  my  lovely  Hetty ! 
Always  young,  and  always  pretty  I 
Always  pretty,  always  young 
Live,  my  lovely  Hetty,  long! 
Always  young,  and  always  pretty, 
Long  may  live  my  lovely  Hetty  I 


IMPROVISO  TRANSLATION 

Of  the  following  Distich  on  the  Duke  of  Modentfs 
running  away  from  the  Comet  in  1742  or  1743 

SE  al  venir  vostro  i  principi  se  n'  vanno 
Deli  venga  ogni  di durate  un  anno. 

IF  at  your  coming  princes  disappear, 

Comets  !    come    every  day and    stay  a 

year. 


IMPROVISO  TRANSLATION 
Of  the  following  Lines  ofM.  Benserade  a  son  Lit- 
THEATRE  des  ris,  et  des  pleurs, 
Lit !  ou  je  nais,  et  ou  je  meurs, 
Tu  nous  fais  voir  comment  voisins, 
Sont  nos  plaisirs,  et  nos  chagrins. 

In  bed  we  laugh,  in  bed  we  cry, 
And  born  in  bed,  in  bed  we  die  ; 
The  near  approach  a  bed  may  show 
Of  human  bliss  to  human  wo. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


559 


EPITAPH  FOR  MR.  HOGARTH. 
THE  hand  of  him  here  torpid  lies, 

That  drew  th'  essential  form  of  grace  ; 
Here  closed  in  death  th'  attentive  eyes, 

That  saw  the  manners  in  the  face. 


TRANSLATION 
Of  the  following  Lines  written  under  a  Print  re- 
presenting Persons  Skating. 

SUR  un  mince  crystal  1'hyver  conduit  leurs  pas, 
Le  precipice  est  sous  la  glace  : 
Telle  est  de  nos  plaisirs  la  leg  re  surface: 
Glissoz,  mortels ;  n'appuyez  pas. 

O'KR  ice  the  rapid  skater  flies, 

With  sport  above,  and  death  below ; 

Where  mischief  lurks  in  gay  disguise, 
'Thus  lightly  touch  and  quickly  go. 


IMPROMPTU  TRANSLATION 

Of  the  same. 

O'KR  crackling  ice,  o'er  gulfs  profound, 
With  nimble  glide  the  skaters  play  ; 
O'er  treacherous  Pleasure's  flowery  ground 
Thus  lightly  skim  and  haste  away. 


TO  MRS.  THRALE 
On  her  completing  her  thirty-fifth  year. 

AX  IMPROMPTU. 
OFT  in  danger,  yet  alive 
We  are  come  to  thirty-five  ; 
Long  may  better  years  arrive, 
Better  years  than  thirty-five  ! 
Could  philosophers  contrive 
Life  to  stop  at  thirty-five, 
Time  his  hours  should  never  drive 
O'er  the  bounds  of  thirty-five. 
High  to  soar,  and  deep  to  dive, 
Nature  gives  at  thirty-five. 
Ladies,  «tock  and  tend  your  hive, 
Trifle  not  at  thirty-five  ;" 
For,  howe'er  we  boast  and  strive, 
Life  declines  from  thirty-five. 
He  that  ever  hopes  to  thrive 
Must  begin  by  thirty-five ; 
And  all  who  wisely  wish  to  wive 
Must  look  on  Thrale  at  thirty-five. 


IMPROMPTU  TRANSLATION 
Of  an  air  in  the  Clemenza  de  Tito  of  Metastasio 

beginning  "  Deh  se  piacermi  viioi." 
WOULD  you  hope  to  gain  my  heart, 
Bid  your  teasing  doubts  depart; 
He,  who  blindly  trusts,  will  find 
Faith  from  every  generous  mind  ; 
He,  who  still  expects  deceit, 
Only  teaches  how  to  cheat. 


TRANSLATION 

Of  a  speech  of  Jlquileio  in  the  Mriano  of  Metasta- 
sio,  begining  "  Tu  che  in  corte  invechiasti." 

GROWN  old  in  courts,  thou  surely  art  not  one 
Who  keeps  the  riijid  rules  of  ancient  honour  ; 
Who  skill'd  to  sooth  a  foe  with  looks  of  kind- 
To  sink  the  fatal  precipice  before  him,         [ness, 
And  then  lament  his  fall  by  seeming  friendship  ; 
Open  to  all,  true  onlv  to  thyself, 


Thou  know'st  those  arts  which  blast  with  envious 

praise, 

Which  aggravate  a  fault  with  feign'd  excuses, 
And   drive    discountenanced    virtue   from   the 

throne ; 

That  leave  the  blame  of  rigour  to  the  prince, 
And  of  his  every  gift  usurp  the  merit ; 
That  hide  in  seeming  zeal  a  wicked  purpose, 
And  only  build  upon  another's  ruin. 


FRIENDSHIP, 


[This  originally  appeared  in  the  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine, for  the  year  1743.  See  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson 
under  that  year.  It  was  afterwards  printed  in  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams's  Miscellanies,  in  1766,  with  several  variations, 
which  are  pointed  out  below.  J.  B.] 

FRIENDSHIP  !  peculiar  boon  of  heaven, 
The  noble  mind's  delight  and  pride, 

To  men  and  angels  only  given, 
To  all  the  lower  world  denied. 

While  love,  unknown  among  the  blest, 
Parent  of  thousand  wild  desires, 

The  savage  and  the  human  breast 
Torments  alike  with  raging  fires  ; 

With  bright,  but  oft  destructive,  gleam, 
Alike,  o'er  all  his  lightnings  fly ; 

Thy  lambent  glories  only  beam 
Around  the  favourites  of  the  sky. 

Thy  gentle  flows  of  guiltless  joys 
On  fools  and  villains  ne'er  descend  . 

In  vain  for  thee  the  tyrant  sighs, 
And  hugs  a  flatterer  for  a  friend. 

Directress  of  the  brave  and  just, 

O  guide  us  through  life's  darksome  way ' 

And  let  the  tortures  of  mistrust 
On  selfish  bosoms  only  prey. 

Nor  shall  thine  ardours  cease  to  glow, 
When  souls  to  blissful  climes  remove  •. 

What  raised  our  virtue  here  below, 
Shall  aid  our  happiness  above. 

Stanza  1.  This  stanza  is  omitted  in  Mrs.  Williams'g 
Miscellanies,  and  instead  of  it  we  have  the  following, 
which  may  be  suspected  from  internal  evidence  not  to 
have  been  Johnson's. 

When  virtues  kindred  virtues  meet, 

And  sister  souls  together  join, 
Thy  pleasures,  permanent  as  great, 

Are  all  transporting,  all  divine. 

Stanza  2,  line  2d.    Parent  of  rage  and  hot  desires 

Mrs.  W. 

line  4th.    Inflames  alike  with  equal  fires. 
Stanza  4,  line  3d.     In  vain  for  thee  the  monarch  sighs, 

Stanza  6,  line  1st.    O  !  shall  thy  flames  then  cease  to 
glow. 


TRANSLATION 

FROM    THE    MEDEA    OF    EURIPIDES,    V.  190. 

[This  was  written  by  Johnson  for  his  friend,  Dr.  Bur. 
ney,  and  was  inserted  as  the  work  of  "A  learned  friend," 
in  that  gentleman's  History  of  Music,  Vol.  II.  p.  340.  It 
haa  always  been  ascribed  to  Johnson  ;  but  Jo  put  the  mat- 
ter beyond  a  doubt,  Mr.  Malone  ascertained  the  fact  by 
applying  to  Dr.  Burney  himself.  J.  B.J 

THE  rites  derived  from  ancient  days 
With  thoughtless  reverence  we  praise, 
The  rites  that  taught  us  to  combine 
The  joys  of  music  and  of  wine, 


560 


POEMATA. 


And  bid  the  feast,  and  song,  and  bowl, 

O'erfill  the  saturated  soul : 

But  ne'er  the  flute  or  lyre  applied 

To  cheer  despair  and  soften  pride  , 

Nor  call  them  to  the  gloomy  cells, 

Where  Want  repines  and  Vengeance  swells  : 

Where  Hate  sits  musing  to  betray, 

And  Murder  meditates  his  prey, 


To  dens  of  guilt  and  shades  of  care, 

Ye  sons  of  melody  repair  ; 

Nor  deign  the  festive  dome  to  cloy, 

With  superfluities  of  joy. 

Ah !  little  needs  the  minstrel's  power, 

To  speed  the  light  convivial  hour. 

The  board  with  varied  plenty  crown'd, 

May  spare  the  luxuries  of  sound. 


POEMATA. 


MESSIA.* 

Ex  alieno  ingenio  poeta,  ex  suo  tantum  versificator. 
SCALIO.  Poet. 

TOLLITE  concentum,  Solymsese  tollite  nymphae, 
Nil  mortale  loquor;  coelummihi  carminis  alta 
Materies  ;  poscunt  gravius  ccelestia  plectrum. 
Muscosi  fontes,  sylvestria  tecta  valete, 
Aonidesque  Deae,  et  mendacis  somnia  Pindi : 
Tu,  mihi  qui  flamma  movisti  pectora  sancti 
Siderea  Isaiae,  dignos  accende  furores ! 

Immatura  calens  rapitur  per  secula  vatea 
Sic  orsus — Glualis  rerum  mihi  nascitur  ordo  ! 
Virgo  !  virgo  parit !  felix  radicibus  arbor 
Jessaeis  surgit,  mulcentesque  aethera  flores 
Ccelestes  lambunt  animoe,  ramisque  columba, 
Nuncia  sacra  Dei,  plaudentibus  insidet  alia. 
Nectareos  rores,  alimentaque  mitia  ccelum 
Praebeat,  et  tacite  fcecundos  irriget  imbres. 
Hue,  foedat  quos  lepra,  urit  quos  febris,  adeste, 
Dia  salutares  spirant  medicamina  rami ; 
Hie  requies  fessis  :   non  sacra  sasvit  in  umbra 
Vis  Boreoa  gelida,  aut  rapidi  violentia  solis. 
Irrita  vanescent  prisca  vestigia  fraud  is, 
Justitiaeque  manus  pretio  intemerata  bilancem 
Attollet  reducis  ;  bellis  praetendet  olivas 
Compositis  pax  alma  suas,  terrasque  revisens 
Sedatas  niveo  virtus  lucebit  amictu  : 
Volvantur  celeres  anni !   lux  purpuret  ortum 
Expectata  diu  !   naturae  claustra  refringens, 
Nascere,  magna  puer !  tibi  primas,  ecce,  corollas 
Deproperat  tellus,  fundit  tibi  munera  quicquid 
Carpit  Arabs,  hortis  quicquid  frondescit  Eois. 
Alf.ius,  en  !  Lebanon  gaudentia  culmina  tollit. 
En  !    summo  exultant  nutantes  vertice  sylvas. 
Mittit  aromaticas  vallis  Saronica  nubes, 
Et  juga  Carmeli  recreant  fragrantia  ccelum. 
Deserti  laeta  rnollescunt  aspera  voce, 
Auditur  Deus  !  ecce  Deus  !  reboantia  circum, 
Saxa  sonant,  Deus !     ecce    Deus !     deflectitur 

ffither, 

Demissumque  Deum  tellus  capit ;  ardua  cedrus, 
Gloria  sylvarum,  dominum  inclinata  salutet. 
Surgite  convalles,  tumidi  subsidite  montes  ! 
Sternite  saxa  viam,  rapidi  discedite  fluctus  ; 
En  !  quern  turba  diu  cecinerunt  enthea,  vates, 
En!  salvator  adest;  vultus  agnoscite  cosci 


*  This  translation  has  been  severely  criticised  by  Dr- 
Warton,  in  his  edition  of  Pope,  vol.  i.  p.  105,  9vo.  1797. 
It  cei  t  liiily  contains  some  expressions  that  are  not  classi- 
cal. Let  it  be  remembered,  however,  that  n  was  a  college 
exercise,  performed  with  great  rapidity,  and  was  at  first 
Dtaised  beyond  all  suspicion  of  defect. — C. 


Divinos,  aurdos  sacra  vox  permulceat  aures. 
Ille  cutim  spissam  visus  hebetare  vetabit, 
Reclusisque  oculis  infundet  amabile  lumen  ; 
Obstrictasque  diu  linguas  in  carmina  solvet. 
Ille  vias  vocis  pandet,  flexusque  liquentis 
Harmonise  purgata  novos  mirabitur  auris. 
Accrescunt  teneris  tactu  nova  robora  nervis . 
Consuetus  fulcro  innixus  reptare  bacilli 
Nunc  saltu  capreas  ;   nunc  cursu  provocat  euros. 
Non    planctus,    non    moesta    sonant    suspiria  j 

pectus 

Singultans  mulcet,  lachrymantes  tergit  ocellos. 
Vinclacoercebuntluctantem  adamantina  mortem 
vEternoque  Orel  dominator  vulnere  languens 
Invalidi  raptos  sceptri  plorabit  honores. 
Ut  qua  dulce  strepent  scatebraa,  qua  lata  virescunt 
Pascua,  qua  blandum  spirat  purissimus  aer. 
Pastor  agit  pecudes-,  teneros  modo  suscipil  agnos 
Et  gremio  fotis  selectas  porrigit  herbas, 
Amissas  modo  quasrit  oves,  revocatque  vagantes ; 
Fidus  adest  custos,  seu  npx  furat  horrida  nimbis, 
Sive  dies  medius  morientia  torreat  arva. 
Postera  sic  pastor  divinus  secla  beabit, 
Et  curas  felix  patrias  testabitur  orbis. 
Non  ultra  infestis  concurrent  agmina  signis, 
Hostiles  oculis  fiammas  jaculantia  Jorvis  ; 
Non  litui  accendent  bellum,  non  campus  ahenis 
Triste  coruscabit  radiis  ;  dabit  hasta  recusa 
Vomerem,  et  in  falcem  rigidus  curvabitur  ensis. 
Atria,  pacis  opus,  surgent,  finemque  caduci 
Natus  ad  optatum  perducet  co3pta  parentis. 
dui  duxit  sulcos,  illi  teret  area  messem, 
Et  seras  texent  vites  umbracula  proli. 
Attoniti  dumeta  vident  inculto  coloni 
Suave  rubere  rosis,  sitientesque  inter  arenas 
Garrula  mirantur  salientis  murmura  rivi. 
Per  saxa,  ignivomi  nuper  spelaea  draconis. 
Canna  viret,  juncique  tremit  variabilis  umbra. 
Horruit  implexo  qua  vallis  sente,  figurae 
Surgit  amans  abies  teretia,  buxique  sequaces 
Artificis  frondent  dextrae  ;  palmisque  rubeta 
Aspera,  odoratae  cedunt  mala  gramina  myrto 
Per  valles  sociata  lupo  lasciviet  agna, 
Cumque  leone  petet  tutus  pracsepe  juvencus. 
Florea  mansuetae  petulantes  vincula  tigri 
Per  ludum  pueri  injicient,  et  fessa  colubri 
Membra  viatoris  recreabunt  frigore  linguae. 
Serpentes  teneris  nil  jam  lethale  micantes 
Tractabit  palmis  infans,motusque  trisulcas 
Ridebit  linguae  innocuos,  squamasque  virentea 
Aureaque  admiraris  rutilantis  fulgura  cristae. 
Indue  reginam,  turritae  frontis  honores 
Tolle  Salema  sacros,  quam  circum  gloria  penn&n 
Explicat,  incinctam  radiatae  luce  tiarae  ' 


POEMATA. 


561 


En !  formosa  tibi  spatiosa  per  atria,  proles 
Orclinibus  surgit  densis,  vitamque  rcquirit 
Impatiens,  lenteque  fluentcs  increpat  annos. 
Eece  peregrinis  fervent  tua  limina  turbis  ; 
Barbarus  en  !  clarum  divino  lumine  templum 
Ingreditur,  cultuque  tuo  mansuescerc  gaudet 
Cinnameos  cumulos,  Nabathaei  munera  veris, 
Ecce  cremant  genibus  trite  regalibus  arac  ! 
Solis  Ophyraeis  crudum  tibimontibus  aurum 
Maturaiit  radii ;   tibi  balsama  sudat  Idume. 
jEtheris  ea  portas  sacrofulgore  micantcs 
Crelicolas  pandunt,  torrentis  aurea  lucis 
Flumina  prorumpunt ;  non  posthac  sole  rubescet 
India  nascent!,  placidaeve  argentea  noctis 
Luna  vices  revehet ;  radios  pater  ipse  diei 
Proferet  archetypes  ;  ccelestis  gaudia  lucis 
Ipso  fonte  bibes,  quae  circumfusa  beatam 
Regiam  inundabit,  nullis  cessura  tenebris. 
Littora  deficiens  arentia  deseret  sequor  ; 
Sidera  fumabunt,  diro  labefacta  tremore 
Saxa  cadent,  solidique  liquescent  robora  mentis : 
Tu  secura  tamen  confusa  elementa  videbis, 
Laetaque  Messia  semper  dominabere  rege, 
Pollicitis  firmata  Dei,  stabilita  minis. 


[Jan.  20,  21,  1773.] 

VIT.JE  qui  varias  vices 
Rerum  perpetuus  temperat  Arbiter, 

Lasto  cedere  lumini 
Noctis  tristitiam  qui  gelidae  jubet, 

Acri  sanguine  turgidos, 
Obductosque  oculos  nubibus  humidis 

Sanari  voluit  meos ; 
Et  me,  cuncta  beans  cui  nocuit  dies, 

Luci  reddidit  et  mihi. 
dua  te  laude,  Deus,  qua  prece  prosequar? 

Sacri  discipulis  libn 
Te  semper  studiis  utilibus  colam  : 

Grates,  summe  Pater,  tuis 
Recte  qui  fruitur  muneribus,  dedit. 


[Dec.  25,  1779.] 

NUNC  dies  Christo  memoranda  nato 
Fulsit,  in  pectus  mihi  fonte  purum 
Gaudium  sacro  fluat,  et  benigni 

Gratia  Cceli ! 

Christe,  da  tutam  trepido  quietem, 
Christe,  spem  praesta  stabilem  timenti ; 
Da  fidem  certam,  precibusque  fidis 

Annue,  Christe. 


[In  Lecto,  die  Passionis,  Apr.  13,  1781.] 

SUMME    Deus,  qui  semper  amas  quodcunque 
creasti ; 

Judice  quo,  scelerum  est  poenituisse  salus  : 
Da  veteres  noxas  animo  sic  flere  novato, 

Per  Christum  ut  veniam  sit  repenre  mihi. 


[In  Lecto,  Dec.  25,  1782.] 

SPE  non  inani  confugis, 
Peccator,  ad  latus  meum ; 
duod  poscis,  haud  iqiquam  tibi 
Negabitur  solatium. 
3V 


[Nocti,  inter  16  et  17  Junii,  1783.*] 


SUMME  Pater,  quodcunque  tuumf  de  corpore 
Numenf  [velit: 

Hoc  statuat,  |j  precibus  §  Christus  adesse 
In^enio  parcas,  nee  sit  mihi  culpa  rogasse,H 

Clua  solum  potero  parte,  placere**~tibi. 


[Cal.  Jan.  in  lecto,  ante  lucem.  1784.] 

SUMME  dator  vitae,  naturae  aeterne  magister, 
Causarum  series  quo  moderante  fluit, 

Respice  quern  subijet  senium,  morbique  senilea. 
duem  terret  vitae  meta  propinqua  sues. 

Respice  inutiliter  lapsi  quern  poenitet  aavi ; 
Recte  ut  pceniteat,  respice,  magne  parena      , 


PATER  benigne,  summa  semper  lenitas, 
Crimine  gravatam  plurimo  mentem  leva: 
Concede  veram  pcenitentiam,  precor, 
Concede  agendam  legibus  vitam  tuis. 
Sacri  vagantes  lumims  gressus  face 
Rege  et  tuere,  quae  nocent  pellens  procul ; 
Veniam  petenti,  summe  da  veniam,  pater ; 
Veniaeque  sancta  pacis  adde  gaudia : 
Sceleris  ut  expers,  omni  et  vacuus  metu, 
Te,  mente  pura,  mente  tranquilla  colam  : 
Mini  dona  morte  hsec  impetret  Christus  su6 


[Jan.  18,  1784.] 
SUMME  Pater,  puro  collustra  lumine  pectus, 

Anxietas  noceat  ne  tenebrosa  mihi. 
In  me  sparsa  manu  virtutum  semina  larga 

Sic  ale,  pro  venial  messis  ut  ampla  bom. 
Noctes  atque  dies  animo  spes  laeta  recurset, 

Certa  mihi  sancto  flagret  amore  fides. 
Certa  vetat  dubitare  fides,  spes  laeta  timere. 

Velle  vetet  cuiquam  non  bene  sanctus  amor. 
Da,  ne  sint  permissa,  Pater,  mihi  praemia  frus- 

Et  colere,  et  leges  semper  amare  tuas.       [tra, 
Haec  mihi,  quo  gentes,  quo  secula,  Christe,  piasti. 

Sanguine,  precanti  promereare  tuo ! 


[Feb.  27,  1784.] 
MEKS  mea,  quid  quereris?  veniet  tibi  mollior 

bora, 

In  summo  ut  videas  numine  laeta  patrem, 
Divinam  insontes  iram  placavit  lesus  ; 
Nunc  est  pro  pcena  pcenituisse  reis. 


CHRISTIANUS  PERFECTUS. 

dui  cupit  in  sanctos  Christo  cogente  referri, 
Abstergat  mundi  labem,  nee  gaudia  carnis 
Captans,  nee  fastu  tumidus,  semperque  future 
Instet,  et  evellens  terroris  spicula  corde, 
Suspiciat  tandem  clementem  in  numine  patrern. 
Huic  quoque,  nee  genti  nee  sectte  noxius  ulli, 

*  The  night  above  referred  to  by  Dr.  Johnson,  was  that 
in  which  a  paralytic  stroke  had  deprived  him  of  his  v  ice  . 
and,  in  the  anxiety  he  felt  lest  it  should  likewise  have  im- 
paired  his  understanding,  he  composed  the  above  lines, 
and  said,  concerning  them,  that  he  knew  at  the  lime  that 
they  were  not  good,  but  then  that  he  deemed  his  discern- 
in"  this  to  be  sufficient  for  the  quieting  the  anxiety  before 
mentioned,  as  it  showed  him  that  his  power  of  judging 


was  not  diminished. 
t  Al.  tuae.    i  Al.  leges. 
4  Al.  votis.  1T  Al.  pr*ca 


I!  Al.  statuant 
**  A1-  lltare> 


562 


POEMATA. 


Sit  sacer  orbis  amor,  miseris  qui  semper  adesse 
Gestiat,  et,  nullo  pietatis  limite  clausus, 
Ounctorum  ignoscat  vitiis,  pietate  fruatur. 
Ardeat  huic  toto  sacer  ignis  pectore,  possit 
Ut  vitam,  poscat  si  res,  impendere  vero. 

Cura  placere  Deo  sit  prinia  sit  ultima,  sanctae 
Irruptum  vita?  cupiat  servare  tenorem  ; 
Et  sibi,  delirans  quanquam  et  peccator  in  horas 
Displiceat,  servet  tutum  sub  pectore  rectum: 
Nee  natet,  et  nunc  has  partes,  nunc  eligat  illas, 
Nee  dubitet  quern  dicat  hcrum,  sed,  totus  in  uno, 
Se  fidum  addicat  Christo,  mortalia  temnens. 

Sed  timcat  semper,  caveatque  ante  omnia, 

turbae 

Ne  stolidae  similis,  leges  sibi  segreget  audax 
duas  servare  velit,  leges  quas  lentus  omittat, 
Plenum  opus  effugiens,  aptans  juga  mollia  collo, 
Sponte  sua  demens  ;  nihilum  decedere  summoe 
Vult  Deus,  at  qui  cuncta  dedit  tibi,  cuncta  re- 

poscit. 

Denique  perpetuo  contendit  in  ardua  nisu, 
Auxilioque  Dei  fretus,  jam  mente  serena 
Pergit,  et  imperiis  sentit  se  dulcibus  actum. 
Paulatim  mores,  animum,  vitamque  refingit 
Effigiemque  Dei,  quantum  servare  licebit, 
Induit,  et,  terris  major,  ccelestia  spirat. 


./ETERNK  rerum  conditor, 
Salutis  aeternae  dator ; 
Felicitatis  sedibus 
dui  nee  scelestos  exigis, 
duoscumque  scelerum  poenitet; 
Da,  Christe,  pcenitentiam, 
Veniamque,  Christe,  da  mihi ; 
JEgrum  trahenti  spiritum 
Succurre  praesens  corpori, 
Multo  gravatam  crimine 
Mentem  benignus  alleva. 


LUCE  collustret  mihi  pectus  alma, 
Pellat  et  tristes  animi  tenebras, 
Nee  sinat  semper  tremere  ac  dolere, 
Gratia  Christi: 

Me  Pater  tandem  reducem  benigno 
Summus  amplexu  foveat,  beato 
Me  gregi  Sanctus  socium  beatum 
Spiritus  addat. 


JEJUNIUM  ET  CIBUS. 

SERVIAT  ut  menti  corpus  jejunia  serva, 
Ut  mens  utatur  corpore,  sume  cibos. 


AD  URBANUM.*     1738. 

URBANE,  nullis  fesse  laboribus, 
Urbane,  nullis  victe  calumniis, 
Cui  fronte  sertum  in  erudita 
_  Perpetuo  viret,  et  virebit ; 
duid  moliatur  gens  imitantium, 
duid  et  minetur,  sollicitus  parum, 
Vacare  solis  perge  Musis, 

Juxta  animo  studiisque  felix. 
Linguae  procacis  plumbea  spicula, 
Fidens,  superbo  frange  silentio; 
Victrix  per  obstantes  catervas 
Scdulitas  animosa  tendet. 


*  See  Gent.  Mag.  Vol.  VIII.  p.  155;  and  see  also  the 
Introduction  to  Vol.  LIV. 


Intende  nervos  fortis,  inanibut) 
Risurus  olim  nisibus  femuli ; 
Intende  jam  nervos,  habebis 
Participes  opera  Camffinas. 
Non  ulla  Musis  pagina  gratior, 
duam  quae  sevens  ludicra  jungerf 
Novit,  fatigatamque  nugis 

Utilibus  recreare  mentem. 
Texente  nymphis  serta  Lycoride, 
Rosas  ruborem  sic  viola  adjuvat 
Immista,  sic  Iris  refulget 
^Ethereis  variata  fucis. 


IN  RIVUM  A  MOLA  STOANA  LITCH 
FELDIJE  DIFFLUENTEM. 

ERRAT  adhuc  vitreus  per  prata  virentia  rivus, 

duo  toties  lavi  membra  tenella  puer; 
Hie  delusa  rudi  frustrabar  brachia  motu, 

Dutn  docuit  blanda  voce  natare  pater. 
Fecerunt  rami  latebras,  tenebrisque  dinrnis 

Pendula  secretas  abdidit  arbor  aquas. 
Nunc  veteres  duris  perifire  securibus  umbrae, 

Longinquisque  oculis  nuda  lavacra  patent. 
Lympha  tamen  cursus  agit  indefessa  pcrennis, 

Tectaque  qua  fluxit,  nunc  et  aperta  fluit. 
duid  ferat  externi  velox,  quid  deterat  aetas, 

Tu  quoque  securus  res  age,  Nise,  tuas. 


raaei  ZTEATON.* 

[Post  Lexicon  Jlnglicanum  auctum  et  emendatum.^ 

LEXICON  ad  finem  longo  luctamine  tandem 
Scaliger  ut  duxit,  tenuis  pertsesus  opellse, 
Vile  indignatus  studium,  nugasque  molestas 
Ingemit  exosus,  scribendaque  lexica  mandat 
Damnatis,  poenam  pro  pcenis  omnibus  unam. 
Ille  quidem  recte,  sublimis,  doctus  et  acer, 
duem  decuit  majora  sequi,  majoribus  aptum, 
dui  veterum  modo  facta  ducum,  modo  carmine 

vatum, 

Gesserat  et  quicquid  virtus,  sapientia  quicquid 
Dixerat,  imperiique  vices,  ccelique  meatus, 
Ingentemque  animo  seclorum  volveret  orbem. 
Fallimur  exemplis ;  temere  sibi  turba  scho 

larum 

Ima  tuas  credit  permitti  Scaliger  iras. 
duisque  suum  n6rit  modulum ;  tibi,  prime  vi 

rorum, 

Ut  studiis  sperem,  aut  ausim  par  esse  querelis, 
Non  mihi  sorte  datum ;  lenti  seu  sanguinis  obsint 
Frigora,  seu  nimium  longa  jacuisse  veterno, 
Sive  mihi  mentem  dederit  natura  minorem. 

Te  sterili  functum  cura,  vocumque  salebris* 
Tuto  eluctatum  spatiis  sapientia  dia 
Excipit  aethereis,  ars  omnis  plaudit  amico, 
Linguarumque  omni  terra  discordia  concors 
Multiplici  reducem  circumsonat  ore  magistrum. 
Me,  pensi  immunis  cum  jam  mihi  reddor  in- 

ertis 

Desidiae  sors  dura  manet,  graviorque  labore 
Tristis  et  atra  quies,  et  tardas  tsedia  vitae. 
Nascuntur  curis  cune,  vexatque  dolorum 
Importuna  cohors,  vacuas  mala  somnia  mentis. 
Nunc  clamosa  juvant  nocturnae  gaudia  mensas, 
Nunc  loca  sola  placent ;  frustra  te,  Somne,  re- 

cumbens 
Alme  voco,  impatiens  noctis  metuensque  diei. 


*  See  the  J'.fe  of  Dr.  Johnson. 


POEMATA. 


563 


Omnia  percurro  trepidus,  circum  omnia  lustro, 
Si  qua  usquam  pateat  melioris  semita  vitas, 
Nee  quid    again  invenio;    meditatus  grandia, 

cogo : 

Notior  ipse  mihi  fieri,  incultumque  fateri 
Pcctus,  et  ingenium  vano  se  robore  jactans. 
Ingenium,  nisi  materiem  doctrina  ministrat, 
Cessat  inops  rerum,  ut  torpet,  si  marmoris  absit 
Copia,  Pliidiaci  foecunda  potentia  coeli. 
duicquid    agam,   quocunque    ferar,   conatibus 

obstat 

Res  angusta  domi,  et  macrae  penuria  mentis. 
Non  rationis  opes    animus,  nunc   parta  re- 

censens 

Conspicit  aggestas,  et  se  miratur  in  illis, 
Nee  sibi  de  gaza  praesens  quod  postulat  usus 
Summus  adesse  jubet  celsa  dominator  ab  arce  ; 
Non,  operum  serie  seriem  dura  computat  aevi, 
Praeteritis  fruitur,  laetos  aut  sumit  honores 
Ipse  sui  judex,  aotae  bene  munera  vitae  ; 
Sed  sua  regna  videns,  loca  noete  silcntia  late 
Horret,  ubi  vanas  species,  umbrfflque  fugaces, 
Et  rerum  volitant  rarae  per  inane  figurae. 

Gluid  faciam  ?    tenebrisne    pigram    damnare 

senectam 

Restat?  an  accingar  studiis  gravioribus  audax  ? 
Aut,  hoc  si  nimium  est,  tandem  nova  lexica 

poscam  ? 


AD  THOMAM  LAURENCE, 

MEDICUM  DOCTISSIMUM, 


Cum  jUium  peregre  agentem  desiderio  nimis  tristi 
prosequeretur. 

FATERIS  ergo,  quod  populus  solet 
Crepare  vecors,  nil  sapientiam 
Prodesse  vitas,  literasque, 
In  dubiis  dare  terga  rebus. 

Tu,  queis  laborat  sors  hominum,  mala. 
Nee  vincis  acer,  nee  pateria  pius  : 
Te  mille  succorem  potentem 
Destituit  medicina  mentis. 

Per  caeca  noctis  taedia  turbidae, 
Pigrae  per  horas  lucis  inutiles, 
Torpesque,  languescisque,  curia 
Solicitus  nimis  heu !  paternis. 

Tandem  dolori  plus  satis  est  datum, 
Exurge  fortis,  hunc  animis  opus, 
Te,  docta,  Laurenti,  vetustas, 
Te  medici  revocant  labores. 

Permitte  summo  quicquid  habes  Patri, 
Permitte  fidens ;  et  muliebribus, 
Amice  majorem,  querelis 

Redde  tuis,  tibi  redde  mentem. 


IN  THEATRO,  MARCH  8,  1771. 

TERTII  verso  quater  orbe  lustri, 
Quid  theatrales  tibi,  Crispe,  pompe  ? 
Gluam  decet  canos  male  litteratos 

Sera  voluptas ! 

Tene  mulceri  fidibus  canoris  ? 
Tene  cantorum  modulis  stupere  ? 
Tene  per  pictas  oculo  elegante 

Currere  Comma? 


Inter  asquales,  sine  felle  liber, 
Codices,  veri  studiosus,  inter 
Rectius  vives.  Sua  quisque  carpat 

Gaudia  gratua. 

Lusibus  gaudet  puer  otiosis, 
Luxus  oblectat  juvenem  theatri, 
At  seni  fluxo  sapienter  uti 

Tempore  restat. 


INSULA  KENNETHI,   INTER. 
HEBRIDAS. 

PARVA  quidem  regio,  sed  religione  priorum 

Clara,  Caledomas  panditur  inter  aquas. 
Voce  ubi  Cennethus  populos  domuisse  ferocea 

Dicitur,  et  vanos  dedocuisse  decs. 
Hue  ego  delatus  placido  per  coerula  cursu, 

Scire  locus  volui  quid  daret  iste  novi. 
Illic  Leniades  humih  regnabat  in  aula, 

Leniades,  magnis  nobilitatis  avis. 
Una  duas  cepit  casa  cum  genitore  puellas, 

Quas  Amor  undarum  crederet  esse  deas. 
Nee  tamen  inculti  gelidis  latuere  sub  antris, 

Accola  Danubii  qualia  saevus  habet. 
Mollia  non  desunt  vacua?  solatia  vitae, 

Sive  libros  poscant  otia,  sive  lyram. 
Fulserat  ilia  dies,  legis  qua  docta  supernse 

Spes  hominum  et  curas  gens  procul  esse  jubet 
Ut  precibus  justas  avertat  numinis  iraa 

Et  summi  accendat  pectus  amore  boni. 
Ponte  inter  strepitus  non  sacri  munera  cultus 

Cessarunt,  pietas  hie  quoque  cura  fuit. 
Nil  opus  est  seris  sacra  de  turre  sonantis 

Admonitu,  ipsa  suas  nunciat  hora  vices. 
Gluid,  quod  sacrifici  versavit  foemina  libros  ? 

Sint  pro  legitimis  pura  labella  sacris. 
GLuo  vagor  ulterius  ?  quod  ubique  requiritur  hie 
est, 

Hie  secura  quies,  hie  et  honestus  amor. 


SKI  A. 

PONTI  profundis  clausa  recessibus, 
Strepens  procellis,  rupibus  obsita, 
Gluam  grata  defesso  virentem, 
Skia,  sinum  nebulosa  pandis ! 

His  cura,  credo,  sedibus  exulat ; 
His  blanda  certe  pax  habitat  locia ; 
Non  ira,  non  mroror  quietis 
Insidias  meditatur  horis. 

At  non  cavata  nipe  latescere,      . 
Menti  nee  aegrae  montibus  aviis 
Prodest  vagari,  nee  frementes 
In  specula  numerare  fluctus. 

Humana  virtus  non  sibi  sufficit ; 
Datur  nee  oequum  cuique  animum  sibi 
Parare  posse,  utcunque  iactet 
Grandiloquus  nimis  alta  Zeno. 

Exaestuantis  pectoria  impetum 
Rex  summe,  solus  tu  regis,  arbiter; 
Mentisque,  te  tollente,  fluctus  ; 
Te,  resident,  moderante  fluctui. 

ODE  DE  SKIA  INSULA. 

PERMEO  terras  ubi  nuda  rupea 
Saxeas  miscet  nebulis  ruinas, 


664 


POEMATA. 


Torva  ubi  rident  steriles  coloni 

Rura  labores. 

Pervagor  gentes  hominum  ferorum, 
Vita  ubi  nullo  decorata  cultu 
Squallet  informis,  tigurfque  fumis 

FcEda  latescit. 

Inter  erroris  salebrosa  longi, 
Inter  ignotse  strepitus  loquelae, 
Quot  modis,  mecum,  quid  agat,  require, 
Thralia  dulcis  ? 

Seu  viri  curas,  pia  nupta  mulcet, 
Seu  fovet  mater  sobolem  benigna, 
Sive  cum  libris  novitate  pascit 

Sedula  mentenv 

Sit  memor  nostri,  fideique  solvat 
Fida  mercedem,  meritoque  blandum 
Thraliae  discant  resonare  nomen 

Littora  Skise. 


SPES. 


April  16,  1783. 


HORA  sic  peragit  citata  cursum  ; 
Sic  diem  sequitur  dies  fugacem ! 
Spes  novas  nova  lux  parit,  secunda 
Spondens  omnia  credulis  homullis  ; 
Spes  ludit  stolidas,  metuque  caeco 
Lux  angit,  miseros  ludens  homullos. 


VERSUS, 

COLLARI  CAPR.E  DOMINI  BANKS  INSCRIBENDI. 

PERPETUI,  ambitsi  bis  terra  praemia  lactis 
Haec  habet,  altrici  capra  secunda  Jovis. 


AD  FffiMINAM  ftUANDAM  GENERO3AM  QVM  LI- 
BERTATIS  CAUSJE  IN  SERMONE  PATROCINATA 
FUERAT. 

LIBER  ut  esse  velim  suasisti,  pulchra  Maria : 
Ut  maiteam  liber,  pulchra  Maria,  vale. 


JACTURA  TEMPORIS. 

HORA  pent  furtim  laetis,  mens  temporis  aegra 
Pigritiam  incusat,  nee  minus  hora  perit. 


Q.UAS  navis  recipit,  quantum  sit  pondus  aqua- 
rum, 
Dimidium  tanti  ponderis  intret  onus. 


Q.UOT  vox  missa  pedes  abit  horse  parte  secunda  ? 
Undecies  centum  denos  quater  adde  duosque. 


E/f  BIPXION.* 

'Ellcv  'AX»;0£ii7  wpwrjv  xnipotxra  ypd<j>ovra 
'Hfwfluv  rt  jSi'owj  Bipxiov,  f/ii  ao<pS>i\ 

Kal  plov,  tlirtv,  Srav  frfyris  Savdroio  /?A£<r<7i, 
EoB  irore  ypa\l/6pcvov  Bipxiov  aXXov  Ix01*- 


»  The  Rev.  Dr.  Thomas  Birch,  author  of  the  History 
of  the  Royal  Society,  and  other  works  of  note. 


Eli  Tb  TTJS  'EAISSHS    ir£p}  T&V   'Oc 
Atviy[ta.* 

Tfj  Kd^ov;  Ivvdpei  rl  r/Xoj  ;   Zcut  irdvra 
KvTOi(5(,  fir/i'  aiirov  aurj-nTpa  fiffirj^c  Qtiu 

*E*  Ai*5  tarlv  "Ovaf,  $c!6s  -or   typa.<±tv  " 
'AXXa  TiJi'  els  Svqrovs  Ku'rpif  £jr£fi^/£v  "Ovao. 

Zevs  povvos  <f>\oy6cvTi  mSX.Eif  tKirtpae  Kepavvtp, 
'Onftaffi  Xa/Jirpa  Aids  KuTrpij  Hard  <j>tpei. 


IN  ELIZJ2  ENIGMA. 

CltJis  formss  modus  imperio  ?     Venus  arrogal 
audax 

Omnia,  nee  CUHE  sunt  sua  sceptra  Jovi. 
Ab  Jove  Ma?onides  descendere  somnia  narral ; 

HffiC  veniunt  Cypriae  somnia  missa  Deoe, 
Jupiter  unus  erat,  qui  stravit  fulmine  gentes  ; 

Nunc  armant  Voneris  lumina  tela  Jovis. 


t  O  QUI  benignus  crimina  ignoscis,  Pater, 
Facilisque  semper  confitenti  ades  reo, 
Aurem  faventem  precious  O  praebe  meis , 
Scelerum  catena  me  laborantem  grav6 
^Eterna  tandem  liberet  dementia, 
Ut  summa  laus  sit,  summa  Christo  gloria. 


PER  vitae  tenebras  rerumque  incerta  vagantem 
Numine  praesenti  me  tueare,  Pater ! 

Me  ducat  lux  sancta,  Deus,  lux  sancta  sequatur; 
Usque  regat  gressus,  gratia  fida  meos. 

Sic  peragam  tua  jussa  libens,  accinctus  ad  omno 
Mandatum,  vivam,  sic  moriarque  tibi. 


ME,  Pater  omnipotens,  de  puro  respice  ccelo, 
Quern  moestum  et  timidum  crimina  dira  gra 
vant ; 

Da  veniam  pacemque  mihi,  da,  niente  serena, 
Ut  tibi  quse  placeant,  omnia  promptus  agam. 

Solvi,  quo  Christus  cunctis  delicta  redemit, 
Et  pro  me  pretium,  tu  patiare,  Pater. 


[Dec.  5.  17844] 
SUMME  Deus,  cui  caeca  patent  penetralia  cord>s , 

duem  nulla  anxietas,  nulla  cupido  fugit; 
Cluem  nil  vafrities  peccantum  subdola  celat ; 

Omni  qui  spectans,  omnia  ubique  regis ; 
Mentibus  afflatu  terrenas  ejice  sordes 

Divino,  sanctus  regnet  ut  intus  amor ; 
Eloquiumque  potens  linguis  torpentibus  affer 

Ut  tibi  laus  omni  semper  ab  ore  sonet : 
Sanguine  quo  gentes,  quo  secula  cuncta  piavit, 

Haec  nobis  Christus  promeruisse  velit ' 


PSALMUS    CXVII. 

ANNI  qua  volucris  ducitur  orbita, 
Patrem  ccelicolum  perpetuo  colunt 

*  The  lady  on  whom  these  verses,  and  the  Latin  ones 
that  immediately  follow,  were  written,  is  the  celebrated 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Carter,  who  translated  the  works  of  Epic- 
tetus  from  the  Greek. 

f  This  and  the  three  following  articles  are  metrical 
versions  of  collects  in  the  Liturgy ;  the  first,  of  that, 
beginning,  "  O  God,  whose  nature  and  property ;''  tha 
•2d  and  3d,  of  the  collects  for  the  17th  and  21st  Sundays 
after  Trinity  •  and  the  4th,  of  the  1st  collect  in  the  com 
munion  service. 

t  The  day  on  which  he  received  the  sacrament  for  the 
last  time  ;  and  eight  days  before  his  decease 


POEMATA. 


565 


duovis  sanguine  cretae 

Gentes  undique  carmine. 
Patrem,  cujus  amor  blandior  in  dies 
Mortales  miseros  servat,  alit,  fovet. 
Omnes  undique  gentes, 
Sancto  dicite  carmine. 


*  SEU  te  sseva,  levitas  sive  improba  fecit, 

Musca,  mese  comitem,  participemque  dapis, 
Pone  metum,  rostrum  fidens  immitte  culullo, 

Nam  licet,  et  toto  proliie  laeta  mero. 
Tu,  quamcunque  tibi  velox  indulserit  annus, 

Carpe  diem,  fugit  heu,  non  revocanda  dies  ! 
Gluse  nos  blanda comes,  quae  nosperducateodem, 

Volvitur  hora  mihi,  volvitur  hpra  tibi! 
Una  quidem,  sic  fata  volunt,  tibi  vivitur  aestas, 

Eheu,  quid  decies  plus  mihi  sexta  dedit ! 
Olim  praeteritaj  numeranti  tempora  vitae, 

Sexaginta  annis  non  minor  unus  erit. 


f  HABEO,  dedi  quod  alteri ; 
Habuique,  quod  dedi  mihi; 
Sed  quod  reliqui,  perdidi. 


tEWALTONI  PISCATORE  PERFECTO 

EXCERPTUM. 
NUNC,  per  gramina  fusi, 
Densa  fronde  salicti, 
Dnm  defenditur  imber, 
Molles  ducimus  horas. 
Hie,  dum  debita  morti 
Paulum  vita  moratur, 
Nunc  rescire  priora, 
Nunc  instare  futuris, 
Nunc  summi  prece  sancta 
Patris  numen  adire  est. 
Q,uicquid  qureritur  ultra, 
Caeco  ducit  amore, 
Vel  spe  ludit  inani, 
Lucius  mox  pariturum. 

*  The  above  is  a  version  of  the  song,  "Busy,  curious, 
thirsty  tly." 

t  These  lines  are  a  version  of  three  sentences  that  are 
said  in  the  manuscript  to  be  "  On  the  monument  of  John 
of  Doncaster;"  and  which  are  as  follow  : 
What  I  gave  that  I  have  ; 
What  I  spent  that  I  had ; 
What  I  left  that  I  lost. 

t  These  lines  are  a  translation  of  part  of  a  Song  in  the 
Complete  Angler  of  Isaac  Walton,  written  by  John  Chalk- 
hill,  a  friend  of  Spenser,  and  a  good  poet  in  his  time. 
They  are  but  part  of  the  last  stanza,  which,  that  the  reader 
may  have  it  entire,  is  here  given  at  length 
If  the  sun's  excessive  heat 
Make  our  bodies  swelter 
To  an  osier  hedge  we  get 
For  a  friendly  shelter. 
Where  in  a  dike, 
Perch  or  pike, 
Roach  or  dace, 
We  do  chase, 
Bleak  or  gudgeon, 
Without  g'rudVing, 

We  are  still  contented. 
Or  we  sometimes  pass  an  hour 

Under  a  green  willow, 
That  defends  us  from  a  shower, 
Making  earth  our  pillow. 
Where  we  may 
Think  and  pray, 
Before  death 
Stops  our  breath ; 
Other  joys 
Are  but  toys. 

And  to  be  lamented. 


*GUris<iuis  iter  tendis,  vitreas  qua  lucidus  undas 
Speluncae  late  Thamesis  praetendit  opacae  ; 
Marmorea  trepidant  qua  lentae  in  fornice  gutte, 
Crystallisque  latex  fractus  scintilla!  acutis  ; 
Gemmaque,  luxurine  nondum  famulata  nitentf 
Splendit,  et  incoquitur  tectum  sine  fraude  me- 

tallum ; 

tngredere  O  !  rerum  pura  cole  mente  parentem ; 
Auriferasque  auri  metuens  scrutare  cavernas. 
Ingredere  !  Egeriae  sacrum  en  tibi  panditur  an- 

trum ! 

Hie,  in  se  totum,  longe  per  opaca  futuri 
Temporis,  Henricum  rapuit  vis  vivida  mentis  : 
Hie  pia  Vindamius  traxit  suspiria,  in  ipsa 
Morte  memor  patrice  ;   hie,  Marmonti  pectore 

prima 

Coelestis  fido  caluerunt  semina  flammae. 
Temnereopes,  pretium  sceleris,  patriamque  tueri 
Fortis,  ades  ;  tibi  sponte  patet  venerabile  limen. 


GR^ECORUM  EPIGRAMMATUM 

VERSIONES  METRICS. 
Pag.  2.  Brodaei  edit  Bas.  Ann.  1549. 
NON  Argos  pugilem,  non  me  Messana  creavit ; 

Patria  Sparta  mihi  est.  patria  clara  virum. 
Arte  valent  isti,  mihi  robo  revivere  solo  est, 
Convenit  ut  natis,  inclyta  Sparta,  tuis. 


Br.  2. 

passim  nulla  ratione  feruntur, 
Cuncta  cinis,  cuncta  et  ludicra,  cuncta  nihil. 

Br.  5. 
PECTORE  qui  duro,  crudos  de  vite  racemos 

Venturi  exsecuit,  vascula  prima  meri, 
Labraque  constrictus,  semesos,  jamque  terendos 

Sub  pedibus,  populo  praetereunte,  jacit. 
Supplicium  huic,  quoniam  crescentia  gaudi  laesit, 

Det  Bacchus,  dederat  quale,  Lycurge,  tibi. 
Has  poterant  uvae  laeto  convivia  cantu 

Mulcere,  aut  pectus  triste  levare  malis. 


Br.  8. 


FERT  humeris  claudum  validis  per  compita  coecus, 
Hie  oculos  socio  commodat,  ille  pedes. 


Br.  10. 
dui,  mufare  vias  ausus  terraeque  marisque, 

Trajecit  montes  nauta,  fretumque  pedes, 
Xerxi,  tercentum  Spartae  Mars  obstitit  acris 

Militibus ;  terris  sit  pelagoque  pudor! 

Br.  11. 

SIT  tibi,  Calliope,  Parnassum,  cura,  tenenti, 
Alter  ut  adsit  Homerus,  adest   etenim   alter 
Achilles. 

Br.  18. 
AD  Musas  Venus  haec  ;  Veneri  parete  puellse, 

In  vos  ne  missus  spicula  tendat  amor. 
Hasc  Musje  ad  Venerem ;  sic  Marti,  diva,  mmens, 

Hue  nunquam  volitat  debilis  iste  puer. 


*  The  above  lines  are  a  version  of  Pope's  verses  on  hi« 
wn  grotto,  which  begin,  "  Thou  who  shalt  stop  where 
rhames'  translucent  wave  " 


POEMATA. 


Br.  19. 
PROSPERA  sors  nee  te  strepitoso  turbine  tollat, 

Nee  menti  injiciat  sordida  cura  jugum  ; 
Nam  vita  incertis  incerta  impellitur  auris, 
*  Omnesque  in  partes  tracta,  retraeta  fluit ; 
Firma  manet  virtus  ;  virtuti  mnitere,  tutus 
Per  fluctus  vitas  sic  tibi  cursus  erit. 


Br.  24. 
HORA  bonis  quasi  nunc  instet  suprema  fruaris, 

Plura  ut  victurus  secula,  parce  bonis  ; 
Divitiis,  utrinque  cavens,  (jui  tempore  parcit, 

Tempore  divitiis  utitur,  ille  sapit. 


NUNQUAM  jugera  messibus  onusta,  aut 
duos  Gyges  cumulus  habebat  auri  ; 
duod  vitae  satis  est,  peto,  Macrine, 
Mi,  nequid  nimis,  est  nimis  probatum. 


Br.  24. 


Br.  24. 

NON  opto  aut  precibus  posco  ditescere,  paucis 
Sit  contenta  mihi  vita  dolore  carens. 


Br.  24. 

RECTA  ad  pauperiem  tendit,  cui  corpora  cordi  est 
Multa  alere,  et  multas  aedificare  domos. 


Br.  24. 

Ttr  neque  dulee  putes  alienae  accumbere  mensae, 
Nee  probrosa  avidae  grata  sit  offa  gulae  ; 

Nee  ficto  fletu,  fictis  solvare  cachinnis, 
Arridens  domino,  collacrymansque  tuo. 

Laetior  baud  tecum,  tecum  neque  tristior  un- 

quam, 
Sed  Milise  ridens,  atque  dolens  Miliae. 


Br.  26. 
NIL  non  mortale  est  mortalibus  ;  omne  quod  est 

hie 
Praetereunt,  aut  hos  praeterit  omne  bonum. 


Br.  26. 
DEMOCRITE,  invisas  homines  majore  cachinno, 

Plus  tibi  ridendum  secula  nostra  dabunt. 
Heraclite,  fluat  lacrymarum  crebrior  imber ; 

Vita  hominum  nunc  plus  quod  misereris  habet. 
Interea  dubito  :  tecum  me  causa  nee  ulla 

Ridere,  aut  tecum  me  lacrimare  jubet. 

Br.  26. 
LLIGE  iter  yitae  ut  possis  :  rixisque  dolisque 

Pcrstrepit  omne  forum;  cura  molesta  domi 

est. 
Rura  labor  lassat ;  mare  mille  pericula  terrent; 

Verte  solum,  fient  causa  timoris  opes ; 
Paupertas  misera  est ;  multse  cum  conjuge  litee 

Tccta  ineunt ;  ccelebs  omnia  solus  ages,    [est 
Proles  aucta  gravat,  rapta  orbat,  cceca  juvente 

Virtus,  canities  cauta  vigore  caret  [oras 

Ergo  optent  homines,  aut  nunquam  in  luminis 

Venisse,  aut  visa  luce  repente  mori. 


ELIGE  iter  vitae  ut  mavis,  prudentia  lausque 

Permeat  omne  forum  ;  vita  quieta  domi  est 
Rus  ornat  natura  ;  levat  maris  aspera  lucrum, 

Verte  solum,  donet  plena  crumena  decus ; 
Pauperies  latitat,  cum  conjuge  gaudia  multa 

Tecta  ineunt,  ccelebs  impediere  minus ; 
Mulcet  amor  prolis,  sopor  est  sine  prole  pro 
fundus ; 

Praecellit  juvenis  vi,  pietate  senex. 
Nemo  optet  nunquam  venisse  in  luminis  oras, 

Aut  periisse,  scatet  vita  benigna  bonis. 


Br.  27. 

VITA  omms  scena  est  ludusque,  aut  ludeie  diace 
Seria  seponens,  aut  mala  dura  pati. 


Br.  27. 
dc.E  sine  morte  fuga  est  vitas,  quam  turba  ina- 

lorum 

Non  vitanda  gravem,  non  toleranda  facit  ? 
Dulcia  dat  natura  quidem,  mare,  sidera,  terras. 

Lunaque  quas  et  sol  itque  reditque  vias. 
Terror  inest  aliis,  moerorque,  et  siquid  habebis 
Forte  boni,  ultrices  experiere  vices. 


Br.  27. 

TEKRAM  adis  nudus,  de  terra  nudus  abibo, 
duid  labor  efficiet  ?  non  nisi  nudus  ero. 


Br.  27. 
NATUS  eram  lacrymans,  lacrymans  e  luce  re 

cedo: 

Sunt  quibus  a  lacrymis  vix  vacat  ulla  dies. 
Tale  hominum  genus  est,  infirmum,  triste,  mi- 

sellum, 
duod  mors  in  cineres  solvit,  et  abdit  humo. 


Br.  29. 

dcisftuis  adit  lectos  elata  uxore  secundos, 
Naufragus  iratas  ille  retentat  aquas. 


Br.  30. 
FELIX  ante  alios  nullius  debitor  aeris  ; 

Hunc  sequitur  ccelebs  ;  tertius,  orbe,  venis. 
Nee  male  res  cessit,  subito  si  funere  sponsam 

Ditatus  magna  dote,  recondis  humo. 
His  sapiens  lectis,  Epicurum  quaerere  frustra 

duales  sint  monades,  qua  fit  inane,  sinas. 


Br.  31. 
OPTARIT  quicunque  senex  sibi  longius  aevum, 

Dignus  qui  multa  in  lustra  senescat,  erit. 
Cum  procul  est,  optat,  cum  venit,  quisque  se- 
tt ec  tarn 
Incusat,  semper  spe  meliora  videt. 


Br.  46. 

OMNIS  vita  nimis  brevis  est  felicibus,  una 
Nox  miseris  longi  temporis  instar  habet 


Br.  55. 

GRATIA  ter  grata  est  velox,  sin  forte  moretur, 
Gratia  vix  restat  nomine  digna  suo. 


POEMATA. 


567 


Br.  56. 

SEC  prece  poscatur,  seu  non,  da  Jupiter  omne, 
Magnc,  bonum ;  omne  malum,  et  poscentibus 
a&nue  nobis. 


Br.  60. 
ME,  cane  vitato,  canis  excipit  alter:  eodem 

In  me  animo  tellus  gignit  et  unda  feras, 
Nee  mirum ;  restat  lepori  conscendere  ccBlum, 

Sidereus  tamen  hie  territat,  ecce  canis ! 


Br.  70. 

TELLURI,  arboritrus  ver  frondens,  sidera  coelo, 
Grreciae  et  urbs,  urbi  est  ista  propago,  decus. 


Br.  75. 

IMPIA  facta  patrans,  homines  fortasse  latebis, 
Non  poteris,  meditans  prava,  latere  Deoa. 


Br.  75. 
ANTIOPE  satyrum,  Danae  aurum,  Europa  ju- 

vencum, 
Et  cycnum  fecit,  Leda  petita  Jovem. 


Br.  92. 

JE>vi  sat  novi  quam  sim  brevis ;  astra  tuenti, 
Per  certas  stabili  lege  voluta  vices, 

Tangitur  baud  pedibus  tellus  ;  conviya  Deorum 
Espleor  ambrosiis  exhilarorque  cibis. 


Br.  96. 

duoD  niinnim  est  sit  ineptum,  hinc,  ut  dixere 

priores, 
Et  me'li  nimio  fellis  amaror  inest. 


Br.  103. 
PUPPE  gubernatrix  sedisti,  audacia,  prima 

Divitiis  acuens  aspera  corda  virum  ; 
Sola  rates  struis  infidas,  et  dulcis  amorem 

Lucri  ulciscendum  mox  nece  sola  doces. 
Aurea  secla  hominum,  quorum  spectandus  ocellis 

E  longinquo  itidem  pontus  et  orcus  erat. 

Br.  126. 
DITESCIS,  credo,  quid  restat?  quicquid  habebis 

In  tumulum  tecum,  morte  jubente,  trahes  ? 
Divitias  cumulas,  pereuntes  negligis  horas 

Incrementa  a;vi  non  cumulare  potes. 


Br.  126. 

MATER  adulantum,  prolesque  pecunia  curae, 
Teque  frui  timor  est,  teque  carere  dolor. 

Br.  126. 

ME  miserum  sors  omnis  habet ;  florentibus  annis 
Pauper  eram,  nummis  diffluit  area  senis  ; 

duels  uti  poteram  quondam  Fortuna  negavit, 
dueis  uti  nequeo,  nunc  mihi  praebet  opes. 


Br.  127. 

MNEMOSYNE,  ut  Sappho  mellita  voce  canentem 
Audiit,  irata  est  ne  nova  Musa  foret. 

Br.  152. 

CUM  tacet  indoctus,  sapientior  esse  videtur, 
Et  morbus  tegitur,  dum  premit  ora  pudor. 


Br.  155. 
NUNC  huic,  nunc  aliis  cedens,  cura  farra  Me- 

nippus 

Credit,  Achaemenidae  nuper  agellus  eram. 

duod  nulli  proprium  versat  Fortuna,  putabat 

Hie  suum  stoh'dus,  nunc  putat  ille  suum. 

Br.  156. 

NON  Fortuna  sibi  te  gratum  tollitin  alt  urn; 
At  docet,  exemplo,  vis  sibi  quanta,  tuo. 

Br.  162. 
Hie,  aurum  ut  reperit,  laqueum  abjicit,  alter  ut 

aurum 
Non  reperit,  nectit  quern  reperit,  laqueum. 


Br.  167. 

VIVE  tuo  ex  animo,  vario  rumore  loquetur 
De  te  plebs  audax,  hie  bene,  et  ille  male. 


Br.  168. 

VITJE  rosa  brevis  est,  properans  si  carpere  nolis. 
duaerenti  obveniet  mox  sine  flore  rubus. 


Br.  170. 

PULICIBUS  morsus,  restincta  lampade,  stultus 
Exclamat :  nunc  me  cernere  desinitis. 


Br.  202. 

MENODOTUM  pinxit  Diodorus,  et  exit  imago, 
Praeter  Menodotum,  nullius  absimilis. 


Br.  205. 

HAUD  lavit  Phido,  haud  tetigit,  mihi  febre  calenti 
In  mentem  ut  venit  nominis,  interii. 


Br.  210 

NYCTICORAX  cantat  lethale,  sed  ipsa  cancnti 
Demophilo  auscultans  Nycticorax  moritur. 


Br.  212. 

HERMEM  Deorum  nuncium,  pennis  levem, 
duo  rege  gaudent  Arcades,  furem  bourn, 
Hujus  palestrae  qui  vigil  custos  stetit, 
Clam  nocte  tollit  Aulus,  et  ridens  ait : 
Praestat  magistro  saepe  discipulus  suo. 


Br.  223. 

dui  jacet  hie,  servua  vixit,  nunc,  lumine  cassus, 
Dario  magno  non  minus  ille  potest 


Br.  227. 

FUNUS  Alexandri  mentitur  fama :  fidesque 
Si  Phoebo,  victor  nescit  obire  diem. 


Br.  241. 

NAUTA,  quis  hoc  jaceat  ne  percontere  sepulchro, 
Eveniat  tantum  mitior  unda  tibi ! 


Br.  256. 

CUR  opulentus  eges?  tua  cuncta  in  fcenore  ponia. 
Sic  aliis  dives,  tu  tibi  pauper  agis. 


Br.  262. 

dui  pascit  barbam  si  crescit  mente,  Platoni, 
Hirce,  parem  nitido  tua  barba  facit. 


568 


POEMATA. 


Br.  266. 
^LARUS  Joannes,  reginoe  affinis,  ab  alto 

Sanguine  Anastasii ;  cuncta  sepulta  jacent  : 
Et  pi  us',  et  recti  cultor:  non  ilia  jacere 

Dicam ;  stat  virtus  non  subigenda  neci. 


Br.  267. 

CUNCTIPARENS  tellus  salve,  levis  esto  pusillo 
Lysigeni,  fuerat  non  gravis  ille  tibi. 


Br.  285. 
NAUFRAGUS  hie  jaceo;  contra,  jacet  ecce  co- 

lonus ! 
Idem  orcus  terra,  sic,  pelagoque  subest. 


Br.  301. 
QUID  salvere   jubes    me,  pessime?      Corripc 

Cfressus ; 
Est  mihi  quod  non  te  rideo,  plena  salus. 


Br.  304. 

ET  ferus  est  Timon  sub  terris  ;  janitor  orci, 
Cerbere  te  morsu  ne,  petat  ille,  cave. 


Br.  307. 
VITAM  a  terdecimo  sextus  mihi  finiet  annus, 

Astra  mathematicos  si  modo  vera  docent. 
SufEcit  hoc  votis,  flos  hie  pulcherrimus  aevi  est, 

Et  senium  triplex  Nestoris  urna  capit. 


Br.  322. 

ZOSIMA,  quae  solo  fuit  olim  corpore  serva, 
Corpore  nunc  etiam  libera  facta  fuit. 


Br.  328. 
EXIGUUM  en !  Priami  monumentum ;  haud  ille 

meretur 
duale,  sed  hostiles,  quale  dedere  manus. 


Br.  326. 

HECTOR  dat  gladium  Ajaci,  datbalteum  et  Ajax 
Hectori,  et  exitio  munus  utrique  fuit. 


Br.  344. 
UT  vis,  ponte  minax ;    modo  tres  discesseris 

ulnas, 
Ingemina  fluctus,  ingeminaque  sonum. 


Br.  344. 

NAUFRAGUS  hie  jaceo  ;  fidens  tamen  utere  velis, 
Tutum  aliis  aequor,  me  pereunte,  fuit. 


Br.  398. 
HERACLITUS  ego  ;  indoctoe  ne  leedire  linguae 

Subtile  ingenium  quaero,  capaxque  mei, 
Unus  homo  mihi  pro  sexcentis,  turba  popelli 

Pro  nullo,  clamo  nunc  tumulatus  idem. 


Br.  399. 
AMBRACIOTA,  vale  rux  alma,  Cleombrotus  infit, 

Et  saltu  e  muro  ditis  opaca  petit : 
Triate  nihil  passus,  animi  at  de  sorte  Platonis 

Scripta  legens,  sola  vivere  mente  cupiL 


Br.  399. 

SERVUS,  Epictetus,  mutilato  corpore,  vixi, 
Pauperieque  Irua  curaque  summa  Deum. 


Br.  445 

UNDE  hie  Praxiteles?  nudam  vidistis,  Adoni, 
Et  Pari,  et  Anchisa,  non  alius,  Venerein. 

Br.  451. 

SCFFLATO  accendis  quisquis  carbone  lucernam, 
Corde  meo  accendens  ;  ardeo  totus  ego. 


Br.  4Sh. 
JUPITER    hoc  templum,  ut  siquando  relinquit 

Olyrapum, 
Atthide  non  alius  desit  Olympus,  habet. 


Br.  437. 

Cms  et  externus  grati ;  domus  hospita  ncscit 
duaerere,  quis,  cujus,  quis  pater,  unde  venis. 


POMPEII. 

Br.  487. 

CUM  fugere  haud  possit,  fractis  Victoria  pennis, 
Te  manet  imperii,  Roma,  perenne  decus. 


Br.  488. 

LATRONES  alibi  locupletum  quaerite  tecta, 
Assidet  huic  custos  strenua  pauperies. 


FORTUNJE  malim  adversae  tolerare  procellas, 
Q,uam  domini  ingentis  ferre  supercilium. 


EN,  Sexto,  Sexti  meditatur  imago,  silente, 
Orator  statua  est,  statuasque  orator  imago. 


PULCHRA  est  virginitas  intacta,  at  vita  periret, 
Omnes  si  vellent  virginitate  frui ; 

Nequitiam  fugiens,  servata  contrahe  lege 
Conjugium,  ut  pro  te  des  hominem  patriae. 


FERT  humeris,  venerabile  onus,  Cythereius  heros 
Per  Trojae  flammas,  densaque  tela,  patrem, 

Clamat  et  Argivis,  vetuli,  ne  tangite,  vita 
Exiguum  est  Marti,  sed  mihi  grande  lucrum. 


FORMA  animos  hominum  capit,  at,  si  gratia  dcsit, 
Non  tenet;  esca  natat  pulchra,  sed  hamus 
abest. 


COGITAT  aut  loquitur  nil  vir,  nil  cogitat  uxor, 
Felici  thalamo  non,  puto,  rixa  strepiL 


BUCCINA  disjecit  Thebarum  moania,  struxit 
Cluas  lyra,  quam  sibi  non  concinit  harmonia ' 


MENTE  senes  olim  juvenis,  Faustine,  premebas, 
Nunc  juvenum  terres  robore  corda  senex. 

Laevum  at  utrumque  decus,  juveni  quod  praebuit 

olim 
Turba  senum,  juvenes  nunc  tribucre  seni. 


EXCEPT^  hospitio  musae,  tribuere  libellos 
Herodoto  hospitii  prasmia,  quaeque  suum 


POEMATA. 


569 


STELLA  mea,  observans  stellas.     Dii  me  sethera 

faxint  J 

Multis  ut  te  oculis  skn  potis  aspicere. 


CLARA  Cheroneae  soboles,  Plutarche,  dicavit 
Hanc  statuam  ingenio,  Roma  benigna,  tuo. 

Das  bene  collates,  quos  Roma  et  Graecia  jactat, 
Ad  DITOS  paribus  passibus  ire  duccs  ; 

Sed  similem  Ptutarche,  tuaj  describere  vitam 
Non  poteras,  regie  non  tulit  ulla  parem. 


DAT  tibi  Pythagoram  pictor;  quod  ni  ipse  tacer 
Pythagoras  mallet,  vocem  habuisset  opus. 


Hippi  et    sua  qua.  meliorem    secula 
nullum 

Videre,  Archidicen  ruec  tumulavit  humus  : 
-Uiam,  regum  sobolem,  nuptam,  matrcm,  atque 

sororem 
Feccrunt  nulli  sors  titulique  gravem. 


CECROPIDIS  gravis  hie  ponor,  Martique  dicatus, 
duo  tua  signantur  gesta,  Philippe,  lapis. 

Spreta  jacet  Marathon,  jacet  et  Salaminia  laurus, 
Omnia   dum  Macedum  gloria   et   arma  pre- 
munt. 

Sint  Demosthenica  ut  jurata  cadavera  voce, 
Stabo  illis  qui  sunt,  quique  fuere,  gravis. 


FLORIBUS  in  pratis,  legi  quos  ipse,  coronam 
Contextam  variis,  do,  Rhodoclea,  tibi : 

Hie  anemone  humet,  confert  narcissus  odores 
Cum  violis  ;    spirant  lilia  mista  rosis. 

His  redimita  comas,  mores  depone  superbos, 
Hsec  peritura  nitent ;  tu  peritura  nites  ! 

MUREM  Asclepiades  sub  tecto  ut  vidit  avarus, 
duid  tibi,  mus,  mecum,  dixit,  amice,  tibi  ? 

Mus  blandum  ridens,  respondit,  pelle  timorem  ; 
Hie,  bone  vir,  sedem,  non  alimenta,  peto. 


tuum   in  tumulum    lacrymarum  decidit 
imber 

duem  fundit  blando  junctus  amore  dolor; 
Charus  enim  cunctis,  tonquam,  dum  vita  ma- 

nebat, 

Cuique  esses  natus,  cuique  sodalis,  eras. 
Heu  quam  dura  preces  sprevit,  quam    surda 

querelas 
Parca,  juventutum  non  miserata  tuam ! 


ARTI  ignis  lucem  tribui,  tamen  artis  et  ignis 

Nunc  ope,  supplicii  vivit  imago  mei. 
Gratia  nulla  hominum  mentes  tenet,  ista  Pro- 

methei 
Munera  muneribus,  si  retulere  fabri. 


ILLA  triumphatrix  Graium  consueta  procorum 
Ante  suas  agmen  Lais  habere  fores, 

Hoc  Veneri  speculum  ;   nolo  me  cernere  qualis 
Sum  nunc,  nee  oossum  cernere  qualis  eram. 


CRETHIDA  fabellas  dulces  garrire  peritam 
Proscquitur  lacrymis  filia  mcesta  Sam;  * 
3W 


Blandam  lanifici  sociam  sine  fine  loquacem, 
Quam  tenet  hie,  cunctas  qua:  manet,alta  quies. 


DICITE,  Causidici,  gelido  nunc  marmore  magni 
Mugitum  tumulus  comprimit  Amphiloci. 


Si  forsan  tumulum  quo  conditur  Eumarus  au 

fers 
Nil  lucri  facies ;  ossa  habet  et  cinercm. 


EPICETI. 

ME,  rex  deorum,  tuque,  due,  necessitas, 
duo,  lege  vestra,  vita  me  feret  mea. 
Sequar  libenter,  sin  reluctari  velim, 
Fiam  scelestus,  nee  tamen  minus  sequar. 


POETA,  lector,  hie  quiescit  Hipponax, 
Si  sis  scelestus,  praeteri,  procul,  marmor . 
At  te  bonum  si  noris,  et  bonis  natum, 
Tutum  hie  sedile,  et  si  placet,  sopor  tutus. 


EUR.  MED.  193—203. 

NON  immerito  culpanda  venit 
Proavum  vascors  insipientia, 
dui  convivia  lautasque  dapes 
Hilarare  suis  jussere  modis 
Cantum,  vitas  dulce  levamen, 
At  nemo  feras  iras  hominum, 
Domibus  claris  exitiales, 
Voce  aut  fidibus  pellere  docuit 
dueis  tamen  aptam  ferre  medelam 
Utile  cunctis  hoc  opus  esset ; 
Namque,  ubi  mensas  onerant  epulae, 
duorsum  dulcis  luxuria  soni  ? 
Sat  laetitia  sine  subsidiis, 
Pectora  molli  mulcet  dubise 
G'opia  ccense. 


ToTos* 
Ktai  TO? 


To\oiyt>s  evi  v 


Qcdv. 


The  above  is  a  Version  of  a  Latin  Epigram  on  th« 
famous  John  Duke  of  Marlborough,  by  the  Abbe  Salvini, 
which  is  as  tbllows  : 

Haud  alio  vultu,  fremuit  Mars  acer  in  armis  : 
Haud  alio,  Cypriam  percutit  ore  Deam. 

The  Duke  was,  it  seems,  remarkably  handsome  in 
his  person,  to  which  the  second  line  has  reference 


SEPTEM  STATES. 

PRIMA  parit  terras  astas,  siccatque  secunda, 
Evocat  Abramum  dein  tertia  :  quarta  relinquit 
^gyptum  ;  templo  Solomonis  quinta  supersit ; 
Cyrum  sexta  timet ;  laetatur  septima  Christo. 


*  His  Tempelmanni  numeris  descripseris  orbem, 
•Cum  sex  centuriis  Judaso  millia  septem. 


*  To  the  above  Lines,  (which  are  unfinished,  and  can 
therefore  be  only  offered  as  a  fragment)  in  the  Doctor's 
manuscript,  are  prefixed  the  words,  "  Geographia  Me. 
trica."  As  we  are  referred,  in  the  first  of  the  verses,  to 
Templeman,  for  having  furnished  the  numerical  com 
putationa  that  are  the  subject  of  them,  his  work  has  beer, 
accordingly  consulted,  the  title  of  which  is,  '  A  New 


570 


POEMATA. 


Myrias  b^Egypto  cessit  bis  septima  pingui. 
Myrins  adsciscit  sibi  nonagesima  septem 
Imperium  qua  Turcae  ferox  exercet  miquum. 
Undecies  binas  decadas  et  millia  septem, 
Sortitur  dPelopis  tellus  quae  nomine  gaudet. 
Myriidas  decies  septem  numerare  jubebit 
Pt.btt  id  Arabs :  decies  octo  sibi  Persad  requirit. 
Myriadas  sibi  pulchra  duas,  duo  millia  poscit 
Parthenope.d    «Novies  vult  tellus  mille  Sicana. 
fPapa  suo  regit  imperio  ter  millia  quinque. 
Cum  8ex  centuriis  numeral  sex  millia  Tuscus.e 
Cent  aria  Liguresh  augent  duo  millia  quartd.  [do?. 
Centuriae  octavam  decadem  addit  Lucca'  secun- 
Ut  dicas,  spatiis  quam  latis  imperet  orbi 
kRussia,  myriadas  ter  denas  adde  trecentis  : 
'Sardinian!  cum  sexcentis  sex  millia  complent. 
Cum  sexagenis,  dum  plura  recluserit  aetas, 


Myriadas  ter  mille  homini  dat  terra™  colendas. 
Vult  sibi  vicenas  millesim^myrias  addi, 
Vicenis  quinas,  Asiamn  metata  celebrem. 
Se  quinquagenis  octingentesima  jungit 
Myrias,  ut  menti  pateat  tota  Africa0  doctse. 
Myriadas  septem  decies  EuropaP  ducentis 
Et  quadragenis  quoque  ter  tria  millia  jungit. 
Myriadas  denas  dat,  quinque  et  millia,  sexque 
Centurias,  et  tres  decadas  Europa  Britannis.l 
Ter  tria  myriadi  conjungit  millia  quarts, 
Centurise  quarte  decades  quinquer  Anglia  nectit. 
Millia  myriadi  septem  fcecunda  secundae 
Et  quadragenis  decadas  quinque  addit  lerne.* 
Glumgentis  qaudragenis  socialis  adauget 
Millia  Belga*  npvem. 

Ter  sex  centurias  Hollandia*  jactat  opima. 
Undecimum  Camber*  vult  septem  millibus  addi. 


Survey  of  the  Globe,"  and  which  professes  to  give  an 
accurate  mensuration  of  all  the  empires,  kingdoms,  and 
other  divisions  thereof,  in  the  square  miles  that  they 
respectively  contain.  On  comparison  of  the  several 
mur.bers  in  these  verses  with  those  set  down  by  Temple- 
man,  it  appears  that  nearly  half  of  them  are  precisely 
the  same  ;  the  rest  are  not  quite  so  exactly  done.  For 
the  convenience  of  the  reader,  it  has  been  thought  right 
to  subjoin  each  number,  as  it  stands  in  Templeman's 
works,  to  that  in  Dr.  Johnson's  verses  which  refers  to  it. 
a.  In  this  first  article  that  is  versified,  there  is  an  accu- 
rate conformity  in  Dr.  Johnson's  number  to  Temple- 
man's  ;  who  sets  down  the  square  miles  of  Palestine  at 
7,600.— b.  The  square  miles  of  Egypt  are,  in  Temple- 
man,  140,700. — c.  The  whole  Turkish  empire,  in  Tem- 
pleman,  is  computed  at  960,057  square  miles. — d.  In  the 
jour  following  articles,  the  numbers  in  Templeman  and 
in  Johnson's  verses  are  alike  We  find,  accordingly,  the 
Morea,  in  Templeman,  to  be  set  down  at  7,220  square 


miles. — Arabia,  at  700,000.— Persia  at  800,000.— And  Na- 
ples, at  22,000. — e.  Sicily,  in  Templeman,  is  put  down  at 
9,400. — f.  The  Pope's  dominions,  at  14,968. — g.  Tuscany, 
at  6,640. — h.  Genoa,  in  Templeman,  as  in  Johnson  like- 
wise,  is  set  down  at  2.400.— i.  Lucca,  at  286. — k.  The 
Russian  empire,  in  the  29th  plate  of  T.empleman,  is  set 
down  at  3,303,485  sq.  miles. — 1.  Sardinia,  in  Templeman, 
as  likewise  in  Johnson,  6,600. — m.  The  habitable  world, 
in  Templeman,  is  computed,  in  square  miles,  at  30,666,- 
806.— n.  Asia,  at  10,257,437.— o.  Africa,  at  8,506,208. — 
p.  Europe,  at  2,749,349.— -q.  The  British  dominions,  at 
105,634. — r.  England,  as  likewise  in  Johnson's  expres- 
sion of  the  number,  at  49,450. — s.  Ireland,  at  27,457. — 
t.  In  the  three  remaining  instances,  which  make  the 
whole  that  Dr.  Johnson  appears  to  have  rendered  into 
Latin  verse,  we  find  the  numbers  exactly  agreeing  with 
those  of  Templeman  ;  who  makes  the  square  miles  of 
the  United  Provinces,  9,340 ;  of  the  Province  of  Hoi. 
land,  1,800;  and  of  Wales,  7,011. 


END  07  VOL.  1 


